[SAMUEL JOHNSON was born at Lichfield on the 18th of September, 1709. The first of his noteworthy poems, London, was published in 1738, at a period of his life when he was in great poverty, and for the copyright of the poem he only obtained ten guineas. It appeared on the same morning as Pope's Satire, "1738," and surpassed the latter in popularity. In 1747 he wrote his celebrated Prologue for the opening of Drury Lane Theatre. At this theatre was exhibited in 1749_his tragedy of Irene, which, though acted for thirteen nights, failed to secure the public favor. The Vanity of Human Wishes was published earlier in the same year with a view to excite an interest in the author of the play. These were his last important poetical works. He wrote, however, three Prologues: one to Comus in 1750, when that play was acted for the benefit of Milton's granddaughter; another to Goldsmith's Good-natured Man, in 1769; and a third to the revived Word to the Wise, in 1777. He died on the 13th of December, 1784.] FRIENDSHIP. FRIENDSHIP, peculiar boon of heaven, While love, unknown among the blest, Torments alike with raging fires. With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys, On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatterer for a friend. Directress of the brave and just, O guide us through life's darksome way! And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey. Nor shall thine ardors cease to glow, CARDINAL WOLSEY. [From The Vanity of Human Wishes.] In full blown dignity see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: To him the church, the realm, their pow'r consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine, Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r, Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r; Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please, And rights submitted left him none to seize. At length his sov'reign frowns-the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; At once is lost the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glittering plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liveried army, and the menial lord. With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. CHARLES XII. ON what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain : "Think nothing gain'd," he cries, “till naught remain; On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky," He comes, not want and cold his course delay; Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day: The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait; While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not chance at length her error mend? Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toiled after him in vain: His powerful strokes presiding Truth impressed, And unresisted Passion stormed the breast. Then Jonson came, instructed from the school, To please in method and invent by rule; His studious patience and laborious art, By regular approach assailed the heart: Cold approbation gave the lingering bays, For those who durst not censure scarce could praise. A mortal born, he met the general doom, But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wished for Jonson's art or Shakespeare's flame; Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ; Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live. Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense; To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show, For useful mirth and salutary woe; PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF A WORD TO THE WISE. THIS night presents a play which public rage, Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage, From zeal or malice now no more we dread, For English vengeance wars not with the dead. A generous foe regards with pitying eye The man whom fate has laid where all must lie. To wit reviving from its author's dust Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just. For no renewed hostilities invade Th' oblivious grave's inviolable shade. Let one great payment every claim appease, And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please, To please by scenes unconscious of offence, By harmless merriment, or useful sense, Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays, Approve it only - 'tis too late to praise. If want of skill or want of care appear, Forbear to hiss the poet cannot hear. By all like him must praise and blame be found At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound. Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night, When liberal pity dignified delight; When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame, And mirth was bounty with an humbler name. WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714-1763. [SHENSTONE was born at the Leasowes, near Hales Owen, in 1714: he died at the same place in 1763. In 1737, while still at Pembroke College, Oxford, he published some miscellaneous poems anonymously. The Judgment of Hercules appeared in 1741, The Schoolmistress next year. His works, prose and verse, were published in 1764, the year after his death.] THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, |
