Thy praise to merit unrefined.

  When fainting nature call’d for aid,

  And hov’ring death prepar’d the blow,

  His vig’rous remedy display’d

  The pow’r of art, without the show.

  In mis’ry’s darkest cavern known,

  His useful care was ever nigh,

  Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan,

  And lonely want retir’d to die.

  No summons, mock’d by chill delay,

  No petty gain, disdain’d by pride;

  The modest wants of ev’ry day

  The toil of ev’ry day supply’d.

  His virtues walk’d their narrow round,

  Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

  And sure the eternal master found

  The single talent well-employ’d.

  The busy day — the peaceful night,

  Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

  His frame was firm — his pow’rs were bright,

  Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

  Then, with no fiery throbbing pain,

  No cold gradations of decay,

  Death broke, at once, the vital chain,

  And freed his soul the nearest way.

  These stanzas, to adopt the words of Dr. Drake, “are warm from the heart; and this is the only poem, from the pen of Johnson, that has been bathed with tears.” Levet was Johnson’s constant and attentive companion, for near forty years; he was a practitioner in physic, among the lower class of people, in London. Humanity, rather than desire of gain, seems to have actuated this single hearted and amiable being; and never were the virtues of charity recorded in more touching strains. “I am acquainted,” says Dr. Drake, “with nothing superior to them in the productions of the moral muse.” See Drake’s Literary Life of Johnson; and Boswell, i. ii. iii. iv. — ED.

  EPITAPHIUM IN THOMAM HANMER, BARONETTUM.

  Honorabilis admodum THOMAS HANMER,

  Baronnettus,

  Augustus still survives in Maro’s strain,

  And Spenser’s verse prolongs Eliza’s reign;

  Great George’s acts let tuneful Gibber sing;

  For nature formed the poet for the king.

  Wilhelmi Hanmer armigeri, e Peregrina Henrici

  North

  De Mildenhall, in Com. Suffolciae, baronetti sorore

  et haerede,

  Filius;

  Johannis Hanmer de Hanmer baronetti

  Haeres patruelis

  Antiquo gentis suae et titulo et patrimonio successit.

  Duas uxores sortitus est;

  Alteram Isabellam, honore a patre derivato, de

  Arlington comitissam,

  Deinde celsissimi principis, ducis de Grafton, viduam

  dotariam:

  Alteram Elizabetham, Thomae Foulkes de Barton, in

  Com. Suff. armigeri

  Filiam et haeredem.

  Inter humanitatis studia feliciter enutritus,

  Omnes liberalium artium disciplinas avide arripuit,

  Quas morum suavitate baud leviter ornavit,

  Postquam excessit ex ephebis,

  Continuo inter populares suos fama eminens,

  Et comitatus sui legatus ad parliamentum missus,

  Ad ardua regni negotia, per annos prope triginta,

  se accinxit:

  Cumque, apud illos amplissimorum virorum ordines,

  Solent nihil temere effutire,

  Sed probe perpensa diserte expromere,

  Orator gravis et pressus,

  Non minus integritatis quam eloquentiae laude

  commendatus,

  Aeque omnium, utcunque inter se alioqui dissidentium,

  Aures atque arrimos attraxit.

  Annoque demum M.DCC.XIII. regnante Anna,

  Felicissimae florentissimaeque memoriae regina,

  Ad prolocutoris cathedram,

  Communi senatus universi voce, designatus est:

  Quod munus,

  Cum nullo tempore non difficile,

  Tum illo certe, negotiis

  Et variis, et lubricis, et implicatis, difficillimum,

  Cum dignitate sustinuit.

  Honores alios, et omnia quae sibi in lucrum cederent

  munera,

  Sedulo detrectavit,

  Ut rei totus inserviret publicae;

  Justi rectique tenax,

  Et fide in patriam incorrupta notus.

  Ubi omnibus, quae virum civemque bonum decent,

  officiis satisfecisset,

  Paulatim se a publicis consiliis in otium recipiens,

  Inter literarum amoenitates,

  Inter ante-actae vitae baud insuaves recordationes,

  Inter amicorum convictus et amplexus,

  Honorifice consenuit;

  Et bonis omnibus, quibus charissimus vixit,

  Desideratissimus obiit.

  Hie, juxta cineres avi, suos condi voluit, et curavit

  Gulielmus Bunbury B’ttus, nepos et haeres.

  PARAPHRASE OF THE ABOVE EPITAPH. BY DR. JOHNSON.

  Thou, who survey’st these walls with curious eye,

  Pause at the tomb, where Hanmer’s ashes lie;

  His various worth, through vary’d life, attend,

  And learn his virtues, while thou mourn’st his end.

  His force of genius burn’d, in early youth,

  With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;

  His learning, join’d with each endearing art,

  Charm’d ev’ry ear, and gain’d on ev’ry heart.

  Thus early wise, th’ endanger’d realm to aid,

  His country call’d him from the studious shade;

  In life’s first bloom his publick toils began,

  At once commenc’d the senator and man.

  In bus’ness dext’rous, weighty in debate,

  Thrice ten long years he labour’d for the state;

  In ev’ry speech persuasive wisdom flow’d,

  In ev’ry act refulgent virtue glow’d:

  Suspended faction ceas’d from rage and strife,

  To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.

  Resistless merit fix’d the senate’s choice,

  Who hail’d him speaker, with united voice.

  Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,

  When Hanmer fill’d the chair — and Anne the throne!

  Then, when dark arts obscur’d each fierce debate,

  When mutual frauds perplex’d the maze of state,

  The moderator firmly mild appear’d —

  Beheld with love — with veneration heard.

  This task perform’d — he sought no gainful post,

  Nor wish’d to glitter, at his country’s cost:

  Strict on the right he fix’d his steadfast eye,

  With temp’rate zeal and wise anxiety;

  Nor e’er from virtue’s paths was lur’d aside,

  To pluck the flow’rs of pleasure, or of pride.

  Her gifts despis’d, corruption blush’d, and fled,

  And fame pursu’d him, where conviction led.

  Age call’d, at length, his active mind to rest,

  With honour sated, and with cares oppress’d;

  To letter’d ease retir’d, and honest mirth,

  To rural grandeur and domestick worth;

  Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,

  The patriot’s fire yet sparkled in the friend.

  Calm conscience, then, his former life survey’d,

  And recollected toils endear’d the shade,

  Till nature call’d him to the gen’ral doom,

  And virtue’s sorrow dignified his tomb.

  At Hanmer church, in Flintshire.

  This paraphrase is inserted in Mrs. Williams’s Miscellanies. The

  Latin is there said to be written by Dr. Freind. Of the person whose

  memory it celebrates, a copious account may be seen in the appendix

  to the supplement to the Biographia Britannica.

  TO MISS HICKMAN, PLAYING ON THE SPINET.

  Bright Stella, form’d for universal reign,

  Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;

  When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,

  Aw’d into love our conquer’d hearts obey,

  And yield reluctant to despotick sway:

  But, when your musick sooths the raging pain,

  We bid propitious heav’n prolong your reign,

  We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.

  When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,

  Ambition’s fury fir’d the Grecian king:

  Unbounded projects lab’ring in his mind,

  He pants for room, in one poor world confin’d.

  Thus wak’d to rage, by musick’s dreadful pow’r,

  He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.

  Had Stella’s gentle touches mov’d the lyre,

  Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire;

  No more delighted with destructive war,

  Ambitious only now to please the fair,

  Resign’d his thirst of empire to her charms,

  And found a thousand worlds in Stella’s arms.

  These lines, which have been communicated by Dr. Turton, son to Mrs.

  Turton, the lady to whom they are addressed by her maiden name of

  Hickman, must have been written, at least, as early as 1734, as that

  was the year of her marriage: at how much earlier a period of Dr.

  Johnson’s life they might have been written, is not known.

  PARAPHRASE OF PROVERBS, CHAP. VI. VERSES 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.

  “Go to the ant, thou sluggard.”

  Turn on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes,

  Observe her labours, sluggard, and be wise:

  No stern command, no monitory voice,

  Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice;

  Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,

  To snatch the blessings of the plenteous day;

  When fruitful summer loads the teeming plain,

  She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.

  How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,

  Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy pow’rs;

  While artful shades thy downy couch inclose,

  And soft solicitation courts repose?

  Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,

  Year chases year with unremitted flight,

  Till want now following, fraudulent and slow,

  Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush’d foe.

  HORACE, LIB. IV. ODE VII. TRANSLATED.

  The snow, dissolv’d, no more is seen,

  The fields and woods, behold! are green;

  The changing year renews the plain,

  The rivers know their banks again;

  The sprightly nymph and naked grace

  The mazy dance together trace;

  The changing year’s successive plan

  Proclaims mortality to man;

  Rough winter’s blasts to spring give way,

  Spring yields to summer’s sov’reign ray;

  Then summer sinks in autumn’s reign,

  And winter chills the world again;

  Her losses soon the moon supplies,

  But wretched man, when once he lies

  Where Priam and his sons are laid,

  Is nought but ashes and a shade.

  Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,

  Will toss us in a morning more?

  What with your friend you nobly share,

  At least you rescue from your heir.

  Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,

  When Minos once has fixed your doom,

  Or eloquence, or splendid birth,

  Or virtue, shall restore to earth.

  Hippolytus, unjustly slain,

  Diana calls to life in vain;

  Nor can the might of Theseus rend

  The chains of hell that hold his friend.

  Nov. 1784.

  ANACREON, ODE IX.

  Lovely courier of the sky,

  Whence and whither dost thou fly?

  Scatt’ring, as thy pinions play,

  Liquid fragrance all the way:

  Is it business? is it love?

  Tell me, tell me, gentle dove.

  Soft Anacreon’s vows I bear,

  Vows to Myrtale the fair;

  Grac’d with all that charms the heart,

  Blushing nature, smiling art.

  Venus, courted by an ode,

  On the bard her dove bestow’d:

  Vested with a master’s right,

  Now Anacreon rules my flight;

  His the letters that you see,

  Weighty charge, consign’d to me:

  Think not yet my service hard,

  Joyless task without reward;

  Smiling at my master’s gates,

  Freedom my return awaits;

  But the lib’ral grant in vain

  Tempts me to be wild again.

  Can a prudent dove decline

  Blissful bondage such as mine?

  Over hills and fields to roam,

  Fortune’s guest without a home;

  Under leaves to hide one’s head

  Slightly shelter’d, coarsely fed:

  Now my better lot bestows

  Sweet repast and soft repose;

  Now the gen’rous bowl I sip,

  As it leaves Anacreon’s lip:

  Void of care, and free from dread,

  From his fingers snatch his bread;

  Then, with luscious plenty gay,

  Round his chamber dance and play;

  Or from wine, as courage springs,

  O’er his face extend my wings;

  And when feast and frolick tire,

  Drop asleep upon his lyre.

  This is all, be quick and go,

  More than all thou canst not know;

  Let me now my pinions ply,

  I have chatter’d like a pie.

  LINES WRITTEN IN RIDICULE OF CERTAIN POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1777.

  Wheresor’er I turn my view,

  All is strange, yet nothing new;

  Endless labour all along,

  Endless labour to be wrong;

  Phrase that time hath flung away,

  Uncouth words in disarray,

  Trick’d in antique ruff and bonnet,

  Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.

  PARODY OF A TRANSLATION. FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.

  Err shall they not, who resolute explore

  Times gloomy backward with judicious eyes;

  And, scanning right the practices of yore,

  Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.

  They to the dome, where smoke, with curling play,

  Announc’d the dinner to the regions round,

  Summon’d the singer blithe, and harper gay,

  And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound.

  The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill,

  By quiv’ring string or modulated wind;

  Trumpet or lyre — to their harsh bosoms chill

  Admission ne’er had sought, or could not find.

  Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun,

  Her baleful eyes where sorrow rolls around;

  Where gloom-enamour’d mischief loves to dwell,

  And murder, all blood-bolter’d, schemes the wound.

  When cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish,

  And purple nectar glads the festive hour;

  The guest, without a want, without a wish,

  Can yield no room to musick’s soothing pow’r.

  TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES, V. 196

  The rites deriv’d from ancient days,

  With thoughtless reverence we praise;

  The rites that taught us to combine

  The joys of musick and of wine,

  And bade the feast, and song, and bowl

  O’erfill the saturated soul:

  But ne’er the flute or lyre applied

  To cheer despair, or soften pride;

  Nor call’d them to the gloomy cells

  Where want repines and vengeance swells;

  Where hate sits musing to betray,

  And murder meditates his prey.

  To dens of guilt and shades of care,

  Ye sons of melody repair,

  Nor deign the festive dome to cloy

  With superfluities of joy.

  Ah! little needs the minstrel’s power

  To speed the light convivial hour.

  The board, with varied plenty crown’d,

  May spare the luxuries of sound.

  The classical reader will, doubtless, be pleased to see the exquisite original in immediate comparison with this translation; we, therefore, subjoin it, and also Dr. J. Warton’s imitation of the same passage.

  [Greek:]

  skaious de legon kouden ti sophous

  tous prosthe brotous, ouk an amartois

  oitines umnous epi men thaliais,

  epi d’eilapinais kai para deipnois

  euronto biou terpnas akoas

  stugious de broton oudeis pulas

  eureto mousae kai poluchordois

  odais pauein, exon thanatoi

  deinai te tuchai sphallonsi domous

  kaitoi tade men kerdos akeisthai

  molpaisi brotous ina d’endeipnoi

  daites ti mataen teinousi boan

  to paron gar echei terpsin aph auton

  daitos plaeroma brotaoisin

  MEDEA, 193 — 206. ED. PORS

  Queen of every moving measure,

  Sweetest source of purest pleasure,

  Music! why thy pow’rs employ

  Only for the sons of joy;

  Only for the smiling guests,

  At natal or at nuptial feasts?

  Rather thy lenient numbers pour

  On those, whom secret griefs devour,

  Bid be still the throbbing hearts

  Of those whom death or absence parts,

  And, with some softly whisper’d air,

  Sooth the brow of dumb despair.

  This translation was written by Johnson for his friend Dr. Burney, and was inserted, as the work of “a learned friend,” in that gentleman’s History of Musick, vol. ii. p. 340. It has always been ascribed to Johnson; but, to put the matter beyond a doubt, Mr. Malone ascertained the fact by applying to Dr. Burney himself. J. B.

  TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST TWO STANZAS OF THE SONG “RIO VERDE, RIO VERDE,” PRINTED IN BISHOP PERCY’S RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY.

  AN IMPROMPTU.

  Glassy water, glassy water,

 

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