THOMAS BLACKLOCK, a blind descriptive poet, was the son of a Cumberland bricklayer, and was born at Annan, Dumfrieshire in 1721. When about six months old, he was totally deprived of sight by the small-pox; but his worthy father, assisted by his neighbors, amused his solitary boyhood by reading to him out of the works of Spenser, Milton, Pope, and Addison; and before he reached his twentieth year he had become entirely familiar with the writings of these great poets, and also with those of Thomson and Allen Ramsay. Blacklock's father was accidentally killed when the poet had scarcely reached his nineteenth year; but some of his early poems having been seen by Dr. Stevenson of Edinburgh, that benevolent gentleman took their blind author to the Scottish metropolis, where he was soon after enrolled in the university as a student of divinity. In 1759 he was licensed as a preacher, previous to which he had published a volume of his poems, three separate editions of which were called for in rapid succession. In 1762, he married the daughter of Dr. Johnston of Dumfries, and the same year, through the patronage of the Earl of Selkirk, was appointed minister of Kirkcudbright. In 1766, he was made a doctor of divinity, soon after which, in consequence of some dissatisfaction in his parish, he removed to Edinburgh, and opened a boarding-house. To his literary pursuits Dr. Blacklock added a taste for music, and played well on both the flute and the flageolet. His residence in the city was the usual meeting place of its numerous literary men, and his family circle was one of peace and happiness. In the latter years of his life he suffered much from depression of spirits, and supposed that his imaginative powers were failing him. To this supposed decay of his faculties the blind bard thus pathetically alludes in a poem written a short time before his death : his Excursive on the gentle gales of spring, He roved, whilst favour imped his timid wing. Exhausted genius now no more inspires, But mourns abortive hopes and faded fires; The short-lived wreath, which once his temples graced, Fades at the sickly breath of squeamish taste; Whilst darker days his fainting flames immure In cheerless gloom and winter premature. Blacklock died on the seventh of July, 1791, in the seventy-first year of age. Though a poet by nature, and enthusiastically fond of the poetic art, Dr. Blacklock did not confine himself to that department of writing. He was the author of several sermons, and of some theological treatises; and he also wrote an elegant and ingenious article on Blindness, for the Encyclopædia Britannica, and two dissertations entitled Paraclesis; or Consolations Deduced from Natural and Revealed Religion. His poetry, though not remarkable for original imagery, deep sentiment, reflection, or imagination, still exhibits great fluency and correctness of versification, and entire familiarity with the visible objects of nature, such as trees, streams, rocks, the sky, and even with the different colors of flowers and plants. In one to whom all external phenomena had ever been a 'universal blank,' this was certainly very remarkable, and shows clearly that his poetical feeling must have been inherited from nature. Of the two poems which follow, the latter is a sweet and elegantly expressed compliment to his wife : TERRORS OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. Cursed with unnumbered groundless fears, If night his lonely walks surprise, Sees livid phantoms crowd the shade. ODE TO AURORA ON MELISSA'S BIRTHDAY. Of time and nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-fingered morn; Emerge, in purest dress arrayed, And chase from heaven night's envious shade, That I once more may pleased survey, And hail Melissa's natal day. Of time and nature eldest born, But as thou lead'st the radiant sphere, All heaven's vast concave flames with light; So when through life's protracted day, Her virtues with thy splendour vie, Though less conspicuous, not less dear, So shall his heart no more repine, Blessed with her rays, though robbed of thine. FRANCIS FAWKES was born in Yorkshire, in 1721, and educated at Jesus College, Cambridge. Having taken orders, he became curate of Bramham and Croyden, and died in 1777, in the vicarage of Hayes, in Kent. Fawkes enjoyed the friendship of Johnson and Warton; but though classic and refined in his taste, and, as already observed, the elegant translator of many of the Greek poets, he had, unfortunately, like Oldys, too great fondness for a cup of English ale. Though not bearing the stamp of superior genius, many of his original pieces are pleasing and even elegant. The following song will always be a favorite :— THE BROWN JUG. Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale) Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul, It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug; JAMES GRAINGER was born at Dunse, in the south of Scotland, in 1721. He was educated at the university of Edinburgh, where he took the degree of doctor of medicine, and attended Lord Stair as surgeon of the army in the German campaign, of 1748. He afterwards settled in London as a physi cian; but not being successful in his practice, he went, in 1759, to the island of St. Christophers, in the West Indies, commenced practising his profession, and soon after married a lady of fortune. He died of a contagious fever, in 1766. Dr. Grainger published in 1755, his poem of Solitude, which contains a noble opening, and many other very fine passages. He also, before he left London, translated Tibullus, and was, for some time, a critic in the Monthly Review. During his residence at St. Christophers he wrote his poem of the Sugar-Cane, which Shenstone thought capable of being rendered a good poem, but which deserves little farther praise. For his poetical reputation he is indebted almost exclusively to the following ode: ODE TO SOLITUDE. O Solitude, romantic maid! Whether by nodding towers you tread, Or climb the Andes' clifted side, Or by the Nile's coy source abide, Or starting from your half-year's sleep, Plumed Conceit himself surveying Sage Reflection, bent with years, Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy, Meditation's piercing eye; Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, Retrospect that scans the mind, Health that snuffs the morning air, Seek the solitary wild. You, with the tragic muse retired, With Petrarch o'er Vancluse you strayed, To upland airy shades you go, Where never sun-burnt woodman came, Nor sportsman chased the timid game; You sink to rest. Till the tuneful bird of night From the neighbouring poplar's height, Wake you with her solemn strain, And teach pleased Echo to complain. With you roses brighter bloom, |