And, ere our maudlin genius mounts again,
"Twill cost a sea of claret and champagne,
Of this retarding glue to rinse the nation's brain.
The mud-fed carp refines amid the springs,
And time and Burgundy might do great things;
But health and pleasure we for trade despise,
For Portugal's grudged gold our genius dies.
O hapless race! O land to be bewail'd!
With murder, treasons, horrid deaths appall'd.
Where dark-red clouds with livid thunders frown,
While earth convulsive shakes her cities down;
Where Hell in Heaven's name holds her impious

court,

And the grape bleeds out that black poison, port. Sad poison to themselves, to us still worse, Brew'd and rebrew'd, a doubled trebled curse. Toss'd in the crowd of various rules, I find Still some material business left behind.

The fig, the gooseberry, beyond all grapes,
Mellower to eat, as rich to drink perhaps.
But pleasures of this kind are best enjoy'd
Beneath the tree, or by the fountain side.
Ere the quick soul and dewy bloom exhale,
And vainly melt into the thankless gale.

Who from the full meal yield to natural rest
A short repose; 'tis strange how soon you'll find
A second morn rise cheerful on your mind:
Besides it softly, kindly sooths away

The saddest hour, to some, that damps the day,
But if you're coy to sleep, before you spread
Some easy-trotting poet's lines-you're dead

At once: e'en these may hasten your repose, Now rapid verse, now halting nearer prose; There smooth, here rough, what I suppose you choose,

3

As men of taste hate sameness in the Muse.
Yes, I'd adjourn all drinking till 'tis late,
And then indulge but at a moderate rate.
By Heaven, not *** with all his genial wit,
Should ever tempt me after twelve to sit—
You laugh-at noon you say: I mean at night.
I long to read your name once more again;
But while at Cassel, all such longing's vain.
Yet Cassel else no sad retreat I find,
While good and amiable Gayot's my friend,
Generous and plain, the friend of humankind.
Who scorns the little minded's partial view,
One you would love, one that would relish
With him sometimes I sup and often dine,
And find his presence cordial more than wine.
There lively genial friendly Goy and I
Touch glasses oft to one whose company
Would- but what's this?-Farewell-within
two hours

We march for Hoxter-ever, ever yours.

3 Conseiller d'Estat.

you.

THE

POEMS

OF

Samuel Johnson, LL. D.

THE

LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.

BY

S. W. SINGER, Esq.

PERHAPS no distinguished character, ancient or modern, has been so fortunate in a biographer as Johnson; nor does there exist in any language so complete a picture of the mind and habits of an illustrious scholar: Etiam mortuus loquitur,' says Cumberland, every man who can buy a book, has bought a Boswell.' It will suffice, then, on the present occasion to detail a few dates and facts, without attempting a history of his literary progress.

SAMUEL JOHNSON was the son of Michael Johnson, a bookseller at Litchfield, and was born there on the seventh of September, 1709. He was the eldest of two sons; his brother Nathaniel succeeded his father in his business, and died in his twenty-fifth year, in 1737. Johnson inherited from his father that morbid melancholy which occasionally depressed him, and which his mighty mind could not always overcome. He was also unfortunate enough to imbibe, from his nurse, the disease called the king's evil; and his parents, who were stanch jacobites, presented him to Queen Anne for the royal touch; but, notwithstanding

M