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EDWARD LOVIBOND.

[Born, Dled, 1775.]

EDWARD LOVIBOND was a gentleman of fortune, who lived at Hampton, in Middlesex, where he chiefly amused himself with the occupations of rural economy. According to the information of Mr. Chalmers, he was a director of the East

India Company. He assisted Moore in his periodical paper called the " World," to which he contributed The Tears of Old May-Day," and four other papers.

66

THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754.

LED by the jocund train of vernal hours

And vernal airs, up rose the gentle May; Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flow'rs That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray.

Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright,

And am'rous zephyrs flutter'd on her breast: With every shifting gleam of morning light,

The colours shifted of her rainbow vest.

Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form,

A golden key and golden wand she bore; This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, And that unlocks the summer's copious store.

Onward in conscious majesty she came,

The grateful honours of mankind to taste: To gather fairest wreaths of future fame,

And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past.

Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite

Her virgin vot'ries, and at early dawn, Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, [lawn. Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled

To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride

Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, A purer off'ring at her rustic shrine.

No more the Maypole's verdant height around To valour's games th' ambitious youth advance; No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance.

Sudden in pensive sadness droop'd her head,

Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died"Oh! chaste victorious triumphs, whither fled ? My maiden honours, whither gone?" she cried.

Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born,
The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise,
With time coeval and the star of morn,

The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. Then, when at heaven's prolific mandate sprung The radiant beam of new-created day, Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung,

Hail'd the glad dawn, and angels call'd me May.

Space in her empty regions heard the sound, And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys The sun exulted in his glorious round, [rung; And shouting planets in their courses sung.

For ever then I led the constant year;

Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles; Saw the mild graces in my train appear, And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. No Winter frown'd. In sweet embrace allied, Three sister seasons danced th' eternal green; And Spring's retiring softness gently vied [mien. With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, And vengeance arm'd to blot a guilty age, With bright Astrea to my native heaven I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage;

Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, While sounding billows from the mountains roll'd,

With bitter waves polluting all my streams, My nectar'd streams, that flow'd on sands of gold.

Then vanish'd many a sea-girt isle and grove,

Their forests floating on the wat'ry plain : Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, My Atalantis sunk beneath the main.

No longer bloom'd primeval Eden's bow'rs,

Nor guardian dragons watch'd th' Hesperian steep:

With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flow'rs,
Torn from the continent to glut the deep.

No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deign'd,
Yet oft descending to the languid earth,
With quick'ning powers the fainting mass sus-
tain'd,

And waked her slumb'ring atoms into birth. And ev'ry echo taught my raptured name,

And ev'ry virgin breath'd her am'rous vows, And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, Shower'd by the Muses, crown'd by lofty brows. But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride,

My Albion's favour'd realms, I rose adored; And pour'd my wealth, to other climes denied; From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored.

Ah me! for now a younger rival claims
My ravish'd honours, and to her belong
My choral dances, and victorious games,
To her my garlands and triumphal song.
Oh say what yet untasted beauties flow,
What purer joys await her gentler reign?
Do lilies fairer, vi'lets sweeter blow?

And warbles Philomel a softer strain?

Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise?

Does ev'ning fan her with serener gales?
Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies,
Or wantons plenty in her happier vales?

Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light
Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day;
And Cynthia, riding on the car of night,
Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way.

Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs,
Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower;
Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings

When silence listens at the midnight hour. Nor wonder, man, that nature's bashful face,

And op'ning charms her rude embraces fear: Is she not sprung from April's wayward race,

The sickly daughter of th' unripen'd year?

With show'rs and sunshine in her fickle eyes, With hollow smiles proclaiming treach rous

peace,

With blushes, harb'ring, in their thin disguise, The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase?

Is this the fair invested with my spoil

By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command! Ungen'rous Europe! let me fly thy soil,

And waft my treasures to a grateful land; Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore,

My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; Again to Afric's sultry sands restore

Embow'ring shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane. Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, There hush to silence elemental strife; Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost,

And swell her barren womb with heat and life. Then Britain-Here she ceased. Indignant grief, And parting pangs, her falt'ring tongue sup

press'd:

Vail'd in an amber cloud she sought relief, And tears and silent anguish told the rest.

SONG TO ****
WHAT! bid me seek another fair
In untried paths of female wiles?
And posies weave of other hair,

And bask secure in other smiles?
Thy friendly stars no longer prize,
And light my coursè by other eyes?

Ah no!-my dying lips shall close,

Unalter'd love, as faith, professing; Nor praising him who life bestows,

Forget who makes that gift a blessing. My last address to Heaven is due ; The last but one is all-to you.

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ANONYMOUS.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

IN Phoebus' region while some bards there be
That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar;
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me,
Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar!
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan,

Beneath their laurel'd praise my verse may give, To trace the features of unnoticed man;

Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! Her lore, may hap, instructive sense may teach, From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach.

A wight there was, who single and alone

Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known His heart to captive, or his thought engage: Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind Might female worth or beauty give to wear, Yet to the nobler sex he held confined

The genuine graces of the soul sincere, And well could show with saw or proverb quaint All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint.

In plain attire this wight apparell'd was,

(For much he conn'd of frugal lore and knew) Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, Or feast, or birth-day, should it chance to be, A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,

And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, Gold clasp'd his shoon, by maiden brush'd so sheen,

And his rough beard he shaved, and donn'd his linen clean.

But in his common garb a coat he wore,

A faithful coat that long its lord had known, That once was black, but now was black no Attinged by various colours not its own. [more, All from his nostrils was the front imbrown'd, And down the back ran many a greasy line, While, here and there, his social moments own'd The generous signet of the purple wine. Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appear'd, Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore afleir'd. One only maid he had, like turtle true,

But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; For many a time her tongue bewray'd the shrew, And in meet words unpack'd her peevish mind. Ne form'd was she to raise the soft desire, That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, Ne form'd was she to light the tender fire, By many a bard is sung in many a strain: Hook'd was her nose, and countless wrinkles told What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old.

When the clock told the wonted hour was come When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew,

Right patient would she watch his wending home, His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. If long his time was past, and leaden sleep O'er her tired eye-lids 'gan his reign to stretch, Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep,

And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach;

Haply if potent gin had arm'd her tongue, All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she

rung.

For though the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile, Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; Yet much the proffer did she loath and say No dram might maiden taste, and often answer'd nay.

So as in single animals he joy'd,

One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; The first the cate-devouring mice destroy'd, Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold All in the sun-beams bask'd the lazy cat, [fled: Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; On one accustom'd chair while Pompey sat, And loud he bark'd should Puss his right invade.

The human pair oft mark'd them as they lay, And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.

A room he had that faced the southern ray,

Where oft he walk'd to set his thoughts in tune, Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, All to the music of his creeking shoon. And at the end a darkling closet stood, Where books he kept of old research and new, In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, And rusty nails and phials not a few; Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, [tell. And papers squared and trimm'd for use unineet to For still in form he placed his chief delight, Nor lightly broke his old accustom'd rule, And much uncourteous would he hold the wight That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool; And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, And oft with careful eye their ranks review'd; For novel forms, though much those forms had Himself and maiden-minister eschew'd: [graced, One path he trod, nor ever would decline A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line.

A Club select there was, where various talk
On various chapters pass'd the ling'ring hour,
And thither oft he bent his evening walk,
And warm'd to mirth by wine's enlivening
pow'r.

And oft on polities the preachments ran,

If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume:
And oft important matters would they scan,
And deep in council fix a nation's doom;
And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer,
Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved
to hear.

For men like him they were of like consort, Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn,

Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport,
And bless'd their stars that kept the curse from
them!

No honest love they knew, no melting smile
That shoots the transports to the throbbing

heart!

Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: And so of women deem'd they as they knew, And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew.

But most abhorr'd they Hymeneal rites,
And boasted oft the freedom of their fate:
Nor 'vail'd, as they opined, its best delytes
Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait;
And often would they tell of hen-peck'd fool
Snubb'd by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame.
And vow'd no tongue-arm'd woman's freakish
rule

Their mirth should quail, or damp their gener-
ous flame:

Then pledged their hands, and toss'd their bumpers o'er,

And Io! Bacchus! sung, and own'd no other pow'r.

If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose

Within some breast of less obdurate frame,
Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows
Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name.
Him Scorn attended with a glance askew,
And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own,
Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew,
And vex'd the region round the Cupid's

throne:

“Far be from us," they cried, "the treach'rous bane,

"Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain!"

JOHN ARMSTRONG.

[Born, 1709. Died, 1779.]

were necessary to popularity: by others, the
failure was ascribed to his indolence and literary
avocations; and there was probably truth in both
accounts. A disgraceful poem, entitled, "The
Economy of Love," which he published after
coming to London, might have also had its share
in impeding his professional career.
He cor-
rected the nefarious production, at a later period
of his life, betraying at once a consciousness of
its impurity, and a hankering after its reputation.
So unflattering were his prospects, after several
years residence in the metropolis, that he ap

JOHN ARMSTRONG was born in Roxburghshire, in the parish of Castleton, of which his father was the clergyman. He completed his education, and took a medical degree, at the university of Edinburgh, with much reputation, in the year 1732. Amidst his scientific pursuits, he also cultivated literature and poetry. One of his earliest productions in verse, was an "Imitation of the Style of Shakspere," which received the approbation of the poets Young and Thomson; although humbler judges will perhaps be at a loss to perceive in it any striking likeness to his great original. Two other sketches, also purporting|plied (it would scem without success) to be put to be imitations of Shakspere, are found among his works. They are the fragments of an unfinished tragedy. One of them, the "Dream of Progne," is not unpleasing. In the other, he begins the description of a storm by saying, that

"The sun went down in wrath, the skies foam'd brass."

It is uncertain in what year he came to London; but in 1735 he published an anonymous pamphlet, severely ridiculing the quackery of untaught practitioners. He dedicated this performance to Joshua Ward, John Moore, and others, whom he styles the Antacademic philosophers, and the generous despisers of the schools." As a physician he never obtained extensive practice. This he himself imputed to his contempt of the little artifices, which, he alleges,

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on the medical staff of the forces, then going
out to the West Indies. His " Art of Preserving
Health" appeared in 1744, and justly fixed his
poetical reputation. In 1746 he was appointed
physician to the hospital for sick soldiers, behind
Buckingham House. In 1751 he published his
poem on "
Benevolence;" in 1753 his Epistle
on Taste;" and in 1758 his prose "Sketches by
Launcelot Temple." Certainly none of these
productions exalted the literary character which
he had raised to himself by his "Art of Pre-
serving Health." The poems "Taste" and "Be-
nevolence" are very insipid. His "Sketches"
have been censured more than they seem to de-
serve for "oaths and exclamations, and for a

Chalmers's Biographical Dictionary.

constant struggle to say smart things." They contain indeed some expressions which might be wished away, but these are very few in number; and several of his essays are plain and sensible, without any effort at humour.

In 1760 he was appointed physician to the forces that went over to Germany. It is at this era of his life that we should expect its history to be the most amusing, and to have furnished the most important relics of observation, from his having visited a foreign country which was the scene of war, and where he was placed, by his situation, in the midst of interesting events. It may be pleasing to follow heroes into retirement; but we are also fond of seeing men of literary genius amidst the action and business of life. Of Dr. Armstrong in Germany, however, we have no other information than what is afforded by his epistle to Wilkes, entitled "Day," which is by no means a bright production, and chiefly devoted to subjects of eating. With Wilkes he was, at that time, on terms of friendship; but their cordiality was afterward dissolved by politics. Churchill took a share in the quarrel, and denounced our author as a monster of ingratitude toward Wilkes, who had been his benefactor; and Wilkes, by subsequently attacking Armstrong in the Daily Advertiser, showed that he did not disapprove of the satirist's reproaches. To such personalities Armstrong might have replied in the words of Prior,

"To John I owed great obligation,

But John unhappily thought fit
To publish it to all the nation;

Sure John and I are more than quit."

But though his temper was none of the mildest, he had the candour to speak with gratitude of Wilkes's former kindness, and acknowledged that he was indebted to him for his appointment in the army.

After the peace he returned to London, where his practice, as well as acquaintance, was confined to a small circle of friends; but among whom he was esteemed as a man of genius. From the originality of his mind, as well as from his reading, and more than ordinary taste in the fine arts, his conversation is said to have been richly entertaining. Yet if the character which is supposed to apply to him in the Castle of Indolence' describes him justly, his colloquial delightfulness must have been intermittent. In 1770 he published a collection of his Miscellanies, containing a new prose piece, "The Universal Almanack," and "The Forced Marriage," a tragedy which had been offered to Garrick, but refused. The whole was ushered in by a preface, full of arrogant defiance to public opinion. "He had never courted the public," he said, "and if it was true what he had been told, that the best judges were on his side, he desired no more in

*Armstrong's character is said to have been painted in the stanza of the "Castle of Indolence" beginning

"With him was sometimes joined in silent walk
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke)
One shyer still, who quite detested talk," &c.
See ante, p. 450.

the article of fame as a writer." There was a good deal of matter in this collection, that ought to have rendered its author more modest. The "Universal Almanack" is a wretched production, to which the objections of his propensity to swearing, and abortive efforts at humour, apply more justly than to his "Sketches;" and his tragedy the "Forced Marriage," is a mortuum caput of insipidity. In the following year he visited France and Italy, and published a short, but splenetic account of his tour, under his old assumed name of Launcelot Temple. His last production was a volume of "Professional Essays," in which he took more trouble to abuse quacks than became his dignity, and showed himself a man to whom the relish of life was not improving, as its feast drew toward a close. He died in September, 1779, of a hurt, which he accidentally received in stepping out of a carriage; and, to the no small surprise of his friends, left behind him more than 30007., saved out of a very moderate income, arising principally from his half-pay.

His "Art of Preserving Health" is the most successful attempt, in our language, to incorporate material science with poetry. Its subject had the advantage of being generally interesting; for there are few things that we shall be more willing to learn, either in prose or verse, than the means of preserving the outward bulwark of all other blessings. At the same time, the difficulty of poetically treating a subject, which presented disease in all its associations, is one of the most just and ordinary topics of his praise. Of the triumphs of poetry over such difficulty, he had no doubt high precedents, to show that strong and true delineations of physical evil are not without an attraction of fearful interest and cu

riosity to the human mind; and that the enjoyment, which the fancy derives from conceptions of the bloom and beauty of healthful nature, may be heightened, by contrasting them with the opposite pictures of her mortality and decay. Milton had turned disease itself into a subject of sublimity, in the vision of Adam, with that intensity of the fire of genius, which converts whatever materials it meets with into its aliment: and Armstrong, though his powers were not Miltonic, had the courage to attempt what would have repelled a more timid taste. His Muse might be said to show a professional intrepidity in choosing the subject; and, like the physician who braves contagion, (if allowed to prolong the simile,) we may add, that she escaped, on the whole, with little injury from the trial. By the title of the poem, the author judiciously gave his

theme a moral as well as a medical interest. He makes the influence of the passions an entire part of it. By professing to describe only how health is to be preserved, and not how it is to be restored, he avoids the unmanageable horrors of clinical detail; and though he paints the disease, wisely spares us its pharmaceutical treatment. His course through the poem is sustained with lucid management and propriety. What is ex

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