spoon." This, however, was not the worst that might have been prognosticated; for Pope says, in his Letters, that "he died of indolence;" but his immediate distemper was the gout. Of his morals and his conversation the account is uniform: he was never named but with praise and fondness, as a man in the highest degree amiable and excellent. Such was the character given him by the earl of Orrery, his pupil; such is the testimony of Pope'; and such tvere the suffrages of all who could boast of his acquaintance. By a former writer of his life a story is told, which ought not to be forgotten. He used, in the latter part of his time, to pay his relations in the country an yearly visit. At an entertainment made for the family, by his elder brother, he observed, that one of his sisters, who had married unfortunately, was absent; and found, upon enquiry, that distress had made her thought unworthy of invitation. As she was at no great distance, he refused to sit at the table till she was called, and, when she had taken her place, was careful to show her particular attention. His collection of poems is now to be considered. The Ode to the Sun is written upon a common plan, without uncommon sentiments; but its greatest fault is its length. No poem should be long of which the purpose is only to strike the fancy, without enlightening the understanding by precept, ratiocination, or narrative. blaze first pleases, and then tires the sight. Of Florelio it is sufficient to say, that it is an occasional pastoral, which implies something neither natural nor artificial, neither comic nor serious. The next ode is irregular, and therefore defective. As the sentiments are pious they cannot easily be new; for what can be added to topics on which successive ages have been employed? Of the Paraphrase on Isaiah nothing very favourable can be said. Sublime and solemn prose gains little by a change to blank verse; and the paraphrast has deserted his original, by admitting images not Asiatic, at least not Judaical: -Returning Peace, Dove eyed, and rob'd in white Of his petty poems some are very trifling, without any thing to be praised either in the thought or expression. He is unlucky in his competitions; he tells the same idle tale with Congreve, and does not tell it so well. He translates from Ovid the same epistle as Pope; but I am afraid not with equal happiness. To examine his performances one by one would be tedious. His translation from Homer into blank verse will find few readers, while another can be had in rhyme. The piece addressed to Lambarde is no disagreeable specimen of epistolary poetry; and his Ode to the Lord Gower was pronounced by Pope the next ode in the English language to Dryden's Cecilia. Fenton may be justly styled an excellent versifier and a good poet. WHATEVER I have said of Fenton is confirmed by Pope in a letter, by which he communicated to Broome an account of his death. Spence. I INTENDED to write to you on this melancholy subject, the death of Mr. Fenton, before y's came; but stay'd to have inform'd myself and you of ye circumstances of it. All I hear is, that he felt a gradual decay, tho so early in life, & was declining for 5 or 6 months. It was not, as I apprehended, the gout in his stomach, but I believe rather a complication first of gross humours, as he was naturally corpulent, not discharging themselves, as he used no sort of exercise. No man better bore ye approaches of his dissolution (as I am told) or with less ostentation yielded up his being. The great modesty wch you know was natural to him, and ye great contempt he had for all sorts of vanity and parade, never appeared more than in his last moments he had a conscious satisfaction (no doubt) in acting right, in feeling himself honest, true, & unpretending to more than his own. So he dyed, as he lived, with that secret, yet sufficient, contentment. As to any papers left behind him, I dare say they can be but few; for this reason, he never wrote out of vanity, or thought much of the applause of men. I know an instance where he did his utmost to conceal his own merit that way; and if we join to this his natural love of ease, I fancy we must expect little of this sort: at least I hear of none except some few remarks on Waller (wth his cautious integrity made him leave an order to be given to Mr. Tonson) and perhaps, tho' tis many years since I saw it, a translation of ye first book of Oppian. He had begun a tragedy of Dion, but made small progress in it. As to his other affairs, he dyed poor, but honest, leaving no debts, or legacies; except of a few ps to Mr. Truinbull and my lady, in token of respect, gratefulness, & mutual esteem. I shall with pleasure take upon me to draw this amiable, quiet, deserving, unpretending Christian and philosophical character, in his epitaph. There truth may be be spoken in a few words: as for flourish, & oratory, & poetry, I leave them to younger and more lively writers, such as love writing for writing sake, & w4 rather So the show their own fine parts, y report the valuable ones of any other man. elegy I renounce. I condole with you from my heart, on the loss of so worthy a man, & a friend to us both. Now he is gone, I must tell you he has done you many a good office, & set your character in y fairest light to some who either mistook you, or knew you not. I doubt not he has done the same for me. Adieu: Let us love his memory, and profit by his example. I am very sincerely Dr Sir AUG. 29th, 1730. your affectionate & real servant A. POPE POEMS OF ELIJAH FENTON. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES EARL OF ORRERY, THESE POEMS ARE MOST HUMBLY DEDICATED, BY HIS LORDSHIP'S MOST OBLIGED, AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT, E. FENTON. A WISH TO THE NEW YEAR, 1705. JANUS! great leader of the rolling year, Close the fantastic scenes-but grace Thy month, O Janus! gave me first to know My race of life began with thee. Thus far from great misfortunes free, Which Folly cannot shun, nor wise Reflection cure. But, oh!--more anxious for the year to come, For me, in Time's mysterious womb? But if the goddess, in whose charming eyes, Or blast me with a killing frown; AN ODE TO THE SUN, Augur & fulgente decorus arcu Alterum in lustrum, meliúsque semper I. BEGIN, celestial source of light, To finish me in woes, and crush me down with fatc. To Gloriana this below. Hor, With joy renew the destin'd race, When Ilia bore the future fates of Rome, Fix'd the sure columns of her rising state; In comely spoils of war, and great achievements, drest. TI. Say, Phoebus, for thy searching eye Than in fair Albion thou hast seen; When Albion first majestic show'd, Victoria, triumph in thy great increase! Exalt thy silver urn, and duteous homage claim, III. Advanc'd to thy meridian height, On Earth, great god of Day, look down: But oh withdraw thy piercing rays, To deathless Fame adopted, rest; The star that beam'd on Gloucester's breast O Phoebus! all thy saving power employ, And leaves a land of orphans here below! Of sovereigns here the best, the brightest star above. IV. For lawless power, reclaim'd to right, And virtue rais'd by pious arms, Let Albion be thy fair delight, And shield her safe from threaten'd harms: Fresh as the first on Daphne's brow: Secure of bright eternal fame, But, Phoebus, god of numbers, high to raise Let Silence brood o'er ocean, earth, and air, war. In sure records each shining deed, High on its own establish'd base |