nothing more is necessary in the speaker than to inflame their passions. They will not require that the connection between the conduct he urges and the end proposed be evinced to them; his word will satisfy; and therefore bold affirmations are made to supply the place of reasons. Hence it is that the rabble are ever the prey of quacks and impudent pretenders of every denomination.

On the contrary, when the other end alone is attained, the rational without the pathetic, the speaker is as far from his purpose as before. You have proved beyond contradiction, that acting thus is the sure way to procure such an object. I perceive that your reasoning is conclusive; but I am not affected by it. Why? I have no passion for the object. I am indifferent whether I procure it or not. You have demonstrated that such a step will mortify my enemy. I believe it; but I have no resentment, and will not trouble myself to give pain to another. Your arguments evince that it would gratify my vanity; but I prefer my ease. Thus passion is the mover to action, reason the guide. Good is the object of the will, truth is the object of the understanding. Philosophy of Rhetoric, bk, i, chap. vä.

176. William Collins, 1721-1759. (Handbook, par. 202.) One of the most graceful of our lyric poets.

The Passions.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young

While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound

And, as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each (for madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire
In lightnings own'd his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still, through all the song:

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung;-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down;
And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum, with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her scal-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wi'd unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seemed bursting from his

head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,

Pale Melancholy sate retir'd,

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And, dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of Peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ;

But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice be lov'd the best;
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

The Dryads and Diana.

Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thine ancient lyre aside?
As, in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page-
"Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound—
O bid our vain endeavour cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

177. James Grainger, 1721-1766. (Handbook, par. 208.)

Author of the Sugar Cane and of an Ode to Solitude, the beginning of which Johnson pronounced very noble.'-Croker's Boswell, iv. p. 50. Percy also praises it as containing 'some of the sublimest images in nature.

Ode to Solitude-Introduction.

O Solitude, romantic maid!

Whether by nodding towers you tread,

• Referring to Orpheus and Amphion.

Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clefted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or, starting from your half-year's sleep,
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or by the purple dawn of day,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey,
You, recluse, again I woo,

And again your steps pursue.

1/8. Mark Akenside, 1721-1770. (Handbook, pars. 203, 413.)

Vigorous and occasionally sublime; but wanting in simplicity. His poem is largely quoted by Dr. Thomas Brown.

Tendencies of the Soul towards the Infinite.

Say, why was man so eminently rais'd
Amid the vast creation; why ordain'd
Through life and death to dart his piercing eye,
With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame;
But that the Omnipotent might send him forth
In sight of mortal and immortal powers,
As on a boundless theatre, to run

The great career of justice; to exalt
His generous aim to all diviner deeds;

To chase each partial purpose from his breast:
And through the mist of passion and of sense,
And through the tossing tide of chance and pain,
To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice

Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent

Of Nature, calls him to his high reward,

The applauding smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burns
In mortal bosoms this unquenchéd hope,

That breathes from day to day sublimer things,
And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind,
With such resistless ardour to embrace

Majestic forms; impatient to be free,

Spurning the gross control of wilful might;

...