SELECT POEMS, 
 
 Sfc. 
 
 T.Y THE lATt 
 
 JOHN DAWES JFORGJN, 
 
 OF BRISTOL, 
 
 Who died on the 25th of July 1809, 
 Aged Nineteen Years. 
 
 TO WHICH ARF, ADDED 
 
 SOME PARTICULARS OF HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER, 
 BY AN EARLY FRIEND AND ASSOCIATE; 
 
 2tttf) a preface, 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED POR tONGMAN. 11UK5T, REES, AND ORMtf, 
 PATS HN09TER- ROW". 
 
 1810.
 
 S. oosNr.LL, Printer, Little Queen Strcct > Tbnd6rt-
 
 TO 
 
 EDWARD JENNER, M.D. F.R.S. 
 t. $c. <$r. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 It is with peculiar satisfaction 
 that I place under the shelter of your in- 
 dulgent patronage, this little Memorial of 
 unaffected piety, solid worth, and early 
 genius ; that piety, whose moral ten- 
 dency and consolatory influence you have 
 witnessed with admiration, that worth, 
 which you have so justly appreciated, 
 and that genius, which has been fostered 
 by your kind encouragement. 
 
 To you, who animated the exertions 
 of Worgan's life by your approbation, 
 and who watched over tbe couch of his 
 affliction with the skill and sympathy of 
 an affectionate physician, these his lite- 
 rary Remains must be particularly in- 
 teresting; I could only wish that his 
 memorialist were inore capable of ren- 
 
 A 2
 
 IV 
 
 tiering them engaging to others also ; or 
 that, being relieved from public scru- 
 tiny, he had to present this juvenile 
 sketch to those alone, who, like you, 
 may forget the inability of the biogra- 
 pher, in recollecting the genuine value 
 of his friend. 
 
 May you reap the purest satisfaction 
 from a review of those blessings which, 
 under Providence, you have communi- 
 cated to the world ; and in the present 
 instance, from the consideration, that if 
 the sanction of your name assists the 
 circulation of this little volume (as I am 
 persuaded it must), in so honouring de- 
 parted merit, and alleviating parental 
 sorrow, you may be the means of recom- 
 mending, by the force of example, re- 
 medies of considerable efficacy against 
 the moral and spiritual diseases of man- 
 kind. 
 
 I have the honour to remain, 
 Sir, 
 Your obliged and devoted servant, 
 THE EDJTO&.
 
 IEFACE 
 
 The very amiable youth, whose early 
 compositions appear in the present vo- 
 lume, became known to me by letters a 
 tew years ago. I had observed with 
 pleasure the modest, ingenuous spirit 
 with which he endeavoured to surmount 
 all impediments that might preclude him 
 from literary distinction, for which he 
 panted with the natural ardour of a 
 youthful poet. I had admired the grate- 
 ful docility with which he acquiesced in 
 the advice of friends who, when he was 
 preparing a juvenile volume for the press, 
 had cautioned him against the dangers 
 of too early publication : I had ap- 
 plauded the spirit and the propriety with 
 which he appeared as the public eulogist 
 Of his beneficent patron, Doctor Jenner : 
 
 A 3
 
 VI 
 
 and I entertained a live!}' hope that my 
 voting; friend was on the point of begin- 
 ning a highly promising career, as a 
 student in the University, when the fol- 
 lowing letter unexpectedly announced to- 
 me the overthrow of all his earthly ex- 
 pectations, and led me to contemplate 
 the dying vouth with minoded emotions 
 of sorrow and admiration, and (to speak 
 of him in a phrase of Dryden's) as a 
 probationer of Heaven :. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 " my dear sin, Bristol, June 23, 1809, 
 
 " With much weakness and incapacity. 
 I once more engage in the ever agreeable employ- 
 ment of writing to you, to return my very grate- 
 ful though long delayed acknowledgments for 
 your kind packet and affectionate letter of the 7th- 
 f March. A few days after their arrival, it. 
 pleased the Divine Providence, in its infinite 
 wisdom, that I should be attacked with a violent 
 spitting of blood, with its concomitant com- 
 pla'mR For the ten wppIcp that I remained twdei
 
 VI 1 
 
 Dr. Jcnner's roof, his attention and kindness wert* 
 unremitting ; hut rinding all in vain towards my 
 recovery, he recommended my return home, 
 where I at present am residing with my mother, 
 a candidate for the eternal world, and humbly 
 awaiting the time when this mortal body shall no 
 longer be the frail imperfect residence of the 
 immortal spirit. 
 
 " I must candidly confess that the messenger of 
 death was a fearful and unwelcome visitant. The 
 anxieties which had harassed my mind for a con- 
 siderable time were removed by the exertions 
 of my friends a few days previously to Tmy sei- 
 zure. J was about to enter the University, with 
 the hope of an honourable and successful course. 
 The pleasures of reciprocal affection (of which 
 you speak in your last letter) were mine in their 
 fullest extent; and I had raised a goodly fabric of 
 renown, in fancy, in contemplating which I had 
 often amused my melancholy, but which, unless 
 it be completed by some friendly hand, must fall 
 to the ground, and oblivion must prey upon my 
 name. Bright were my prospects ; but they were 
 the prospects of earth, and rapidly overcast with 
 clouds. Heaven has taught me to lift my hopes 
 and desires and views to an eternal land, where 
 "what I am to leave in this perishable spot shall 
 be infinitely counterbalanced and overpaid. The 
 a 4
 
 VIII 
 
 prospects now before me shall never be clouded. 
 The consciousness of innate depravity indeed I 
 cannot but feel ; yet I feel also, and I believe and 
 know, that in the salvation which was wrought out 
 through the death of the Redeemer of mankind, 
 an atonement was effected to expiate the trans- 
 gressions of the world. In this divine atonement I 
 have sought for pardon and holiness, and new life 
 and light ; and I have cause to foster an humble 
 hope that I have not sought in vain. Thus then 
 as a pardoned sinner, even on the couch of sick- 
 ness, I can exult with celestial hope. 
 
 " Oh! how does the world sink in estimation when 
 compared with the idea of those good things which 
 God has prepared for those who love himL I bid 
 it and all its endearments farewell without a sigh, 
 when I contemplate the blessed mansions of Im- 
 mortality, in which, through the boundless com- 
 passion of my God, and the propitiatory merits 
 of my Redeemer, I have a good hope, through 
 grace, that this fluttering spirit of mine will 
 shortly have its abode. It is a dread thing, and 
 the frequent source of a gloomy awe to my mind, 
 to appear in the presence of the living God. But 
 this is my consolation, that the Ruler of the skies 
 is He who wa% crucified on earth, whom therefore 
 we may approach not only as our God, but as 
 emr Saviour ; and knowing that our sins have been
 
 IX 
 
 cancelled in his piacular blood, we may not only 
 bunish dread, but cherish unutterable joy. O 
 death! where is thy sting? O grave! where are 
 thy victories ? I know in whom I have believed. 
 I know that my Redeemer liveth." 
 
 " June 30. 
 " 1 have written the above, my dear Sir, at 
 various intervals, as my strength allowed. I have 
 described the sentiments of an overflowing heart, 
 as they arose on the conviction that this may be 
 the last letter which it will be in my power to 
 address to you. The pleasure of hearing from 
 \ou has always been truly great; yet at the present 
 period, it would be doubly great. With the hopw 
 then of being honoured and gratified with a letter 
 from you, when your engagements will allow, I 
 am your truly obliged faithful servant, 
 
 " J. D. Worcan." 
 
 I have here inserted the letter to 
 which . I alluded, because my own feel- 
 ings induce me to believe, that in lead- 
 ing the reader to take a tender interest 
 in his posthumous writing*, it may 
 have a beneficial influence on many 
 young minds, and prove a powerful in-
 
 centive to diligence and piety ; and be- 
 cause my immediate reply gave rise to 
 this publication. As I knew it was the 
 wish of this engaging youth that his 
 surviving friends should not suffer those 
 of his poetical effusions to die with him 
 which they might deem worthy of public 
 favour, I offered to receive any papers 
 that he might be anxious to confide to 
 my care. He expired without having 
 strength to write to me again ; but his 
 papers have been sent to me, and I have 
 made such a selection as I am inclined 
 to think his pure spirit might approve : 
 happy if my just attention to his wishes 
 may soothe that anguish of heart which 
 the loss of so excellent a son could not 
 fail to excite in a very sensible and af- 
 fectionate mother. Intending to intro- 
 duce his compositions to the public by a 
 brief account of their interesting author, 
 I entreated one of his young associates 
 to favour me with the particulars of his 
 life, as he was personally unknown to 
 me. His friend supplied me with what
 
 XI 
 
 he modestly wished me to consider as 
 merely heads for a more extensive bio- 
 graphical composition, which he and the 
 relations of the deceased expected me to 
 prefix to the verses of our lamented 
 young poet. But the narrative has so 
 much of truth and nature it is so just 
 and so pleasing a delineation of that ex- 
 emplary youth whose character was im- 
 pressed by long intimacy on the heart 
 and mind of his surviving fellow-student, 
 that I should think myself guilty of in- 
 juring tlve deceased, if I any ways de- 
 prived him of so becoming a tribute to 
 his memory. I therefore confine myself 
 to this Preface, bv which I am ambitious 
 of introducing the young poet and his 
 young biographer to the kind notice of 
 the public. It seems to me to be a duty 
 incumbent on the veterans of literature 
 to encourage the activity and promote 
 the reputation of studious and laudable 
 youth; and that I may not appear, by an 
 act of justice to the living, to shrink from
 
 xii 
 
 expressing* my sentiments of the dead, I 
 beg leave to terminate this introduction 
 by the following 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Youth of ingenuous mind, and sacred song ! 
 
 Be selfish grief's temerity forgiven, 
 That wish'd thy days of trouble to prolong, 
 
 And, as untimely, mourn'd thy flight to Heaven ! 
 
 Friendship and Love, in visions of die heart, 
 Had seen thy genius burst through every bar; 
 
 The) deem'd thee destin'd by poetic art 
 To rise in learning's sphere, a lucid star. 
 
 Sweet was the promise of thy early lyre, 
 Sweet as the skylark soaring from his sod ; 
 
 Thine were the gifts, that purest verse inspire, 
 An eye for Nature, and a soul for God ! 
 
 But like a blight, that mars both flower and stern, 
 Fortune the germs of genius may oppress j 
 
 And mutual love; of Earth the rarest gem, 
 May only prove a signet of distress.
 
 X1J1 
 
 Hapless affection, and the mournful muse, 
 
 Fed and absorb'd thy mental powers by stealth ; 
 While care's dark flood, like night's most noxious 
 dews, 
 Drown'd thy sweet hopes, and underniin'd thy 
 health. 
 
 But oh ! when life, to thy enlighten d eyes, 
 Scem'd but the closing of a troubled dream, 
 
 How didst thou welcome radiance from the iskies! 
 Thy spirit bask'd in faith's effulgent beam. 
 
 Dear young aspirant in that glorious strife, 
 "Where Nature triumphs o'er her prime desire, 
 
 While earthly changes to celestial life, 
 And sensual passion to seraphic fire ; 
 
 The kind ambition of thy Christian heart 
 Was from the vanities of earth to wean 
 
 Thy soul, and hers, thy being's dearest part! 
 Train'd by thy truth for love's immortal scene. 
 
 That scene is thine, for which thy spirit bum'd$ 
 There angels welcome thee to realms above; 
 
 Here may they watch o'er her, who fondly learn'd 
 The path to Hcav'n ; and learn'd it from thy love.
 
 XIV 
 
 Pardon, dear youth ! enfranchise now from earth I 
 If in the clouds that o'er this valley reign 
 
 Too hastily, in feeling thy lost worth, 
 I touch the source of thy terrestrial pain ! 
 
 Yes ! thou wilt kindly look on all below, 
 
 Who once were happy in thy warm regard ; 
 
 Bid them no longer fruitless tears bestow 
 Upon the tombstone of their youthful bard I 
 
 Fancy yet sees thee smile, with fond applause, 
 While Friendship's hand thy chequer'd life 
 portrays, 
 
 .And honour still from thee thy patron draws ; 
 Thy spirit still is pleas'd by Jenifer's praise. 
 
 Thine was the wish through many a studious hour 
 To raise, by moral verse, a deathless name ; 
 
 Exult, now gifted with angelic power ! 
 In joy, beyond the joys of letter'd fame ! 
 
 Now,- widely witness, that thy youthful lays 
 To just devotion waken heedless youth ! 
 
 And lead such hearts as thine, with grateful praise, 
 To join thy homage to the throne of Truth. 
 
 WILLIAM IIAYLEY.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOt 
 
 Particulars of the Life of John Dawes Worgan 1 
 
 Letters, &c. selected from his Papers 65 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Rhapsody, partly in Imitation of Tibullus 131 
 
 Retirement, an Ode 136 
 
 To Peace 140 
 
 Recollections of a Summer's Day 147 
 
 A Poetical Epistle to R. C. Dallas, Esq. oc- 
 casioned by the Perusal of his " Kirkstall 
 
 Abbey " a Poem 167 
 
 Britannia, or the Politics of a Recluse 176 
 
 Hymn from the Hebrew 1 92 
 
 Epistola ad Johannem Ring, Chirurgum 184 
 
 An Elegy, written in the Year 1S07 1Q2 
 
 Address to the Royal Jennerian Society 203 
 
 Series of Sonnets 215 
 
 A Fragment 258 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of a young Lady 260 
 
 Six Essays on Vaccination 272 
 
 Lines to the Memory of John Dawes Worgan 311
 
 SOME PARTICULARS 
 
 LIFE 
 
 JO HN DA WE S WO RGA N. 
 
 With the solicitude for posthumous reputation 
 natural to aspiring genius, the interesting subject 
 of the following pages devoted some of the few 
 intervals of ease, which the languor and debility 
 of his closing days afforded, to the preparation of a 
 brief Memoir of his life. In this undertaking, how- 
 ever, he was not able to make much progress; 
 what he wrote is now presented to the reader, 
 with little alteration, as affording the best view of 
 his early years. 
 
 Among all the fountains of melancholy plea- 
 sure, there is none so sweet and so unfailing as that 
 which flows from remembrance. The recollec- 
 
 B
 
 tion of particular scenes, indeed, may be the source 
 of pleasure, unmixed with any other sentiment; but 
 he who shall sit down to review a diversified life, 
 to retrace his progress through its paths, and to 
 consider its events in their connexion with each 
 other, will feel his heart expand with the most 
 tender and sublime sensations. 
 
 To him, who (in addition to this) shall consider 
 what he is, and what he will be, the contemplation 
 of life can hardly fail to be productive of emotions 
 which human language would labour in vain to 
 describe. 
 
 It is with sensations of this kind, which every 
 heart of sensibility will understand, though they 
 cannot be expressed by words, that I now attempt 
 to recall the circumstances which have occurred in 
 the days of my own existence. They are indeed 
 of an unimportant nature ; they can boast no in- 
 teresting occurrences, and perhaps they can yield 
 but little usefulness. Yet there are those, to 
 whom I am dear, who will feel an interest in every 
 thing connected with my fate, and whose affection, 
 I feel assured, will not expire, when the time shall 
 come for my mortal part to return to its native 
 dust. They will accept this hasty Memoir as no 
 displeasing relic. To them therefore (especially 
 to my beloved and affectionate parent) I wish that 
 its pages may be dedicated. And if in my en-
 
 3 
 
 tleavour to delineate the scenes of childhood and 
 growing youth, I ma) animate the broken intervals 
 of time, when the return of a little strength allows 
 me to act and to think, if my fancy may he en- 
 tertained, my spirits revived, if my thankfulness 
 to the gracious Author and Preserver of my life be 
 quickened, by a review of the benefits I have ex- 
 perienced from his hand, and if mv humility be 
 deepened by beholding the continual errors into 
 which I have fallen then shall I indeed rejoice in 
 the welcome consciousness that I have not written 
 in vain. 
 
 1 was born in the city of Bristol, on the eighth 
 of November 1791. My ancestors on my father's 
 side had been watch-makers for two genes aliens; 
 my father therefore (according to some law un- 
 known to reason, but well known i:i trade) was 
 compelled to prosecute the family employment by 
 a kind of hereditary entail. He was accordingly 
 under the necessity of laving aside the object which 
 he had ardently sought, thai: of attaining holy 
 orders hi the church of England, and was obliged 
 to devote himself to an occupation which ill ac- 
 corded with his inclinations and his !:..'',. 1 5y 
 this affliction and disappointment, ho" ever, the 
 humility and fervour of his piety weiv undoubtedly 
 enlivened in no light degree, and he continued, 
 though in a private station, a faithful member of 
 h l 2
 
 the Church of England. Such he was at the lime 
 of his marriage in January 1790, My mother was 
 a member of the Church of the United Brethren- 
 The statement of these things is necessary, that 
 future circumstances and expressions may be un- 
 derstood. 
 
 In the parish-church of St. Mary-le-Port, Bris- 
 tol, I was dedicated at the baptismal font by 
 the Rev. T. T. Biddulph. I should not detail a 
 circumstance which must appear so trilling, but it 
 is one which / regard with peculiar pleasure. The 
 eminent servant of God, by whose ministry I was 
 introduced into the Christian church (when a pas- 
 sive infant unconscious of the benefit), has con- 
 tinued an unceasing manifestation of kindness, in 
 all the seasons and circumstances of my life. He 
 has been uniformly prompt to act the part of a 
 real friend ; to promote my interest, both in a 
 temporal and spiritual manner ; to animate me in 
 my studies, by such encouragements and such a 
 portion of praise as he considered me capable of 
 bearing ; and (what I esteem the most important 
 of all) to show me my faults, with the most faith- 
 ful and unreserved sincerity, united at the same 
 time with the most tender and affectionate kind- 
 ness. A series of friendly services of this descrip- 
 tion I contemplate with singular satisfaction. 
 Knowing as I do by experience, what are the
 
 friendships of the world at large, knowing that thev 
 are alliances of convenience, and that with in- 
 terested motives they originate and expire, I have 
 learned how to value the few solitary beings, b\ 
 whom the nature of friendship is still understood 
 and its virtues still practised. And having such a 
 character presented to my view, in speaking of my 
 baptism, 1 must not neglect the opportunity of 
 expressing my gratitude towards the person who 
 has so eminently deserved it. 
 
 At the expiration of my fourth year 1 am in- 
 formed that I was capable of reading a chapter in 
 the Testament; and the warm commendations, 
 which were lavished upon me by my friends on this 
 occasion, so stimulated me to fresh exertions, that in 
 a little time I committed to memory a considerable 
 number of stanzas, from the Hymn-book of the 
 United Brethren. From these S]K>nUtneous studies, 
 to which I was simply led by infantile vanity, and 
 the desire of doing more than any in my school had 
 ever done, very great advantages resulted. It was 
 hence perhaps that 1 acquired the benefits of me- 
 mory, which I have found so invaluable a blessing 
 in my subsequent life. I may hence have derived 
 that partiality to metrical composition which has 
 been the greatest of my earthly consolations. And 
 it is certain that i hence imbibed that principle of 
 aomewhal like ambition, which has led me to de- 
 ls .">
 
 6 
 
 sire a pre-eminent degree of excellence in every 
 pursuit in which it lias been my destiny to engage ; 
 and which has induced me, for the sake of honour, 
 to support a series of labours, from which my incli- 
 nations recoiled, in the acquisition of ancient and 
 modern learning. 13 ut why dilate on these mat- 
 ters ? Because they show the fallacy of a plausible 
 modern argument on education, which I have often 
 heard from sensible persons. Many suppose that 
 children, till arrive d at their tenth or twelfth year, are 
 incapable of being impressed with permanent ideas; 
 that they may be taught to read, to manage a pen, 
 and a tittle arithmetic ; but that the attempt to in- 
 fuse a further portion of knowledge would be like 
 the task of the daughters of Danaus, and would 
 rather injure than benefit the mind. This notion 
 might be answered by observations on the structure 
 of the human mind. It is needless however for 
 me to enter into abstract reasonings on the subject, 
 since an example is here afforded, of one, in whom 
 the memory was formed, and into whom a taste 
 for poetry was instilled, and a wish for eminence 
 inspired, through the benefits of instruction, befor* 
 his sixth year was accomplished. 
 
 The grand object of my parents in my educa- 
 tion, was to teach me " how to live, and how to 
 die." With the most affectionate ardour, therefore, 
 they embraced every opportunity of instructing me 
 5
 
 in the principles of religion, explaining, with sweet 
 simplicity, the doctrines of the Christian faith and 
 practice. I listened with delight, yet I must sin- 
 cerely confess, that the impressions produced upon 
 my mind were of a short-lived nature. While the 
 rich streams of divine instruction were ilowing from 
 the lips of a father, my heart must have been cal- 
 lous indeed, had it remained inattentive or unim- 
 pressed. But in the succession of amusing scenes 
 the preeepts were forgotten, and the gay levities of 
 boyhood asserted and maintained their empire. 
 Will it hence be inferred that the instructions on 
 sacred things which I received in my tender years, 
 were futile and unproductive ? Any such inference 
 would be wrong; for in after-years, when separated 
 from my parents, when unblest with any monitor 
 who would act his part with faithfulness towards 
 me, the admonitions which I had received at home 
 not unfrequently thronged into my mind, and ope- 
 rated with greater force than recent exhortations 
 have done ; since I attached to them an idea of 
 sanctity, and thought on them with reverential awe. 
 Although the immediate object of mv early reli- 
 gious instruction was not answered, yet its ultimate 
 effects were as completely successful as m\ father's 
 fondest wishes could have desired. An instance of 
 this nature may be the source of consolation to 
 parents, who, as they hitherto perceive no in- 
 u 4
 
 crease from the sacred seed they have sown in 
 the minds of their children, are too hasty in con- 
 cluding that it must have utterly perished. 
 
 1 have now to perform a journey of thirty miles- 
 formidable thought for a boy not six years old ! I 
 must bid adieu to my " dulce domum" and all its 
 endearments, and to all my accustomed com- 
 panions. 
 
 In short, I must transplant myself from Bristol 
 to a little town in Wiltshire, at a school in which 
 I was entered in the autumn of 1796. The 
 number of boarders was limited to six. The 
 master was a good-natured, intelligent man; so that 
 I settled in my new habitation with a fair prospect 
 of pleasure and improvement. It happened, how- 
 ever, that the good-nature of our master was the 
 result of indolence and inactivity. In passing over 
 an error in the conduct of his pupils, his lenity 
 might easily be justifiable ; but he passed over 
 omissions in their learning, and faults in their tasks. 
 This inclination to wink at our proceedings it may 
 be supposed that we shortly perceived, and the con- 
 sequence may be imagined. I do not mention these 
 things with a view to censure my old master (of 
 whom i have not much more reason to complain 
 than of myself) ; but I wish that parents, in choosing 
 an instructor for their children, would particularly 
 inquire concerning him, whether he be a conscien-
 
 tious character, whether from motives of duty he 
 will strictly and faithfully fulfil his office. Such a 
 commendation is preferable on these occasions to 
 the most brilliant talents. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of this school is a venerable 
 majestic abbey, which has stood the storms of 
 ages, and is now beautiful in decay. To explore 
 its accessible parts was long my w ish and resolve ; 
 but my school-fellows, who were all my seniors, 
 contrived to fabricate so many talcs of horror, of 
 ghosts who dwelt in the abbey, and of murders per- 
 petrated in it, that I never had courage to approach 
 any part but that which is dedicated to playing 
 balls. And as to the dread of ghosts, it did not 
 forsake me during many subsequent years, and was 
 a continual oppression on my spirits. What caution 
 is too great to be used to prevent the sportiveness 
 of youth, or the superstition and ignorance of age, 
 from tilling the infantile mind with tales, and 
 forms, and figures, which will harass it, till it is 
 arrived at a state of mature reason ! 
 
 Opposite to our house, there was a chapel of the 
 United Brethren. It was there we attended divine 
 service ; the simplicity of the manner in which the 
 brethren expound the Christian faith, renders their 
 religious meetings particularly useful and appro- 
 priate to childhood. Having passed two years in this 
 school, I returned home for a permanency. Even
 
 10 
 
 then I had sufficient sagacity to perceive, that during 
 my absence from home I had lost much and gained 
 little. My ambition, the best principle that can be 
 cherished in some boys to encourage them in their 
 learning, was altogether lost. 
 
 As my constitution began to afford indication* 
 of tenderness and weakness, it was the wish of my 
 parents that I should receive instruction at some 
 school in Bristol or its neighbourhood, where my 
 health might be fostered by their care, and their feel- 
 ings satisfied respecting me. But their wishes were 
 frustrated by the perversity which began at this time, 
 in an especial manner, to exercise its influence on my 
 mind. At three schools I Mas entered, but would 
 remain in none, conceiving against each some ve- 
 hement cause of complaint, and acting in pursuance 
 of my ideas with unruly and uncontrollable prin- 
 ciples, of anger and pride. These are the principles 
 which reign, alas ! so predominantly in the human 
 soul, showing themselves at the earliest period after 
 any rav of reason has dawned. They evince the 
 depth and the extent of our original corruption, the 
 proneness of the soul to evil from the very hours of 
 infancy, and its wide alienation from God. 
 
 How abased is the condition of mankind, whose 
 earliest ways are ways of error ! How unfa- 
 thomable is the compassion of our God, who mani- 
 fests undiminished beneficence to such a race of
 
 11 
 
 transgressors ! As to myself, when T think on the 
 marks of depravity which my state of childhood 
 manifested in the unmanageable character of my 
 temper at this time, I have, cause for fervent gratitude 
 to the benign Author of all good, for enabling me to 
 struggle successfully against the natural propensities 
 of my heart. It is indeed a continual contest : but 
 when the soul is faint and weary, she can call for 
 aid on almighty power : and she will not be 
 left unaided till the warfare is over. Into this 
 digression 1 have been led by the overflowings of 
 my mind. My heart would not be content with a 
 scanty tribute of praise to the long-continued mer- 
 cies of my God, nor would it be satisfied with a 
 slight mention of a subject respecting which it has 
 so much been exercised. 
 
 Amidst the perplexity which was naturally felt 
 by my friends at seeing their endeavours for my wel- 
 fare counteracted by causes which no human power 
 could remove, and amidst their painful hesitations 
 in what manner they should dispose of me for fu- 
 ture education, it chanced that I was visited by an 
 acquaintance of my own age. He had for a con- 
 siderable time been resident in the school esta- 
 blished in the village of Fulneck (near Leeds, York- 
 shire), a settlement or congregation-place of the 
 I nited Brethren. He portrayed the school at 
 l'u! neck as posss. -<d of iniparalhled excellencies,
 
 12 
 
 minutely describing it and its* dependencies, and 
 decorating the whole in the most brilliant co- 
 lours. JNIy imagination was fired and captivated 
 at the account of so enviable a situation, and 1 
 immediately besought permission to accompany 
 my young friend to Fulneck. 
 
 It may be conceived that such a solicitation was 
 heard by my parents with a measure of satisfaction, 
 considering the difficulties they had already un- 
 dergone in seeking a situation for me, and the 
 confidence which they naturally reposed in the con- 
 ductors of the Fulneck school, as members of the 
 same church with themselves. So important a step 
 was however considered with due deliberation. At 
 length it was determined that my request should be 
 granted, and accordingly 1 bade a second farewell 
 to my home. I was placed under the protection 
 of a good-natured dissenting clergyman, who was 
 travelling to the north, and the journey would have 
 been truly agreeable, had it not been for its tre- 
 mendous length of two hundred miles, and the 
 rapidity with which we travelled. At length, after 
 three days journey, [ cast my eves, with united 
 veneration and joy, upon the long-expected houses 
 of I'ulneck, and 1 found the ideas I had formed of 
 them in fancy, surpassed by the reality. 
 
 The village is situated on a rising ground; it is
 
 Vuit i?t a straight line; the chape! is in the centre; 
 the schools for boys and girls, the houses -of 
 the single brethren and sisters, and the houses 
 dedicated to mechanical labour, exactly corre- 
 sponding on each side. A spacious and public 
 gravel walk appeared in front of the buildings. 
 The space before the chapel, however, was prohi- 
 bited ground, and constituted the boundary between 
 tle male and female domain. From the jrravel 
 walk the ground exhibited a gentle declivity, which 
 was covered with gardens, both for utility -aud or- 
 nament. The huts of the extremely poor were 
 concealed, that the beauty of the scene might suffer 
 no detriment, 'i his -little district was purchased by 
 the Moravians, that they might there erect a secure 
 and independent settlement, in which none but the 
 members of th< ir own society should be permitted 
 to live, except children in the schools. For a 
 . erics of successive years, their establishment lias 
 flourished and increased, it now arlords no incon- 
 siderable advantages for the education of youth of 
 both sexes, of employment for the middle-aged, 
 and of retirement for those who have known the 
 world and have learned to despise its follies. 
 
 When I had visited the various parts of the viHage 
 in company with the resident clergvman, 1 was intro- 
 duced with all becoming ceremony into my appro- 
 priate room, it was not the custom there for the
 
 14 
 
 whole school to assemble in one apartment, but we 
 were divided into five classes, each of which had a 
 separate room, with two instructors : in addition 
 to this we had masters occasionally attending, and 
 the head-master was superintendant of the whole. 
 Our advancement from room to room was guided 
 by our improvement in learning, and the desire of 
 attaining so envied an exaltation was a powerful 
 stimulus to diligence in study. Our religious in- 
 struction was as much an object of attention as 
 our other pursuits. Every morning at eight o'clock 
 we assembled in the chapel, where a brief dis- 
 course was delivered to us in a style peculiarly 
 . adapted to children, altogether simple, and treat- 
 ing on those prominent parts of Chiistian doctrine 
 which to children are most attractive, and which 
 they can best understand. It was also part of our 
 daily tusk that we should commit to memory two 
 texts of Sciipture; and in j\i lio to the masters of 
 the establishment, I must add, that many of them 
 were not remiss in labouring to Anther our ad- 
 vance in religious knowledge, In th( benefit of their 
 private coi u. From the^e o| ortunities of 
 
 improvement t derived much pleasure and proiit : 
 lire advice which is affectionately wl ispered will 
 melt the heart, and stamp an hnpi\sion there 
 which time in general i. unable to erl 
 
 A\ ith regard to the nature of my pursuits in
 
 15 
 
 school, they were such as are common. I went 
 through a series of Latin exercises in company with 
 my class; but such was my aversion to the study of 
 words, that J made no manner of progress in this 
 new pursuit ; on the contrary, it was the subject 
 of my rooted aversion. It may therefore be 
 judged, that [ remained in comparative ignorance 
 as to the Latin language. French was afterwards 
 introduced, but I found the cultivation o( an ac- 
 quaintance with words, whether from Italy or 
 France, to be equally irksome. I therefore suf- 
 fered my forced attention towards languages to 
 give way to my natural impulse, and dedicated all 
 nvy thoughts to the other branches of learning. 
 
 In tins way for two years (without any occur- 
 rence that di serves notice) 1 proceeded comfort- 
 ably with my instructors, with my companions, 
 and m mvs ' : and all my comforts were aug- 
 mented b\ : particular kindness of the Rev. 
 , the r< .-:! nt minister, and (ex of- 
 ficio) In ad ma-ti-r. J am happv in an occasion of 
 showing that lam not unmindful of his past bene- 
 \olenee. I Jut though every appearance was so 
 flattering, it was my misfortune to feel that, while 
 my mind was improving, my bodily frame was 
 seriously weakened bv the inclemency of the cli- 
 mate, in the winter season. In the summer, in- 
 deed, my powers were recruited and my health re-
 
 16 
 
 stored ; but, as my parents were naturally dissa- 
 tisfied at my annual illness, they reluctantly re- 
 solved on my return home, and my father accord- 
 ingly came to be my conductor, and guided me 
 back to Bristol in the autumn of 1800. This 
 journey was one of the most pleasant and useful I 
 ever performed. As we advanced at leisure, we 
 had opportunities of visiting the various works 
 of nature and art that presented themselves in our 
 way. I shall not easily forget the interesting 
 objects I then beheld ; whether the mechanic arts 
 of Sheffield and Birmingham, or the tremendous 
 beauties of the Peak. 
 
 But I must remember that I have not yet bid 
 adieu to Fulneck. Within its confines some of 
 the happiest of my days were passed. There was a 
 predominant spirit of piety which produced a spirit 
 of harmony and content, the benefits of which were 
 experienced by old and young ; for where there is 
 real piety, there will be lasting peace, either with 
 individuals or communities ; and the petty bicker- 
 ings which may casually arise, will speedily be re- 
 moved on the principles of Christian love. This 
 internal tranquillity which prevailed in Fulneck 
 was the source of no small gratification to a mind * 
 constituted like mine, delighting in repose ; nor 
 was I less gratified by their artless exposition of
 
 17 
 
 uf divine truths, which (as I have already mentioned) 
 we from day to day received. 
 
 I turn with the most tender regret from the 
 place where I received my education for two 
 years; where I was treated with uniform kind- 
 ness; where my understanding and my heart 
 were alike the objects of attention, and perhaps 
 were equally improved. But it will not easily b 
 obliterated from my remembrance. Its houses, 
 and terrace, and gardens, are still present to my 
 sight. I will converse in fancy with the dear indivi- 
 duals who condescended to administer to my puerile 
 comforts. The scenes of pleasure crowd upon my 
 mind ; and when, amidst my present solitude and 
 gloom, I wish to be refreshed by the recollection 
 of happy days, I send my thoughts to Fulneck. 
 There is, however, an honest principle in the mind 
 of man when unsophisticated, which leads him to 
 prefer his home to every other scene. Contented, 
 as I had been during my long absence, yet on re- 
 entering the door of my parental dwelling, my heart 
 welled with indistinct feelings of gentle transport, 
 which it would be no disgrace to the triumphant 
 hero to feel, when returning from the field of glory, 
 4>t the statesman from the councils of his country. 
 For the most exalted wisdom will ever be most 
 ready to cherish the tender feelings of nature ; and 
 though, with philosophical enlargement of the
 
 IB 
 
 mind, the sage may call the universe his home, 
 yet where is the heart that has not experienced a 
 soft partiality to the abodes of his birth and infancy 
 in priority to spots in themselves more alluring ? 
 With such feelings I resumed my situation at 
 home. The care of my health, during a most in- 
 clement winter, was the primary object of my 
 parents. 
 
 Thus far did Worgan proceed in his own bio- 
 graphy; it falls to the lot of his friend to mark the 
 dawnings of his genius, to trace its increasing ra- 
 diance; and to follow it until the dark cloud of 
 sickness and adversity shrouded it prematurely from 
 further display and further observation. 
 In January 1801, he was placed as a daily scholar 
 in the commercial school of Mr. Pocock of Bristol, 
 where he made considerable progress iu arithmetic, 
 and acquired a competent knowledge of geography, 
 astronomy, and other branches of science ; he^also 
 improved his hand-writing, and thus reaped advan^ 
 tages which he probably would never have enjoyed 
 to the same extent, had he been confined to the 
 instructions of a classical school. 
 
 It is seldom seen that superior genius can de-; 
 scend to pursuits in which mechanical nicety and 
 precision aioue lead to perfection. Some very
 
 19 
 
 eSquisitfe maps which Worgan drew, while follow- 
 ing his geographical studies, and indeed the neat- 
 ness and correctness of all his performances, seemed 
 to point out a path, as the appropriate lot of his 
 future life, very different from that which his eager 
 mind afterwards pursued in ascending the arduous 
 steep which leads to learning and to fame. 
 
 He was at this time introduced to M. Desprez, 
 an emigrant French clergyman, and a descendant of 
 him by whom, " Troja dum regna ma?lebant,' , the 
 editions of the classics, usually called the Dauphin, 
 were' edited and illustrated with notes and inter- 
 pretations for the use of his royal pupils. This 
 gentleman had discernment enough to perceive the 
 latent abilities of his young friend, and in imparting 
 to him his own language (in which, through his 
 care, he attained very great freedom both in con- 
 versation and composition) he endeavoured to in- 
 troduce a relish for literary pursuits in general, and 
 certainly succeeded to a considerable degree. But 
 Worgan's French preceptor was shortly after 
 elected professor of that language in the Military 
 College at Marlow, where he died; and our youth 
 himself was obliged to leave school, and, though 
 not yet twelve years of age, to bring to practical 
 use some parts of the mercantile education which 
 he had been acquiring. 
 
 We must therefore follow him into a new scene, 
 c 2
 
 20 
 
 as, in consequence of the indisposition of his father, 
 he was obliged, in June 1802, to become his assist- 
 ant both iu his trade of a watchmaker, and in his 
 accounts. This he did with the greatest faith- 
 fulness and alacrity ; and when, in a short time, 
 hii father became wholly confined, he divided his 
 hours and attention between his sick bed and his 
 business in the most exemplary and unremitting 
 manner. The blessed end of his valuable parent, 
 who died on the 2d of May 1803, made a deep and 
 serious impression on his mind ; and his religious 
 principles were illustrated by affectionate concern 
 for his mother on so severe a loss, and the solidity 
 and ability with which he arranged his father's 
 affairs. 
 
 In July 1803, he returned to Mr. Pocock's, with, 
 an intention of pursuing the course of instruction 
 which he had commenced. But in January follow- 
 ing, he revealed to his mother the wish he had long 
 entertained of devoting himself to the service of 
 God, by becoming a clergyman of the church of 
 .England ; and he therefore begged her permission 
 to turn his mind to a classical education. His mo- 
 ther, whose every care was centred in the pro- 
 motion of his welfare, readily acceded to the re- 
 quest. They consulted on the subject their friend, 
 the Rev. T. T. Biddulph (of whom Worgan made 
 eo affectionate a notice in his own Memoirs), who,.
 
 21 
 
 expressing his approbation of his views, introduced 
 him to the Rev. S** # S** # , who presided in a 
 large and highly respectable school in Bristol, at 
 which he was accordingly entered aa a day-scholar 
 without delay. 
 
 Here he enjoyed great and peculiar advantages ; 
 advantages which soon called into action those 
 latent energies of his mind, which only awaited 
 some favouring opportunity of starting into notice. 
 The first of these arose from the depth of erudi- 
 tion, and the solidity of judgment which were 
 united in the gentleman, under whom he had the 
 good fortune to be placed; qualities which ren- 
 dered him equally averse to a premature elevation 
 of his pupils to the higher branches of study, 
 before the foundations of science were deeply and 
 firmly established and to a restraint of the laud- 
 able efforts of real and aspiring genius. Another 
 advantage of no small importance to our young 
 academic, whose habits of seclusion had before 
 entirely removed him from the company of young 
 persons of his own age, and of liberal education, was 
 derived from the opportunity now afforded him 
 for association with such, and the stimulus which 
 was thereby given to his future exertions. 
 
 While Worgan was labouring with unremitting 
 assiduity in acquiring the rudiments of classical 
 learning, tlie higher divisions of the school con- 
 c 3
 
 tained those whose talents and industry had laid 
 open the rich mines of ancient lore, of which he 
 had scarcely explored the rough and forbidding 
 access, many of whom, to their surprise, found 
 him, in a time incredibly short, arrived at a level with 
 themselves, and able to contend with them for the 
 meed of scholastic distinction. While he viewed 
 the idle and the dissipated with pity and contempt, 
 his ardent mind sought and attracted the friend- 
 ship of many, who were actuated by sentiments 
 similar to his own, with some of whom he main- 
 tained habits of social and literary intercourse till 
 the time of his death, and to whom the recollec- 
 tion of that intercourse will probably form in 
 future life not an ungrateful subject of frequent 
 meditation. 
 
 In one year and a half he passed through the 
 regular stages by which a knowledge of Greek and 
 Latin is usually acquired ; and at the expiration of 
 that period was able to read with facility most of 
 the books of highest rank. This extraordinary ra- 
 pidity was partly the result of that unceasing per- 
 severance which a regard to his future welfare 
 urged him to employ, and partly arose from the 
 abstraction of his thoughts from those minor 
 branches of education which usually interfere 
 with and protract the attainment of classical 
 learning.
 
 3 
 
 - His papers bear testimony to the care with 
 which he pursued his studies ; as they contain, in 
 addition to the ordinary exercises of themes and 
 verses, an epitome of the Roman history, another 
 of geography, and many translations from Justin, 
 Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, and the Eclogues 
 of Virgil, by which he familiarized himself to 
 rendering Latin into his own tongue with fluency 
 and correctness. He also devoted some of his 
 leisure hours to the acquisition of Hebrew, con- 
 ceiving it to be a principal duty of one who as- 
 pired to holy orders, to be familiar with the 
 sacred records in their purest shape : he studied 
 it with the vowel points. 
 
 Having completed his course of education at 
 school, in July 18()6 he undertook, for a short 
 period, the tuition of a son of Richard Hart Davis, 
 Esq. M.P. of Clifton ; and in September follow- 
 ing, having not then completed his sixteenth year, 
 he was admitted as private tutor into the family of 
 Dr. Jenner, at Berkeley. 
 
 This may appear to have been an arduous un- 
 dertaking for one so young, but his most intimate 
 friends scarcely recollect him ever to have been a 
 boy ; so early was his mind formed and his judg- 
 ment matured. 
 
 The following extract from a letter to his mo- 
 ther, on being settled in this highly desirable situa- 
 c 4
 
 24 
 
 tion, affords a pleasing view of his feelings at this 
 time : 
 
 ft Cheltenham, Sept. 27. 
 ** When I reflect on the mercies I have received, 
 and the advantageous situation in which I am 
 placed, I cannot but fall with humble gratitude 
 at the feet of Him, whose guardian love has 
 hitherto protected me, and I trust will still be 
 exerted in my preservation. I send you a 
 sonnet, which I wrote in August last, but which 
 is peculiarly applicable to my present circum- 
 stances : 
 
 " Long has my heart, devoid of anxious fears, 
 Danc'd o'er the winding valley's flow'ry green ; 
 
 But now Discretion's arduous mount appears, 
 And I must quit the vainly pleasing scene. 
 
 Slow up the steep ascent, with trembling mind, 
 My weary feet the sadd'ning road pursue ; 
 
 Nor shall my heart unsullied pleasure find, 
 Till Salem's turrets meet the raptur'd view. 
 
 O Thou, whose arm with guardian mercy led 
 
 My wand'ring feet through childhood's giddy maze., 
 
 Extend thy sacred buckler round my head, 
 While op'ning life her various form displays, 
 
 Till by thy grace I tread the blissful shore 
 
 Where dangers, griefs, and fears alarm no more."
 
 25 
 
 The decision of our young tutor on a point of 
 considerable importance to himself about tins time, 
 sufficiently marks the ripened state of his judgment. 
 A kind friend had made very flattering proposals 
 to him for immediately entering at College, the 
 object of his warmest hopes, endeavouring, young 
 as he was, to push his way there, and lay the 
 immediate foundations of future celebrity. He 
 pointed out at the same time certain exhibition* 
 and other advantages whence a considerable aid to 
 defray his expences might be derived, and en- 
 couraged him to look to his own exertions for the 
 supply of the residue, To a mind panting for 
 academic distinction, what offer could be more 
 pleasing r Worgan, no doubt, viewed with delight 
 the opening prospect, but he was not dazzled with 
 it ; for mature reflection taught him that it was his 
 true interest to chtck his youthful ardour, enjoying 
 with patience the important opportunities of im- 
 provement which his present residence afforded, 
 and awaiting the time, when a more advanced 
 age, improved abilities, and more general ;nf< rma- 
 tion, would enable him to enter on his career with 
 surer prospects of success, and when the interme- 
 diate accumulation of his pecuniary fund woidd 
 enable him to pursue it with greater ease and in- 
 dependence. He accordingly declined with thauk- 
 falnesi the friendly proposals.
 
 26 
 
 Many of the compositions of our young poet 
 fcreathe the melancholy air of tender and disap-' 
 pointed affection, while some passages are en- 
 livened by its more favourable views ; and he may 
 appear liable to the charge of supposing, with 
 Cowley, that poets are scarcely thought freemen 
 of their company without paying some duties to 
 love, and of therefore " fatiguing his fancy and 
 ransacking his memory for images which might 
 exhibit the gaiety of hope, or the gloominess of 
 despair, which he never felt, and of dressing an 
 imaginary mistress sometimes in flowers fading as 
 her beauties, sometimes in gems lasting as her 
 virtues," a folly which Dr. Johnson so justly 
 ridicules. 
 
 To rescue him, therefore, from such an imputa- 
 tion, and to account for this tone of some of his 
 poems, it is proper to state, that about this time 
 his affections became really fixed on an amiable 
 young lady, whose relations thought proper to 
 withhold their countenance from the connexion, 
 and therefore restricted him from her society, and 
 in other respects opposed its progress. This eon- 
 duct produced an agitation of mind which accom- 
 panied him through all the remaining stages of 
 life, until he approached the borders of the grave, 
 when his gracious God and Father was pleased to 
 ?av unto his troubled soul, " Peace, be still !" trait-
 
 27 
 
 <quillmng its every tumult, and tilling it with tht 
 beatific vision of the joys for which he was about 
 to exchange the thorny and rugged paths of his 
 mortal pilgrimage. 
 
 The following extract of a letter to his kind 
 friend Mr. Hayley, while it affords a pleasing 
 view of the genuine humility of his mind, and the 
 increasing diffidence which increasing years and 
 increasing knowledge inspired, describes with in- 
 teresting simplicity what was passing within it on 
 tins unfortunate subject : 
 
 " I pride myself, my dear Sir, not a little on 
 my having mustered sufficient magnanimity to prc^- 
 vent your flattering approbation from rendering 
 me too bold, and inducing me to venture beyond 
 my proper sphere. The historic poem, on the 
 Spanish V T accine Expedition, which you had the 
 kindness to suggest, I had often before projected ; 
 but I as often relinquished the undertaking, from 
 a consciousness of my inability to do justice to the 
 subject. The important caution, " Samite ma* 
 ttfinm? &c. though it once " grated horrible dis- 
 cord" npon my ears, is at present my leading 
 maxim in every poetical attempt. Instead, there- 
 fore, of endeavouring to wing my way into the 
 regions of historic verse, I am content, for the 
 present, to appear before you in the garb of an
 
 m 
 
 humble sonnetteer . From a centenary of sonnets, 
 which I have lately finished, I have selected a few; 
 which I take the liberty of enclosing to you ; and 
 if, my dear Sir, when you have no better occupa- 
 tion, you would have the great goodness to favour 
 me with your general animadversions, I need not 
 say how much you would add to the load of obli- 
 gations, which you have already conferred upon 
 me by your unmerited benevolence. The melan- 
 choly tone that pervades the majority of the 
 sonnets, may perhaps be regarded as affectation in 
 the writings of one, who has scarcely emerged 
 from puerility, and it may be suspected that I have 
 caught the fashionable rage for doleful ditties. Not 
 a sentiment however have I uttered, which did not 
 proceed from the bottom of my heart. Though 
 young in years, I am old in the school of adver- 
 sity ; and the lessons which it has there been my 
 destiny to learn, from a long continuance of the 
 sorrows that prey upon the heart, have rendered 
 me callous to earthly objects. Though scarcely 
 set out on the journey of life, my feet are weary, 
 and I find the prospect of a happier world to be 
 the only source of tranquillity and comfort amidst 
 the miseries of this. Pardon an unwilling egotist 
 for troubling you with this mournful rhapsody. 
 My object is to explain the feelings by which
 
 29 
 
 many of the sonnets were prompted, and to pre- 
 vent your mistaking reality for fiction. 
 
 " And now let me present to you my warmest 
 thanks for the critical observations, with which 
 you favoured me on my elegiac verses. Of th 
 errors and deficiencies, which you kindly pointed 
 out, I am fully sensible, aud my own deliberate 
 judgment has convinced me of many others. I 
 daily congratulate myself, with increasing satis- 
 faction, on my having resisted, by your advice, 
 the solicitations of partial friends and the sugges- 
 tions of my own vanity, which loudly whispered 
 " publication" in my ear a considerable time ago. 
 I find tliat the increase of knowledge is accompa- 
 nied by an increase of timidity, which I hope may 
 be a sign of improvement ; and he, who at sixteen 
 would boldly have commenced an epic, at eighteen 
 undertakes the smallest composition with a degree 
 of diffidence." 
 
 But VV organ was not neglectful of his great 
 object ; he continued his studies with vigour and 
 success : a series of notes on ilvschines and Pindar, 
 and a translation of the Poetics of Aristotle, which 
 are fouud among his papers, prove, that, in apply- 
 ing to the " Gmca ejcemplaria" he spared no 
 profitable exertion. His enlarged acquaiutanc* 
 with English poetry now began to have its effect 
 5
 
 on Ma 6*f& varsificfttion, the productions of thiaf 
 jear (among which were " The Recollections- 
 of* a Summer's Day,' ; his longest poem) possess- 
 ing a greater ease and fluency of diction than i* 
 found in some of his earlier efforts. He also studied 
 the roles of his art with attention, and wrote aw 
 epitome of Vida's Art of Poetry. 
 
 In the spring of 1 807 he was afflicted with a 
 typhus fever ; On recovering from which he visited 
 his friends at Bristol, and in the course of the 
 summer accompanied Dr. Jenner and his family 
 to London. The intercourse which his residence 
 there afforded him an opportunity of enjoying 
 with many distinguished literary characters, while 
 it was highly gratifying to him, assisted in the 
 formation of his taste, added to his stock of in- 
 formation, and enlarged his ideas. 
 
 He returned to Cheltenham in the course of 
 the year, and applied his leisure hours to the ac- 
 quisition of Italian, promising himself, in the 
 sweetness of Italian song, an ample reward for 
 his labour ; and he does not appear to have been 
 disappointed. He was a great admirer of some 
 of the sonnets of Petrarch, and intended to form 
 a election of them in English verse. But too 
 strained an application, with the continual anguish 
 of thwarted affection, were beginning to produce 
 in our young friend the usual attendants on early
 
 31 
 
 and extraordinary taleut. The fruit -which shows 
 ^mptoms of ripening before its regular season, 
 loo often changes its promising appearance, ta 
 wither and to die. Under the apprehension, how- 
 ever, of such consequences, his state of mind was 
 pious and pleasing, as appears by the^ following 
 extract from a letter to a friend : 
 
 " An extraordinary determination of the blood to 
 the brain vehemently affected my eyesight, and 
 somewhat endangered my senses, and obliged mo 
 to desist from my studies for a considerable time ; 
 and at present I have but partially renewed them. 
 Thanks to the mercies of the all-disposing Power, 
 the apprehension of danger is now entirely past; 
 and as the tranquillity of my mind is re-esta- 
 blished, and my head much relieved by Dr. Jen- 
 ifer's advice, I trust, through the Divine blessing, 
 I shall shortly be able to return to my ordinary 
 employments. And may the restoration of my 
 fyealth and of my mental powers be accompanied 
 by a renewed dedication of the whole to the ser- 
 vice of Him from whose bounty they are all de- 
 rived, that, in prosperity and adversity, in sick- 
 ness and health, in youth and age, in life and 
 death, the Lord Jehovah may be my strength and 
 my song."
 
 5<2 
 
 A suspension of all study was the Consequence? 
 of this attack ; which had not long spent itself,. 
 When, soon after the return of Dr. Jenner's fa^ 
 mily to Berkeley, in June 1808, he was again 
 visited with the typhus fever in a more violent 
 shape than before. Tho effects of this last disease 
 he never recovered, being frequently troubled with 
 a pain in his side and chest, a slight cough, and 
 constant indigestion-* alarming symptoms, which, 
 however, never produced in his own mind any 
 strong apprehension of ultimate danger. A fort- 
 night's visit to his mother in Bristol having again 
 recruited his strength, he returned to his favourite 
 pursuits with renewed ardour, inflamed with the 
 prospect of his removal to college in the course of 
 the ensuing year, for which he had made arrange 
 ments. 
 
 In the winter he read Demosthenes, some of 
 the tragedies of Sophocles, and added Longinus 
 and Plato to the list of his Greek authors. 
 
 During all this time W organ Mas a prey to 
 the anguish which the disappointment of its ten- 
 derest feelings excited ; and his mind became thus 
 so absorbed, that he was in a measure disquali- 
 fied eveu for his accustomed application, until at 
 length the faculties of body and soul equally 
 yielded to the grasp of complicated wretcliedness. 
 What might not such talents aud such industry
 
 33 
 
 have produced, had there been nothing to paralyze 
 their efforts ! 
 
 His friends having recommended him to vield 
 for a time to the driving storm, ami to discontinue 
 any intercourse with his affectionate friend until 
 appearances smiled more favourably on him, he 
 acceded to the proposal, a;>d on the eve of this 
 separation addressed to her a most affecting paper 
 of tender and valuable admonitions. Some ex- 
 tracts from it are here introduced, because they 
 cannot fail to interest the reader in favour of our 
 young poet, and because they show that his at- 
 tachment was founded on the basis of religious 
 principle, and conducted with a propriety and 
 solidity of judgment which, in such circumstances, 
 would have done honour to more repined years. 
 
 " As I know not how soon 'he proposed ar- 
 rangements will be terminal d, \hich ;ire to sepa- 
 rate me for so long a time from the btlo'ed 
 object of my unchanging affection, and having 
 many observations, on a variety of subjects, -which 
 I anxiously wish to express to Iter in a permanent 
 form, I shall, as leisure opportunities occur, com- 
 mit those observations to pap r, for the purpose 
 of presenting them to her, when the sad period
 
 34 % 
 
 for our parting interview shall arrive. I shall 
 place them in her hands as a sacred deposit, ac- 
 companied by my fervent benedictions ; and per- 
 haps it may be pleasant to her to read them over, 
 when she can no longer see nor hear from him 
 who wrote them. 
 
 " But how shall I begin ? My heart is so full, 
 that it is almost unable to speak : and the tears 
 that stream from my eyes (which all my philoso- 
 phy cannot prevent from {lowing) almost prevent 
 me from fulfilling the task which I have begun. 
 But stay yourselves, my tears, a little ; let me 
 describe to my love the feelings of my heart. 
 Then will I retire to the solitude in which afflic- 
 tion delights, and you may flow again unblamed, 
 where no eye shall see you but the eye of Heaven. 
 
 " My prayer will for ever be, that the mercy 
 of Providence may eternally attend my beloved 
 friend, to protect her from every danger, and to 
 crown her with every blessing ; 
 
 that every obstacle to our happiness may be re- 
 moved; that, while we remain in the present 
 sphere of being, our lives may promote the glory 
 of our Creator, the welfare of others, and our 
 own mutual comfort ; and that, w hen the period 
 of our departure is arrived, we may meet again in
 
 35 
 
 a better laud, to be no more separated. Such is 
 the praver, my dear friend, which will unceasingly 
 rlow from my heart, and I feel assured that it will 
 find an echo in yours. 
 
 " You have often requested me to use towards 
 you unreserved freedom and sincerity on every 
 point. This yeu well know that I have invariably 
 done; and on such an occasion as the present, if I 
 make some friendly remarks, and dwell upon them 
 with peculiar force, I feel assured that you will 
 receive them as you have been accustomed to do, 
 convinced that they proceed alone from the soli- 
 citude for your welfare, which affection inspires. 
 
 " To expatiate to you, my sweet friend, on the 
 importance of properly dedicating your thoughts to 
 the subjects which religion holds forward to the 
 view, would be altogether superfluous. J l would 
 ill become me, who need so much instruction 
 myself, to offer instructions to you on these topics. 
 You know how indispensable is the duty of sin- 
 cerely repenting of the sinfulness by which the 
 best parts of our lives have been marked, and, by 
 the help of Divine grace, of resolutely forsaking 
 it. You know how necessary it is that our 
 thoughts should be elevated above the perishable 
 rarth we inhabit, and that our affections should 
 be purified and consecrated to the objects of eter- 
 nity. Yet, conscious as I am of my own imper- 
 
 u e
 
 36 
 
 fectlon, anil feeling as I do how difficult it is to 
 subdue the force of inclination, and to act as we 
 know we ought, I am convinced of this painful 
 truth, that " it. is not the knowledge of our duty 
 which will secure the performance of it." From 
 the influence of education, and the subsequent 
 tenour of my life, I believe there is no point of 
 moral or religious duty with which I am unac- 
 quainted ; yet, alas ! not a day rolls over my head, 
 in which my conscience does not tell me that I 
 have in some particular either failed of acting as 
 I ought, or positively acted as I ought not. When, 
 therefore, I speak of the frailty of our nature, I 
 speak of what I know of my own. Our hearts 
 are weak indeed; but there is a consideration 
 which I have found of infinite energy in aiding the 
 resolutions of virtue. This consideration consists 
 in a proper view of the principles of our existence, 
 of the distinct nature of the soul from the body, 
 of the importance of the one and the worthless- 
 ness of the other, and the motives arising thence 
 for the cultivation of purity in the soul, to detach 
 it from the pollutions of the world, and to render 
 it such, while it remains in its tenement of clay, 
 that its separation from it, when the hour of death 
 arrives, may be a matter of exultation, and not of 
 dread. 
 
 " Think ou these subjects with the attention 
 
 i
 
 37 
 
 they require. How much preferable are they to 
 all the ordinary pursuits of life ! Yes ! though 
 the gay world may laugh at the doctrine, our 
 bodies are nothing but mansions in which our 
 ouls are to move ; they will therefore shortly 
 return to their native dust. But our rational, im- 
 material, immortal souls shall remain for ever un- 
 conscious of decay, in unutterable happiness or 
 misery. Sensible of these things, how can we doat 
 on the pageants of an hour, and overlook the sacred 
 realities, whose importance shall know no end? 
 So powerful, my beloved, does this reflection ap- 
 pear to my mind, that I shall take it as the basis 
 of my arguments on every other point which I may 
 have to notice. 
 
 " As a concluding remark, however, on the 
 subject of religion, I must observe, that neither this 
 argument, nor any other of itself, is sufficient to 
 control the stubborn heart of man. No; logical 
 deductions and demonstrations cannot make us 
 Christians. Humility is the foundation of reli- 
 gion ; by humility we are led to prayer ; by praver 
 we are endowed with faith ; by faith we are taught 
 to live above the world ; our affections are weaned, 
 from its trifles ; we feel a species of sacred in- 
 difference towards its vain concerns ; the aspira- 
 tions of the soul are directed to Heaven; there 
 its hopes are fixed ; and by faithful devotion it 
 i> 3
 
 38 
 
 shakes off the fra'Ities that cling to its nature, till 
 at length, whc ts earth 1 )- duties are expired, it 
 is translated to the mans ns of the sky. Endless 
 is this ennobling subject ; but I shall desist from 
 further remarks, boih because it would be super- 
 fluous in wr ting t ym y and because, in the brief 
 observations which I have already made, I believe 
 I have included the sum total of natural and re- 
 vealed religion. One remark, however, I would 
 repeat, from a consciousness of its pre-eminent 
 importance that sincere devotion and humble 
 prayer are the soul of religion, and constitute its 
 most genuine criterion, and its most powerful 
 support. 
 
 " And now let me descend from the grand 
 principles of human act :n to the more particular 
 points of conduct, which, though they may appear 
 unimportant, if considered separately, are, in the 
 aggregate, of no trifling moment. 
 
 " 1 would speak first of society. We imper- 
 ceptibly acquire the habits of those with v. horn 
 we are accustomed to associate ; we imbibe their 
 sentiments, and not unfrequently imitate them. 
 Herce arises the infinite importance of properly 
 selecting our company, since no language can ex- 
 press the benefit we may derive from the society 
 of those whose minds are well directed, nor th
 
 39 
 
 injur)- we may receive from those of a contrary 
 character. 
 
 " You can never want for the most animating 
 recreations, while the beauties o( nature and the 
 pages of literature are open to your view. And 
 if any hesitation should arise in your mind as to 
 the propriety of the advice I have given, simply 
 ask. yourself what line of conduct will ultimately 
 afford you the most satisfaction ; to decline the 
 general society of the world, and to seek pleasures 
 from those alone, whose worth and whose affec- 
 tion have long been tried ; or to go into the pro- 
 miscuous companies of the weak and gay, where 
 folly for ever predominates. But if you decline 
 invitations, you may be deemed uncivil, be re 
 proa< hed with foolish singularity, and be ridiculed 
 by your acquaintance ! True; yet if we wish to 
 do our duty, and to had a life of true happiness, 
 we must dare to be Singular, and endure to be 
 ridiculed and censured; otherwise we shall meet 
 with double ridicule. We shall be laughed at for 
 having; been once what is called shmular, and we 
 shall be ridiculed siill more for having been so 
 weak as to be laughed out of our former resolu- 
 tions. 1 know that these observations are alt >ge- 
 ther needless to convince i/our mind of the justness 
 D 4
 
 40 
 
 of what I have said. But I know also how many 
 difficulties you will have to encounter in doing 
 what you wish, and what you know to be right ; 
 and theiefore I am desirous to furnish you with 
 arguments, which may fortify your mind. I know 
 that your sentiments perfectly concur with mine ; 
 but as you will have the sentiments of the world 
 in opposition to you, it is necessary that you 
 should be prepared for the contest. 
 
 " And now to another subject, with which the 
 ladies w.ll say that 1 have no right to meddle ; but 
 when writing to my long-loved friend, 1 shall take 
 the liberty of meddling with every subject that 
 occurs to my mind : I allude to dress. The ge- 
 nerality of females inquire not what is becoming, 
 but what is fashionable, and bj fashion they have 
 long been led into the most glaring improprieties, 
 content to make a sacrifice of delicacy, and almost 
 of decency. To be sure, a lady thus accoutred 
 dots but imitate Jier associates, and is admired for 
 her reputed elegance and taste; but surely it sa- 
 vours of insanity to court applause and imitate 
 others, to the dereliction of duty and propriety. 
 There is no sight on earth that disgusts me more 
 than a female arrayed according to the laws of 
 modern fashion ; by assuming such a figure she 
 throws away the charm of modesty, which is the 
 most lovely feature of female excellence ; she may
 
 41 
 
 attract ash ort-Iived admiration by the appearance 
 of her person, but she will never win the affec- 
 tions nor conciliate esteem. I am not going to 
 give you a long lecture on these matters. You 
 have no desire of admiration, or of empty praise to 
 direct you in your appearance ; I am sure that 
 you will concur in my sentiments, and see nothing 
 in them contrary to reason, however contrary they 
 may be to fashion ; I shall therefore say no more, 
 except that I conceive that cress to be most be- 
 coming which is most modest, most reserved, 
 most simple, and most plain. You s: e how freely 
 I tell you my thoughts. I am sure you will not be 
 angry with me, but thank me for doing so. Nor 
 is it a matter of indifference, as many who have- 
 no other plea are anxious to inculcate ; for it is 
 by the manner in which we act as to externals, 
 that the internal state of the mind will be shown. 
 Those must of necessity be vain ami foolish who 
 yield in dress, or in any other instance, to the al- 
 lurements of vanity and folly. 
 
 " The whole of these prolix and desultory re- 
 marks cannot be more powerfully enforced than by 
 a brief reference to the sublime argument already 
 mentioned, of the distinct nature of die soul from 
 tiie body. This argument will apply with equal 
 propriety to every subject. If the soul be of 
 a divine essence, of everlasting duration, and if
 
 42 
 
 the body be but a machine which the soul is to 
 guide for a little time, how important is it that 
 the soul be exalted above the vanities of earth by 
 the influence of religion ! How anxiously should 
 it shun the degrading society of the children of 
 vanity ! How should it cultivate the pleasures of 
 abstracted contemplation ! How should it dis- 
 dain to employ its cares in decorating the body, 
 which will shortly go to the dust ! How firmly 
 should it resist the influence of fashion and cus- 
 tom ! In a word, how constantly should it labour 
 to rise superior to the body, to the earth, and to 
 all the objects of time ; and how should it, above 
 all things, desire to be clothed with the garment 
 of salvation, and thus to be found prepared when 
 the Angel of Death shall come to remove it to 
 the eternal world ! 
 
 " There is another point which I mention with 
 more hesitation, and upon which I shall speak with 
 more diffidence, since in that you will not be an in- 
 dependent agent, but will proceed of course in a 
 great degree under the direction of your mother. 
 This is the education of your little sister. 
 
 " To suppose that this should be conducted and 
 completed by you, would be irrational. But to give 
 her the rudiments of knowledge, to direct her pro- 
 gress in the paths of childhood, and to transfuse the 
 principles of your mind into hers, must be to you
 
 43 
 
 an r!y and pleasing office. As the peculiar 
 bra.i he* >f female education proceed, I presume, 
 upon established laws, and are scarcely to be un- 
 derstood by any but your own sex, it will be most 
 prudent ao.d most becoming in me, to speak only 
 on *cncrai subjects. Leaving you to guide her m 
 secondary matters, as custom prescribes, I shall 
 only notice what I conceive 1 may be allowed to 
 understand, viz. the guidance of her mind: but 
 even here I shall only suggest, and not direct. 
 
 " Inculcate with particular emphasis, even in her 
 present earlv years, how innumerable are the plea- 
 sures and advantages to be derived from the perusal 
 of the compositions of genius, that a love of read- 
 ing may be fostered in her mind. This will be the 
 best support and defence of her understanding and 
 of her heart. It will leave her no hours of idleness, 
 which are more fatal to virtue than even hours of 
 dissipation. It will furnish her with maxims of 
 wisdom, to guide her course, when she has no 
 living adviser to consult: and a mind thus furnished 
 has resources for pleasure for ever at its command, 
 and Knowledge will smile upon it, with Honour 
 and Contentment in her traiu. In conversing with 
 her on subjects of religion, I advise you never to 
 suffer an idea to enter her mind, of the controversial 
 perplexities which have disgraced the Christian 
 world, and impeded the progress of religion. Tell
 
 44 
 
 her simply this : Man is a sinner, and, as such, de- 
 served both present and future misery; but that, 
 through the atonement which was made for our 
 offences by the death of Christ, we may be recon- 
 ciled to Heaven, if we forsake our sins, and labour 
 to fulfil the divine commandments by such works 
 as Christianity requires. 
 
 " This is the Christian faith : teach her this 
 alone; never let her hear of Calvinism, Armi- 
 nianism, or the other classes of polemic theolo- 
 gists. Teach her that the church of England is 
 the most perfect of all religious establishments-; 
 let her therefore adhere to it ; but let her at the 
 same time regard with a friendly eye, her fellow- 
 creatures of every persuasion ; for universal bene- 
 volence and love are the distinguishing features of 
 Christianity. You cannot impress religious prin- 
 ciples upon the mind too early ; yet you must 
 watch for those opportunities, when she is in the 
 humour of hearing serious conversation, and never 
 say too much at a time. A few striking seasonable 
 remarks, introduced without any formality, will 
 produce a much more powerful effect than the 
 most able discourse, if ill-timed, long, or formal. 
 
 " Do not set her to learn chapters or hymns. 
 Religion will be disgusting when it is enforced as 
 a task. To children perhaps it should be held 
 forth as a priviledge, rather than as a duty ; for tj\a
 
 45 
 
 youthful heart recoils from every thing that savours 
 of coercion. As to moral principles, they are in- 
 cluded in religion, but I would advise you paiticu- 
 larly to show her how important is one thing, for 
 which (excuse me) your sex is not famous. I 
 mean the keeping secrets, and detesting the exe- 
 crable office of tale-bearer, and the flippancy of fe- 
 male conversation, which often leads to slander. 
 If she is acquainted with the failings of others, 
 teach her to conceal and not to publish thetn. 
 Teach her to venerate the name of affection, the 
 most generous and divine of all human passions, and 
 let her look up to this for the sweetest pleasures of 
 her life, as we, my f;iend, have done, and have 
 not been disappointed. In speaking of education 
 I am engaged on an endless subject, but I will aeld 
 no more at present, except that you should rule 
 your dear little sister by the control of affection 
 alone, that she may come to you for instruction 
 with joy, and not with reluctance. Ihus, by the 
 blessing of Heaven upon your labours, may your 
 living sister resemble her who is now in a happier 
 land, that lhu3 she may become a pleasing and af- 
 fectionate companion to you, till the joyful period 
 arrives, when I shall claim you as my own. 
 
 " From these remarks concerning your sister, I 
 would pioceed, my dear friend, to a few suggestions 
 relating to yourself, ou subjects somewhat similar. I
 
 46 
 
 itould advise you to cultivate an acquaintance vrith 
 the French writers, which will perfect your know- 
 ledge of their language; but your principal attention 
 must be given, of cour-e, to the writers in our owiu 
 Do not read novels. I am not one of those who 
 raise a hue and cry against them as the bane of youth j 
 but though they may do no positive harm to the 
 mind, they certainly can do it no good ; and the 
 waste of so much time, as the perusal of one of them 
 would require, is surely harm enough to cause their 
 expulsion from every library. On subjects of reli- 
 gion, I would advise you to read nothing but the 
 Bible, taking it as its own iuteipreter, and particu- 
 larly the epistolary part of the New Testament. 
 The history of every nation, both ancient and 
 modern, I would wish you to read attentively. 
 As to poetry, and works of general information, 
 read whatever pleases your fancy, provided at the 
 same time it is instructive as well as pleasing. I 
 flatter myself that the works of the various writers 
 with which I have had the pleasure of furnishing 
 you, will afford you an ample repast in the lite- 
 rary way. But, after all, to read, is not of so 
 much importance as to think. Seek therefore, 
 my beloved, the shades of solitude, and cultivate 
 serious reflection and contemplative thought.* 
 When we are most retired from the world, we 
 approach the nearest to the happiness of heaven*
 
 47 
 
 And by habits of solitary meditation, the benefits 
 of reading will be doubled, the pleasures of occa- 
 sional society will be heightened, and all the en- 
 joyments of active life will acquire a higher zest. 
 
 ** From the care of the mind, allow me to 
 descend to the care of the body ; a subject of less 
 importance indeed, but still of very high moment. 
 On this I have said so much in the days that are 
 gone, and in my former letters, that I have no- 
 thing now to add. By way of recapitulation, how- 
 ever, let me conjure you, as you value my earthly 
 happiness, and your own, let your health be the 
 object of your unceasing care. 
 
 " Follow this advice, my dear, with implicit 
 obedience. I know it to be indispensably neces- 
 sary, both to restore your constitution from the 
 alarming injury it has received, and also to pre- 
 eerve it in health when it is happily restored. 
 Anxious as I have always been concerning your 
 health, I shall be a thousand times mure anxious 
 when parted from you. As you wish therefore to 
 promote my peace, and to free me from distress, I 
 beseech you take care of yourself, and attend to my 
 solicitations, without deviating from them. 
 
 " On the familiar incidents of" life, which are 
 generally denominated trifles, but which, though
 
 48 
 
 trifles in themselves, have no trifling influence irf 
 promoting the comfort or infelicity of the greater 
 part of mankind, I have only one remark to make. 
 When any circumstance occurs which vexes you, 
 ask yourself, what you will think of the circum- 
 stance, and how much importance will attach to 
 it when a month is past ! Thus will all the 
 mighty vexations of life dwindle into nothing ! 
 
 " I would beg leave to enforce the whole of 
 these desultory remarks, by a brief reference to 
 the sublime argument I mentioned before, of the 
 distinct nature of the soul from the body. This 
 will apply with equal propriety to every subject I 
 have noticed. 
 
 " Thus have I, with the undisguised freedom 
 of a glowing heart, endeavoured to portray to 
 the dear object of my affection, the sentiments 
 that are uppermost in my mind : I have spoken 
 indeed without the smallest reserve. That she 
 will concur in my sentiments, I feel the fullest 
 confidence ; that she will undeviatingly attend to 
 my advice, I am equally sure ; and I know that 
 she will receive this paper with the same feeling 
 with which I have written it, and that she will wel- 
 come it to her bosom as the last token of affection 
 which it is at present in my power to bestow. 
 
 MarckZo, 1809- " J. D. W."
 
 49 
 
 Having taken a violent cold in the winter, the 
 pulmonary symptoms increased, and, towards the 
 latter end of March 180Q, a copious spitting of 
 blood reduced him exceedingly, so that he became 
 entirely a prisoner in his chamber. The utmost 
 skill of his kind patron was exerted in his behalf, 
 while his tender attentions, and those of each 
 amiable member of his family, united with the 
 presence of his mother, who was kindly invited to 
 remain with him during his illness, concurred tp 
 palliate the disease, and render his situation as 
 comfortable as possible. For a time, the malady 
 appeared to yield in a slight measure to the reme- 
 dies proposed, and he found himself capable of 
 bearing a removal in Dr. Jenner's carriage to his 
 mother's house in Bristol, about the end of May. 
 
 The following interesting note was addressed to 
 his friend Mr. Biddulph, from his sick room at 
 Berkeley : 
 
 TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 
 
 " Berkeley, Friday Afternoon. 
 <l REV. AND DEAR SIB, 
 
 " I experienced a great disappointment on 
 hearing that your visit to Berkeley was postponed. 
 | longed to have seen you, that I might have eiN 
 E
 
 50 
 
 joyed your conversation Trsgt rwv fiy fSKsTOfisvwY. 
 Your kind (letter was, indeed, a most welcome 
 cordial to my mind. I need consolation ; yet I 
 feel that I have still greater need of instruction 
 and advice. Since then there is no prospect of 
 my being ahle as yet to receive these from you in 
 person, as I have often had the privilege of doing, 
 may I solicit the great favour of you to transmit 
 them to me by correspondence (that bappy sub- 
 stitute for conversation), when you have a leisure 
 opportunity which you cannot better employ. I 
 cannot but know how much you are engaged ; yet, 
 if it be in your power to favour me with such a 
 letter as I have taken the liberty of soliciting, I 
 know that your sympathetic feelings will prompt 
 you to write, particularly when you are told that 
 he who solicits your advice ' agrotat animo 
 ' magis quam corpore.' 
 
 " This mental disease arises not from what poets 
 call the ' immedicabile vulnus.' My tender dis- 
 tresses brought me, indeed, in a great measure to, 
 my present state of bodily weakness ; but they 
 now are all removed, and peace on these matters 
 is perfectly restored to my mind. The source 
 of my concern is this : After having laboured 
 (since I have had the power of labouring) in the 
 acquisition of knowledge and the pursuit of praise, 
 I ponder on what I have attained, and in spite of
 
 51 
 
 the glossy arguments of infatuated fancy, the voice 
 of conviction will be heard, pronouncing that all 
 is vanity. Here then I have no resting-place for 
 ray soul. I seek it where 1 know it is to be found, 
 but my thoughts are all dark and uncertain. I 
 resolve to forsake the vanities and follies of former 
 days, yet I cannot satisfy myself, whether this 
 resolution proceeds from the judgment of the 
 head, or the contrite feelings of the heart. I 
 pray, not without earnestness, but am oppressed 
 by the same mistrust, whether my applications 
 are the aspirations of a sincere heart, or the effu- 
 sions merely of the head. You see my state, my 
 dear Sir. 1 live between hope and fear ; but 
 what I dread more than these mental tumults is, 
 the deadly calm of a delusive peace. Pardon, my 
 dear Sir, this garrulity. I can say no more through 
 weakness. 
 
 " Ever your most truly obliged 
 
 " And affectionate servant, 
 
 " J. D. WoRGAN/' 
 
 So great was the activity of Worgan's mind, 
 that be found nothing so difficult to support as 
 that vacancy of thought which was inculcated on 
 him during bis long confinement; and it was 
 
 e2
 
 5<j 
 
 found necessary, whenever he was able to sit up 
 at all, to allow him a moderate use of his books, 
 for the purpose of alleviating the ennui which 
 want of occupation produced. 
 
 Before his illness, he hud read with mnch plea- 
 sure the Enchiridion of Epictetus (a convenient 
 pocket edition of which had been presented to 
 him by his kind friend the Rev. William Davies, of 
 Rockhampton), and he thought himself fortified 
 by its philosophy against the adverse accidents of 
 life, and the apprehension of death. That vo- 
 lume, with a variety of other books and papers, 
 was lying on his table when a young friend called 
 on him during his confinement. Pointing to the 
 Epictetus, he sard, " That is a book with which 
 I was some time since delighted ; I studied it, and 
 thought myself, wrapt up in its philosophy, to be 
 secure against all the storms of fate ; but the se- 
 curity was quite theoretical. I have found the 
 conclusions of proud reason to be very deficient 
 for practical application. It is in the book of 
 Revelation alone that the antidote to adversity is 
 to be found. The consolation of a sick bed and 
 of a dying hour must come from above." 
 
 Soon after his return to Bristol, he inquired 
 of his mother the opinion which the medical gen- 
 tleman who then attended him expressed of hi 
 case ; and on being answered only by her tears, ke
 
 53 
 
 yaid, " Your tears speak ; 1 have thought for this 
 month past that I -should not recover ; I feel my 
 strength gradually decreasing, and I kaow that I 
 am in die second stage of a consumption. I must 
 confess that I felt at the beginning of my illness a 
 fi^-eat desire to recover : I had just arranged my 
 affairs respecting going to the University. Bright 
 were my prospects, but how soon are they clouded ! 
 Oh, for entire resignation to the Divine will !" 
 
 Finding himself thus gradually sinking, although 
 at times his mind was anxiously employed respect- 
 ing the future fate of Ins papers, and the oblivion 
 which he feared would enwrap his name; yet he en- 
 deavoured to throw off considerations such as these, 
 and to devote himself to the great work of pre- 
 paring for another world. The desire of literary 
 distinction appears to have been the last earthly 
 propensity that he felt ; it had possessed a strong 
 hold on his heart, but it was subdued. He had 
 fully perceived the insufficiency of that philosophy 
 which an acquaintance with Plato and the other 
 sophists had familiarized to him. He felt that 
 nothing but a revelation from above; could afford 
 relief suitable to the case of depraved nature ; and 
 the near view of a spiritual state of existence 
 which he now had, urged him to seek reconcilia- 
 tion with God, through the mediation of the mer- 
 ciful Saviour of a lost world. 
 E 3
 
 Addressing his mother one day, he said, " I 
 have had a religious education, and I enjoyed it ; 
 it was always a pleasure to me from my childhood 
 to attend the means of grace ; I loved the house 
 of God and the people of God ; I approved of 
 the doctrines of the Gospel, and through restrain- 
 ing grace I have been kept from the vices that 
 young people are often drawn into : but all this is 
 not sufficient ; I have been very deficient in the 
 vital and practical part of Christianity; I have 
 much to mourn over, and I now feel, with death 
 in my view, the necessity of a true conversion, of 
 an entire change, a being ' born agaiu.' I must 
 know for myself, my interest in that salvation 
 which Christ has wrought or purchased for sin- 
 ners. Oh that my repentance may be sincere ! I 
 would not be deceived for worlds." This dread of 
 self-deception affording prominent evidence of 
 sincerity, was frequently and strongly expressed in 
 various conversations which he held with his cle- 
 rical friend before referred to. 
 
 The following short note was the last whicb 
 employed his pen :
 
 56 
 
 TO MR. T. S. BIDDULPH. 
 
 June 30, 180. 
 " Though I am sure, that my valued friend, Mr. 
 T. Biddulph, will not forget me, though without 
 the formality of a particular token of regard, yet 
 I beg that, when I am no more, the poems of the 
 Rev. Henry Moore be presented to him in my 
 name. May the prevalent glow of piety animate 
 his heart; and, from the admirable union of re- 
 ligion and poetry, may the former be sweeter to 
 his taste as introduced by the latter. May all his 
 pursuits be sanctified. Amidst the occupations of 
 earth may he watch and pray ; and may the object 
 of all his studies be to promote the glory of the 
 dear Redeemer. For the time will shortly come, 
 when he shall learn (as /have done) that human 
 knowledge, unsanctiried, is an empty bubble, and 
 that no wisdom will avail, but a knowledge of 
 ourselves as sinners, and of Jesus Christ as our 
 
 Saviour. 
 
 "John D. Worgan." 
 
 He was frequently in conversation with his 
 mother, and often expressed his acknowledg- 
 E4
 
 ments for her tenderness and affectionate atten- 
 tions to him ; and would speak of the comfort that 
 possessed his mind, even in the midst of afflictions 
 so seyere. ." I have been," said he, " endeavour- 
 ing to attain one of the highest seats in the literary 
 world, but it is all vanity: I can now willingly 
 resign it, to obtain the lowest seat iu Heaven." 
 
 Filial piety, indeed, formed at this time a most 
 interesting feature in his character; another, not 
 less engaging, was his anxious desire to eradicate 
 from his memory any injurious treatment which 
 he had received, and to cultivate a spirit of good- 
 will to all, accompanied by a hope that a similar 
 disposition would be extended towards him by 
 any whom he had the misfortune to have offended. 
 " I have earnestly prayed," said he, " that God 
 w ould remove every thing of an unpleasant nature 
 from my mind, and that I might, from my heart, 
 forgive those few persons who have treated me 
 with unkindness ; and I have been enabled not 
 only to forgive them, but to pray for them ; and 
 my mind is in perfect peace with every one. I 
 can truly say, I am happy, very happy." 
 
 On the 17th of July he took an affectionate 
 farewell of his younger brother and his sister, ex- 
 horting them to shun the vanities of the world, 
 and to devote their hearts to the service of God. 
 tie afterwards, with one or two of his most iu-
 
 57 
 
 fcmate friends, received the Holy Sacrament. The 
 ceremony, as might be expected in such circum- 
 stances, was peculiarly striking solemnity and 
 devotion marked the countenance and the conduct 
 of the youthful saint, while he joined in it. 
 
 He now felt that his prospects were brightening 
 every moment. The benighted inhabitants of the 
 frigid zone, on whose plains the sua sheds not his 
 cheering beams for many succeeding months of 
 darkness and desolation, are said to climb their 
 highest mountains, to watch with eager anxiety, 
 and to welcome with grateful rapture, the first 
 genial ray which gilds their summits. Such 
 was the situation of Worgan ; from the eminence 
 of Christian hope, he awaited with lively joy that 
 dayspring from on high which was about to dawu 
 on his aspiring soul, to dispel the shades of mortal 
 ignorance and misery, and to diffuse a mild radiance 
 around his unfettered spirit through ages without 
 an end. 
 
 A hemorrhage from the lungs at length attended 
 the other symptoms, and generally attacked him 
 in the middle of the night, reducing him to the 
 greatest state of weakness, and continually threat- 
 ening suffocation ; by which it was evident he 
 Would soon be relieved from all his troubles. 
 Observing his mother in tears, he said, " My be- 
 loved mother, do not grieve, but rejoice ; I am
 
 58 
 
 going from a world of sin and sorrow to never- 
 ceasing joy ; my dear Saviour hath, in answer to 
 our united prayers, perfectly tranquillized my 
 mind ; every cloud is removed. Oh, thou God 
 of compassion, great are thy mercies to me ! " 
 On the day preceding the night of his departure, 
 being the 24th of July, he was very particular in 
 an examination of the grounds of his confidence in 
 the Divine favour. In the evening he said, " I 
 am happy, inexpressibly happy ; and if it should 
 please God to call me home to-night, I can now 
 go as a poor sinner, relying on my Saviour's righ- 
 teousness, and appear in the presence of God 
 without fear or dismay." 
 
 In the course of the night, he frequently in- 
 quired the hour, and was much employed in pri- 
 vate prayer. At one he desired to be supported 
 in his bed, saying, " This is about the time." A 
 celestial brightness suffused the counteuance of the 
 dying saint, while, in tranquil confidence, he awaited 
 his conflict with the King of Terrors. Within an 
 hour afterwards the hemorrhage came on, and he 
 exclaimed, " Gracious Saviour, help me gracious 
 Saviour, support me ! " Becoming speechless, he 
 expressed the comfort of his mind to his mother 
 by a significant smile, and shortly after expired 
 without a struggle or groan. 
 
 " Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord ; even
 
 59 
 
 so earth the Spirit; for they rest from their labours, 
 and their works do follow them." 
 
 In person Worgan was tall, and remarkably 
 spare in habit; his countenance indicated great 
 mildness and steadiness of disposition, but was 
 not in other respects the mirror of his mind. A 
 certain air of originality, however, sufficiently 
 marked that he was not " in the roll of common 
 men." His eyesight failed him early, and he was 
 obliged, from his first years of application, to have 
 recourse to the assistance of glasses, both in read- 
 ing and writing. To these he was so well ac- 
 customed, that before he attained his eleventh 
 year, he could make use of them on any occasion, 
 with the composure and gravity of a man whom 
 uge had driven to seek this extraneous aid. 
 
 In Worgan's character, various and opposite 
 qualities seem to have been united. That his 
 judgment was unusually matured, and his mind 
 formed for deep and intimate investigation, ap- 
 pears from the nature and intenseness of his 
 studies, whilst his peetic effusions prove that he 
 was alive to the soft and refined pleasures which 
 flow from a lively imagination and delicate sensi- 
 jbilitv.
 
 60 
 
 Yet he steered clear of the negligence of the 
 philosopher, and the eccentricities of the man of 
 genius, and attended to each of his various pur- 
 suits with as much method in his plan of study 
 and diligence in his progress, as if it had been the 
 only one to which he was devoted. He ex- 
 perienced none of those sudden transitions from 
 intellectual energy and inspiration, to inability and 
 depression, which often mark the towering genius ; 
 he shone (if such an expression may be applied to 
 one who was unheeded beyond his own narrovf 
 circle) with the steady light of the regulated planet, 
 rather than with the short-lived flash of meteoric 
 brilliancy. Naturally fond of retirement, and con- 
 firmed in habits of seclusion by his thirst for lite- 
 rary knowledge, he nevertheless enjoyed society, 
 and was particularly easy and pleasant in conver- 
 sation, winch a very retentive memory enabled 
 him to embellish by apt quotations and interesting 
 anecdotes. 
 
 He was reserved, and had an appearance of 
 apathy ; yet perhaps there never was a mind more 
 truly formed for friendship, or more keenly alive to 
 the tenderest affections of the heart. 
 
 Persevering industry seems to be the most pro- 
 minent feature of his character : this, aided by 
 the desire of literary fame, enabled him to over- 
 come iiis natural antipathy to the study of Ian-
 
 6\ 
 
 guages, and to attain considerable proficiency in 
 Hebrew, as well as the Classics, French, and 
 Italian. 
 
 The religions education with which he was fa- 
 voured, and which he appears to have prized 
 (though perhaps lie was never fully sensible of its 
 value till affliction convinced him that this world 
 ought to be a scene of preparation for the next), 
 gave a bias of piety to his mind which maintained 
 its comparative influence through life, even before 
 he so felt the vital power of godliness, as to per- 
 ceive the emptiness of all human attainments, 
 honours, and enjoyments. Hence his standard of 
 morality was pure and exalted, and hence arose 
 the integrity and simplicity which marked his 
 character. 
 
 But the seclusion from the world which was 
 the lot of his early life, whilst it tended to pre- 
 serve his simplicity and purity, induced him to be 
 too much attached to his own views and habits, 
 and laid him more open to the pernicious in- 
 fluence of adulation and applause which his talents 
 excited, and which at one period produced a slight 
 effect in his manners and conversation. He was 
 certainly conscious of the superior nature of his 
 abilities, and felt a confidence and complacency 
 which led him sometimes to set too high a value 
 vn his own judgment and opinions. Yet to his
 
 62 
 
 natural good sense it must be attributed, that his 
 mind suffered no greater injury from the suggestions 
 of vanity. 
 
 It is also to be feared that he had not learnt the 
 necessity of restraining the warmth of his imagina- 
 tion y his chief failing was an excess of literary 
 pride, which might have proved a dangerous rock 
 had his life been spared. But from every danger 
 into which this ruling passion might have led, and 
 from every sorrow to which refined taste and the 
 keenest sensibility would have exposed him, he 
 has been delivered ; and, released from every care 
 and every fear, is now admitted, in the mansions 
 f the blessed, to those heavenly joys to which his 
 devout soul had long aspired.
 
 LETTERS, 
 
 <$r.
 
 to
 
 LETTERS, 
 
 &c. 
 
 TO MR. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I have to apologize to you For Dot exe- 
 cuting a commission with which you entrusted me. 
 
 I have not presented to the copy of Gre^ 
 
 gory's Father's Legacy to his Daughters, which you 
 enclosed for her in your last packet to me. 
 
 I called upon her a few mornings ago with the 
 book in my pocket, intending to deliver it to her. 
 She was not at home ; and for the purpose of be- 
 guiling my solitude, while sitting in her parlour 
 awaiting her return, 1 took out the book, and pe- 
 rmed a few pages in the concluding chapter. But 
 I met with so many passages which appeared to 
 me of an objectionable nature, that I deemed it 
 my duty to return the volume to my pocket; in- 
 T
 
 66 
 
 stead of presenting it to her, as I could not ho- 
 nestly put a work into her hands, some of the doc- 
 trines of which are of so ruinous a tendency. 
 
 I conceived that you must have been induced t# 
 purchase it from the celebrity it has acquired, with- 
 out giving it a perusal yourself; and, accordingly, 
 I have returned it to you, that you may dispose of 
 it as you think proper on a further consideration 
 of its contents. 
 
 You express your surprise at my disapprobation 
 of Dr. Gregory's popular work. If you will 
 allow me to dispute your opinion, to which, with- 
 out flattery, I ever attach the greatest respect, I 
 will point out the passages which I think objec- 
 tionable, and briefly state the reasons of my disap- 
 probation. I feel it a duty incumbent upon me 
 to give you my sentiments with sincerity, since, if 
 you recommend the volume, your friends will con- 
 sider its principles as incontrovertibly just. 
 
 The design of the work is highly commendable, 
 and it was doubtless written with the purest mo- 
 tives. The youthful part of the fair sex have the 
 strongest claim upon the notice of the moral philo- 
 sopher, for of ail other rational beings they have 
 the greatest need of advice. But those admoni- 
 tions can produce but little effect upon a glowing 
 heart, and. a vivid imagination, which dwell upon 
 punctilios in the conduct, passing over the grand
 
 67 
 
 principles of human action. This is the charac* 
 teristic defect of Dr. Gregory's work. It is re- 
 plete with frivolities, and totally destitute of those 
 convincing, irresistible arguments which C3me with 
 energy to the heart. Read his chapter on Re- 
 ligion, and tell me if your sense of the importance of 
 religion is strengthened by the arguments there ad- 
 duced. He shows the expediency of religion; but 
 religion is not a question of expediency it is a 
 matter of duty and necessity. We must be Chris- 
 tians, not becauso devotion is a soothing compa- 
 nion in our mortal pilgrimage, but because, it is in- 
 dispensably requisite to rescue us from everlasting 
 perdition. But what is the religion Dr Gregory 
 inculcates ? An attendance on public worship 
 private devotion", and charitable o^ices. We hear 
 nothing of the renewing charge in the heart and 
 life, which constitutes the soul of religion, and 
 which is naturally productive of every private and 
 social virtue. One consideration deduced from the 
 declarations of unerring Wisdom will ever be ac- 
 companied with more powerful influence on the 
 mind than a thousand secondary arguments. He 
 cautions his daughters to avoid religious eonversa- 1 
 tion in mixed companies. In many situations this 
 advice may be correct ; but the honest zeal which 
 advocates the cause of religion on all occasions, is 
 preferable to the bashfulness on religious subjects, 
 r 2
 
 68 
 
 which has long been so disgraceful a feature of 
 fashionable society. 
 
 The succeeding chapters are interspersed with 
 valuable observations; but I regret that a man of 
 Dr. Gregory's character should have spoken so 
 mildly on modern public amusements, and theatrical 
 entertainments. Nor can I agree to his exception 
 in favour of tragedy. Do not call me a stern mis- 
 anthropist. I am the strenuous advocate of innocent 
 amusement ; but the amusements of the stage are not 
 innocent, either to those who afford entertainment, 
 or to those who are entertained. I am therefore 
 at a los9 to conceive upon what principle they can 
 be vindicated bv any man who entertains the 
 smallest regard for the interests of virtue and 
 piety. Strange that the most fruitful sources of 
 immorality should be so warmly eulogized in a 
 work, the proposed object of which is to enforce 
 religious principles ! 
 
 But my paper and my patience are both ex- 
 hausted I must therefore defer the sequel of my 
 remarks to another letter. I trust you will receive 
 my animadversions with your usual candour. Be 
 assured that they originate from no other motive 
 than the most disinterested friendship, and aa 
 anxious desire to serve the cause of truth. 
 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 John Dawls Wokgan.
 
 w 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I am happy to find that you are not dis- 
 pleased with my so freely controverting your opi- 
 nion, and disputing your judgment, in my last 
 letter. 1 shall now, in pursuance of my design, 
 and. agreeably to your request, proceed in my 
 animadversions on Dr. Gregory's work. Painful 
 is the task to oppose the popular opinion, and to 
 censure a composition which has long been gene- 
 rally admired by a numerous class of readers. 
 
 After calling in question the sentiments which 
 Dr. G. has delivered on the subject of religion, 
 and inquiring into the expediency of sending the 
 fair sex to seek for rational and virtuous recrea- 
 tions in mansions that are dedicated to the most 
 irrational follies and vices, it remains to. notice the 
 advice he has given his daughters, on a subject 
 which of all others is the most delicate, which re- 
 quires the greatest discernment, and the most in- 
 timate knowledge of the human heart. You may 
 guess, without referring to the work, that the 
 subject to which I allude is the forming con- 
 F 3
 
 70* 
 
 nexions that are to be coeval with life. The sum 
 total of all the advice that can be given on this 
 tender topic is simply this, Follow nature ; tread 
 in the course which she directs, lighted on your 
 way by prudence and delicacy. This is a matter 
 of the heart, and consequently the feelings of the 
 heart alone are to be consulted. To thein alone 
 we must appeal ; and when we faithfully obey their 
 genuine impulse, we shall not be in much danger 
 of falling into error. Yet, pitiful to behold ! Dr. 
 Gregory's chapter upon this most momentous 
 topic is totally dedicated to frivolous admonitions 
 on trifling points of propriety and etiquette. His 
 precepts are calculated to render the female who 
 shall follow them a moving puppet. Fashion is 
 substituted for nature, and a system of affectation 
 and deceit is plausibly introduced under the spe- 
 cious name of delicacy. But does delicacy require 
 us to assume an air of coldness when our hearts 
 are warm ? Docs it direct us to lead a life of 
 perpetual restraint in out intercourse with those 
 who are dearest to our hearts ? and does it enjoin 
 the female sex for ever to bely their own feelings ? 
 Dr. Gregory advises his daughters respecting their 
 conduct to the man whom they may prefer to 
 other?. If you love him, let me advise you never 
 to discover to him' the full extent of your love; no^
 
 not -although yoir marry him. This sufficiettfly 
 shows your preference, vrhich is all he is entitled 
 to know. Execrable thought !. The soul must be 
 Head to the best sentiments of our nature, that 
 couW inculcate or could follow such advice. 
 What is it that constitutes the felicity of the con- 
 jugal condition? It is .the. mutual participation 
 of everv feeling ; it is the magic union of conge- 
 nial souls ; it is the Feeiprocal assurance of unal- 
 terable and unlimited affection. But, if Dr. G.'s 
 doctrine be just, farewell to domestic happiness, 
 farewell to that boundless conBdence, without 
 which affection is but an imaginary phantom and 
 a sounding name. The unhappy mortal who shall 
 act upon such unnatural principles will nip the 
 roses of love in their bloom, but the thorn will 
 remain for ever : for the moment we deviate from 
 the path of nature, we enter into the labyrinth of 
 folly, and our wanderings will terminate iu the 
 bitterest distress. 
 
 There are numerous particulars in Dr. G.'s vo- 
 lume which appear to me to betray a singular per- 
 version of judgment ; but I will not trouble you 
 with further details. If the preceding animadver- 
 sions be just, it will appear that this little volume, 
 notwithstanding its popularity, is of a nature not 
 simply erroneous, but highly danguous on th*,inf~ 
 r 4
 
 72 
 
 portent points of religion, amusements, and the 
 highest and tenderest kind of friendship. 
 
 I am, my dear friend, 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 John Dawes Worgan. 
 
 TO 
 
 I have sent you Hunt's Poems. Hunt, 
 when he published, was but sixteen, and his me- 
 trical compositions are uncommonly good for his 
 years. Originality of thought is not to be ex- 
 pected from boys like him and myself ; and if we 
 rhyme decently, the critics and yourself must be 
 contented. I, however, am rather too prudent to 
 challenge the approbation of the critics, since I 
 have not yet been fortunate enough to obtain the 
 approbation of my own judgment, which you may 
 easily conceive is not hypercritical. Yet the pieces 
 which I composed two years ago I have lately 
 consigned to the flames, and it is very probable 
 that my present compositions will meet with a 
 similar doom before two years more are elapsed.
 
 /"". 
 
 3 
 
 TO 
 
 The great cause of the prevalence of 
 vice, is the facility with which the conscience is 
 appeased, and its loudest remonstrances stifled. 
 The wishes of the heart of man ;>re naturally prone 
 to error ; and if he can find any specious pretext 
 for his conduct, he will boldly follow the dictates 
 of inclination. It is no difficult matter for the 
 children of error to pursuad.e themselves that their 
 follies are virtues, and that their most culpable 
 practices are necessary und expedient. We readily 
 helieve what we wish to be true. Passiou lulls 
 the internal monitor to sleep, and tiny dance 
 contentedly along the paths of death, persuading 
 themselves that they are in the paths of rectitude, 
 and perhaps of duty. Conscious of the universal 
 frailty of the human heart, and the deceitful charm 
 of pleasure, I look upon those who labour under 
 Its delusions with sincere pity and compassiou.
 
 TO 
 
 MY '-BEAU MADAM,. 
 
 - The poems and miscellaneous works of 
 
 Mr. Addison I have marked as usual, and re- 
 turned for your perusal : and I would recommend 
 yo to give them particular attention. They were 
 primarily composed in Latin, and the originate 
 are prefixed ; but I will be contented if you dili- 
 gently read them in the English translation. The 
 poem on the Peace of Rvswick is peculiarly ele- 
 gant and animated. Boileau, a celebrated French 
 satirist and critic, was accustomed to ridicule 
 English poetry, and said that England was too 
 stuspid a country to produce any thing truly poeti- 
 cal. Upon the perusal of this poem of Addison, 
 he was so struck with its beauties, that he im- 
 mediately altered his tone, and said that England 
 might produce geniuses with uncommon poetical 
 abilities ; at the same time he remarked, that Bri- 
 tish poets are men, not children: they cannot 
 plait, like the French and Italians, but they can 
 soar to a height, to which no French or Italian 
 poet ever attained. Boileau lived to see his ob- 
 servation most amply verified: for, before - his 
 deceasc ; Pope, Swift, Young, Thomson, Dryden, 
 
 3
 
 74 
 
 Milton, Tickell, and a multitude of others, illur 
 ruinated the hemisphere of British poetry, and, 
 after having surpassed all the moderns, nearly 
 rivalled the glory of the ancients. The Descrip- 
 tion of the Resurrection is a masterly production : 
 the idea is taken from the Altar-piece of Magdalen 
 College, Oxon : an accurate delineation of which 
 is prefixed, page 93. Of the other poems, I have 
 marked the best. 
 
 The Treatise on the Roman Poets you should 
 attentively read, in the origiual, if you please ; or 
 if not, in the translation. The other extracts are 
 marked. 
 
 The Autumnal Evening's Ride is a most de- 
 lightful poem. It was written by a son of Dr.. 
 Matthews, M.P. for Hereford, who died before 
 he attained his twenty-rirst year. The rhyming 
 verses at the end were written by his disconsolate 
 father. The descriptions of young Matthews are 
 o natural, and such a vein of sympathy pervades 
 the whole, and there is united such a glow of 
 poetical sentiment and imagery, that I cannot help 
 thinking, that if Matthews had lived, he would 
 have made one of the greatest poets this age has 
 produced. 
 
 The Beauties of Shakespeare are all to be found 
 in the Elegant Extracts, and therefore I have de- 
 tained the volume.
 
 76 
 
 Scott's Force of Truth contains an uncom- 
 monly interesting narrative. He was progres- 
 sively a nominal Churchman, an Arkm, a Socinian, 
 and a Deist ; at length, however, truth teas tri- 
 umphant. By Divine assistance, unaided by hu- 
 man means, he was led to serious reflection. 
 Genuine conversion followed ; he was convinced 
 of the folly and error of his former sentiments and 
 life, and, through the aid of Him who alone can 
 order the unruly wills and affections of sinful men, 
 he continues to this day a zealous champion of the 
 Christian Church. May God impart unto us a 
 similar blessing ! May we (as we read) feel the 
 force of truth, and act agreeably to its precepts ! 
 The Sermons on Repentance, at the end, deserve 
 your serious notice. 
 
 My Italian proceeds but languidly. This dull 
 weather stupifies me. I find it, however, a charm- 
 ing language, and the bttter I understand it, the 
 more I admire it. I hope you will set me au 
 example of diligence, by prosecuting your French; 
 for, as you have no Hebrew interruptions, you 
 have now no excuse. My Grammar is nearly 
 stationary : it will be finished in a month, instead 
 of a week ; for I am grown unaccouutably lazy. 
 
 XD.W,
 
 77 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE JUVENILE 
 REPOSITORY. 
 
 December 20, ISO?, 
 MR. EDITOR, 
 
 In your " Review of the Improvements 
 in scientific Knowledge, since the Commencement 
 of the eighteenth Century," you have justly ob- 
 served, that " the literary taste of the present 
 day is certainly degenerate ;~that instances of 
 solid learning are very rare, while a kind of ge- 
 7ieral and superjicial knowledge, drazvn from 
 Encyclopedias, and other similar publications^ 
 is very universal." Allow me to specify a few 
 peculiar absurdities into which men are frequently 
 led by the superficial knowledge of which you com- 
 plain, and to notice its causes and effects. 
 
 The extensive diffusion of knowledge through 
 every circle of society, which has been effected by 
 die multitudes of alluring literary and scientific 
 publications produced in the last century, Ikus 
 completely disarmed learning of the terrors in 
 which it was formerly arrayed, and rendered a 
 tolerable smattering of the most celebrated authors 
 indispensably necessary to a fashionable and polite 
 tdueation. The numberless Magazines, Epitomes, 
 Selections, Beauties, Reviews, Essays, &c. &c. &c.
 
 which, are perpetually issuing from the press, arfe 
 perused with avidity by many who would have 
 started aghast at the si-ht of the folios and quartos 
 which frowned in the libraries of our great-grand- 
 fathers. The beneficial effects of these pleasing 
 publications are easily discernible ; for, to the 
 credit of the present age be it spoken, most of 
 our beaux can write their amatory epistles without 
 Entick lying at their elbow, and half of the modern 
 fine ladies can venture to send an invitation-card 
 without the assistance of Dyehe, Dilworth, or 
 the Polite Letter- writer. For the most ignorant 
 ennnot rest contented unless they can Converse and 
 write without flagrant errors ; and those who can 
 gabble with the greatest volubility, tell the most 
 incredible tales, or write with the greatest fluency, 
 are sure to be esteemed the most learned men, 
 and the most agreeable and entertaining com- 
 panions. 
 
 The course of my acquaintance has led me to 
 notice one species of learned absurdity which is 
 peculiarly ridiculous. This is the inordinate desire 
 for quotations, or rather mis-quotations, which 
 influences the tongue of every man whose know- 
 ledge has reached to Enfield's Speaker. The co- 
 pious list of detached sentences prefixed to that 
 work, the subjects for themes which are given to 
 school-boys or college-boys, and the mottos oi
 
 79 
 
 rs:>a\s and novels, are sufficient to supply tlicirucd 
 with inexhaustible stores, from which the Jiirea 
 Sententicz may be drawn at will, eitlier iu epis- 
 tolary writings, in works designed for the public, 
 or in conversation. 
 
 I received the other day a letter from a worthy 
 and sensible friend, in which he expatiated on 
 afflictions which he had been recently called to 
 sustain. " However,"' concluded he, ".as Dry den 
 lias finely remarked, 
 
 To hope for perfect happiness is vain. 
 
 And I have fully experienced the truth of Dr. 
 Young's beautiful observation in .his ISigld 
 Thoughts, 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous. 
 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in its head." 
 
 A pleasant volume of poems, entitled Visions 
 4> f Memory, was some time ago published at \?\y 
 .mouth, the motto to which is 
 
 Forsan et hsec olim mcrninisse jmalnnt. 
 
 Hobac*. 
 
 I have seen those well-known lines, " L /timet 
 
 \semptr expect mulct dies, &c." quoted and ascribed 
 
 severally to Horace, Virgil, Lucretius, ktatiua,
 
 so 
 
 Lucan, and Ausouius; but seldom ascribed la 
 their real author. 1 have heard " Quis talia 
 fando" and the subsequent verses, quoted as be- 
 longing to Cicero ; and (which is perhaps the apex 
 of absurdity) a person who generally passes for a 
 classical scholar and a judicious critic, mentioned 
 in conversation the other morning, that energetic 
 line of Pindar, 
 
 Hie murus aheneus esto, &c. ! ! 
 
 With respect to works of genius, particularly of 
 poetry, an equal pretension to knowledge, and 
 almost equal ignorance, prevail. I was told this 
 evening by a gentleman, that there was no poem 
 which delighted him so much as Pope's Deserted 
 T Mage. " The account of Auburn, and the minute 
 descriptions of its scenes," said he, " are beautiful, 
 I wonder how Pope could write so feelingly ; for 
 sublimity and pathos, however," added he, " there- 
 is nothing, in my opinion, superior to Goldsmith's 
 Elegy in the Country Church-yard. That is 
 a fine line of his : 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave." 
 
 A thousand similar examples could be adduced : 
 but that it is needless. It would only exhaust the 
 patience of the reader, and weary the writer. Th 
 MMtancca already mentioned are, however, suffi*
 
 81 
 
 eient to evince the invariable accuracy of Pope's 
 observation, 
 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing: 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. 
 
 TO MR. HENRY BIDDULPH. 
 
 Cheltenham, February 27, 1808, 
 MY DEAR HENRY, 
 
 Most sincerely do I congratulate you 
 on the happy alteration which has lately taken 
 place in the studies that are destined in future to 
 occupy your attention. The pursuits to which 
 you are at present devoted, are adapted to what 
 I always conceived to be the turn of your mind. 
 The pleasures they afford are the most exalted, 
 the most permanent, and the most satisfactory : 
 and the pure delights attendant en the office of a 
 faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, must more than 
 counterbalance the advantages of the concern 
 which you have wisely relinquished. Tn the plea- 
 sure I feel on this occasion, I candidly confess 
 that I am somewhat selfish ; for 1 am not a little 
 rejoiced in the idea, that in all probability we 
 C
 
 82 
 
 may one day become fellow-students, and perhaps 
 fellow-ministers. And while we are engaged in 
 the acquisition of that knowledge, which is neces- 
 sary for our future life, and are secluded in the 
 bowers of Academus, I may indulge a reasonable 
 hope that we shall be able to renew and to im- 
 prove that friendship, which afforded me so much 
 pleasure in the noisy mansions at the Fort. In 
 childhood we spent many cheerful hours together. 
 We knelt together in the temple of the Lord of 
 Hosts, and solemnly dedicated ourselves to his 
 service ; and I trust we may hereafter be enabled 
 to join together in unwearied exertions to fulfil 
 the awful engagements into which we jointly en- 
 tered, and unite in devoting the noblest faculties 
 and purest energies of our souls to the glory of 
 Him, from whose unmerited bounty they were 
 derived. 
 
 Will you permit me to inquire what authors 
 you are at present reading, and what course of 
 study you follow ? I envy your secluded situation, 
 and the facilities you enjoy. I am obliged ex- 
 clusively to depend upon my own resources, which 
 are not over-numerous: so that of late I have 
 read little, except Mounteney's Demosthenes, and 
 Pearces Longinus, and that sublimer volume which 
 teaches us. how to live, and how to die. 
 
 It not unfrequently. happens that I fall in witk
 
 as 
 
 Some of our old school-fellows. I lately met 
 
 With -, who tells me that he goes to a large 
 
 school in the vicinity of . His friends, I 
 find, intend to do him up into an honourable parson, 
 and he is shortly going to Oxford. 
 
 May I take the liberty of asking, at what period 
 you purpose removing to college ? My own re- 
 moval is destined (as far as circumstances at pre- 
 sent enable me to judge) for October 1809. 
 You will probably take the start of me. 
 
 When you have a leisure moment, I need not 
 tell you how great a satisfaction a letter from you 
 would always afford me. Accept the assurances 
 of my sincere regard, and believe me to be, 
 Most truly and affectionately yours, 
 
 John Dawes Worgan. 
 
 TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 
 
 Cheltenham, February 1908. 
 REV. AND DEAR SIR, 
 
 On communicating to Dr. Jenner your 
 description of the appearances that fol lower! vac- 
 ciue inoculation in the arm of your little girl, he 
 requested me to inform you, that he is at present 
 fully satisfied that the former inoculation was pro- 
 g 2
 
 84 
 
 perly efficacious. In fulfilling this request, I 
 eagerly embrace the opportunity of returning my 
 grateful acknowledgments for your truly obliging 
 letter ; for the sentiments of friendship which it 
 breathed, and the excellent advice which it con- 
 tained. 
 
 My thoughts, as you know, have been ha- 
 rassed in the most distressing manner by a variety 
 of concurring evils, particularly by one, of a tender 
 nature, which has probed my heart to the bottom. 
 I stand in a painful dilemma between doubt and 
 hope, between appearance and uncertainty, be- 
 tween duty and inclination. My heart, however, 
 is inspired with a lively confidence, that the Al- 
 mighty Disposer of the affairs of men will con- 
 tinue to direct my course. May He, whose will 
 I humbly desire to perform, alleviate the pangs of 
 grief, and solace my desponding soul with the 
 prospect of brighter joys, and of a happiness more 
 permanent and sublime! My times are in his 
 hand. May He deliver me from those whose 
 hearts are set on vanity; and, above all, may He 
 deliver my own heart from vanity ! 
 
 The printed poem, which I have taken the 
 liberty of enclosing, is to be read before the Royal 
 .lennciiau Society 7 on their anniversary festival,
 
 fc5 
 
 MaV 17, wlrich is Dr. Jenner's birthday, and is 
 regularly commemorated by a splendid dinner at 
 the Grown and Anchor Tavern ; on which occa- 
 sion the Duke of York ordinarily presides. In a 
 poem to be presented on such an occasion, before 
 such a company, you may naturally conceive that 
 1 should wish to attain the greatest possible ac- 
 curacy. A person who writes upon a contested 
 subject should possess the eyes of Argus, to 
 detect the slightest inaccuracies, since a chosen 
 band are sworn in, to rkiicule and revile him. 
 This consideration induces me to entreat my 
 friends to exercise the greatest critical severity, in 
 granting my verses the most thorough sc rutin iza- 
 tion, and to notice the most trivial errors. And 
 if, when you have a leisure moment, you would 
 have tlie great goodness to review them with a 
 critical eye, and to favour me with your observa- 
 tions upon them, you would confer a particular 
 obligation upon me, in addition to the many, 
 under which your kindness has already laid me, 
 And I should feel equally indebted to your son, 
 
 and to Miss , if they would furnish me with 
 
 any animadversions upon them, and freely e.\f 
 J>unge, correct, or amplify. 
 
 1 was most truly rejoiced to hear of my friend 
 Henry's determination to forsake the pursuits of 
 mercantile life, for studies of a nobler tendency : 
 G 3
 
 85 
 
 and I must confess that I am somewhat selfish in 
 my feelings of joy on the occasion; since I may, 
 not unreasonably, indulge an expectation, that we 
 may one day be united in our academical occupa- 
 tions, and renew that friendship which formerly 
 afforded me so much pleasure in the busy hours of 
 childhood. 
 
 An extraordinary determination of hlood to the 
 brain, which vehemently affected my eyesight, and 
 somewhat endangered my senses, obliged me to 
 desist from my studies for a considerable time, 
 and at present I have but partially renewed them. 
 Thanks to the mercies of the All-disposing Power, 
 the apprehension of danger is now entirely past : 
 and, as the tranquillity of my mind is re-esta- 
 blished, and my head much relieved by Dr. Jen- 
 ner's advice, I trust, through the Divine blessing, 
 I shall shortly be able to return to my ordinary 
 employments. And may the restoration of my 
 health, and of my mental powers, be accompanied 
 by a renewed dedication of the whole to the service 
 of Him, from whose bounty they are derived, that 
 in prosperity and adversity, in sickness and health, 
 in youth and age, in life and death, the Lord Je- 
 hovah may be my strength and my song. I feel 
 myself placed in a dangerous path, with allure- 
 ments on each side. May his grace be sufficient 
 for me, and guide my steps in the " narrow way."
 
 87 
 
 Pardon me, my dear Sir, for having obtruded 
 upon your time and patience by so long and inco- 
 herent a scrawl. Let me once more beg you to 
 remember me at the throne of grace, and believe 
 me to be 
 
 Your highly obliged and ever faithful servant, 
 John Dawes Worgan. 
 
 TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 
 
 Berkeley, November 24, 1808. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 Your letters of October the 6th, and of 
 the 1 8th instant, I have not till this week received, 
 by a strange delay, for which I am unable to ac- 
 count. I embrace the earliest opportunity of ac- 
 knowledging their arrival, and also of informing 
 you that Dr. Jenner returned to this place yes- 
 terday evening. 
 
 I am not at all surprised to hear of your having 
 renounced your Hebrew for Italian studies ; and 
 the imputation of fickleness, which you bring 
 against yourself, is equally applicable to me ; for, 
 after 1 had a little regaled myself with the beau- 
 ties of the Italian poets, I must candidly confess 
 g 4
 
 88 
 
 that the Hebrew appeared a dull and cheerless 
 pursuit. As 1 had few opportunities of procur- 
 ing books, when I began learning Italian, I was 
 obliged to confine myself to the use of Baretti's 
 .Dictionary, and the Grammar prefixed to it. 
 Baretti, taken all in all, is perhaps superior to 
 any other writer on the Italian language. In many 
 grammatical points, however, I found him so de- 
 ficient, that I was induced to have recourse to 
 Graglia's Grammar and Exercises, which an- 
 swered my utmost wishes, and which (if you have, 
 not seen them) you would find particularly useful. 
 My Italian library consisted of Pastor Fido, 
 Petrarch, and Metastasio. As there was little 
 congenial to my fancy in the works of Metastasio/ 
 or in the Pastor Fido, I confined my attention to 
 Petrarch's Sonnets, which I read and re-read with 
 increasing admiration, and of some of which it i* 
 my intention to attempt an English version. Have 
 you ever met with a translation of them ? I have 
 seen but one, and that is intolerably dull, and 
 shamefully perverts the meaning of almost every 
 sentence. Should you know of auy translation, I 
 shall be much obliged to you to acquaint me with 
 the names of the author and the publisher. And, 
 as my knowledge of the Italian is as yet but very 
 partial, and I am anxious to improve it, I should 
 esteem it a favour, if, when you have a leisure hour r
 
 w 
 
 70U would be kind enough to inform me what ele*' 
 mentary works you use, and if you know of any 
 dictionary preferable to Baretti's, and also if yon 
 have adopted any particular plan of study. 
 Believe me to be, dear Sir, 
 
 Most sincerely vein's, 
 
 John Dawes Wohgax. 
 
 TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 
 
 Cheltenham, March 2g, 1803. 
 JtEV. AND DEAR SIR, 
 
 As so favourable an opportunity of send- 
 ing a letter to Bristol has unexpectedly occurred, 
 I cannot resist the temptation of once more adding 
 to the daily troubles of your correspondence, by 
 returning you my most sincere thanks for the judi- 
 cious animadversions with which you honoured tlie 
 Jennerian Address. In the propriety of the major 
 part of your friendly remarks, I most fully and 
 gratefully coincide. Yet there is one, which 
 brings against me an impeachment of high crimes 
 and misdemeanours, and of disloyalty to the su- 
 preme Potentate; an impeachment, which injus- 
 tice to myself L must take the libertv of contro-
 
 90 
 
 verting, and -offer an explanation in my own do* 
 fence. 
 
 In one part of the poem I have said : 
 
 In vain would Envy, with her venal sword, 
 Assail that name by distant climes ador'd. 
 
 Upon this passage you inquire, " By what other 
 word can the worship of the Supreme Being be 
 expressed?" The tenour of this observation is un- 
 doubtedly correct. But this adoration of Dr. 
 Jemier is not an hyperbolical phantom of my own 
 creation, but an indubitable fact, narrated by Dr. 
 Ballhorn and Mr. Stromeyer of Hanover, in 
 their writings on Vaccination. On May l?th, Dr. 
 Jenner's birthday, a universal holiday is regularly 
 proclaimed in many of the towns and villages of 
 Germany, particularly in the neighbourhood of 
 Hanover. A kind of altar is erected, on which 
 Dr. Jenner's bust is placed, adorned with roses 
 and garlands. On the front of the altar is in- 
 scribed " Viro de matribus, de pueris, de popiiJis 
 bene merito." The trumpets sound. Cows, co- 
 vered with wreaths, are led in triumph. The in- 
 habitants of the town then advance in procession, 
 dressed in uniform, and having Dr. Jenner's head, 
 impressed upon their buttons. They then dance 
 round the altar, and conclude by singing their 
 rateful sonjrs to the name of Jenuer. I*a* be it
 
 or 
 
 from me to entertain an opinion, that such an ex- 
 ample is worthy of our imitation. We have en* 
 joyed our superior religious advantages to little 
 purpose, if we are not deeply conscious that our 
 thanksgivings for every blessing should be kcIu- 
 wvely addressed to the great First Cause of all, 
 I simply alluded to the circumstance as an exem- 
 plification of the proverb, " A prophet shall re-, 
 ceive honour, except in his native country." Go 
 to London, and we find Dr. Jenner's character 
 depreciated by invidious and malicious individuals. 
 Cross the German Sea, and we find him adored. 
 Perhaps it may not be amiss to insert a note at 
 the conclusion of the poem, containing an ex- 
 planation of the custom to which the allusion is 
 made. 
 
 And now, my dear Sir, you must permit me to 
 enter my protest against one part of your note, in 
 which you do most sadly calumniate one of the 
 best and dearest of my friends. You say, " that 
 he is 710 poet, nor the son of a poet." Who was 
 that person who some years ago published " 0/7- 
 ginai Poems" and an Elegy on Mr. Cadogan's 
 death ? Was he a relation of your family, or was 
 it merely a coincidence of name ? Sapientes sa- 
 pientiam suam ignorant. 
 
 For the good wishes you have kindly expressed 
 for my welfare, I feel myself more indebted to 
 
 a
 
 your partiality than I am capable of acknowledge 
 ing. Their value is particularly enhanced by the 
 consideration that they relate to my eternal, as 
 well as my temporal happiness. Your exertions 
 for my temporal advantage have been crowned 
 with success far beyond my expectations or de- 
 serts. May your wishes for my spiritual welfare 
 be equally accompanied with the blessing of Him, 
 who can turn the rock into a standing water, and 
 the flint into a fountain of waters ! 
 
 Believe me to be your ever faithful servant, 
 
 J. D. W. 
 
 TO 
 
 December J 80S. 
 
 # # # 
 
 I have just received a letter, which in- 
 forms me of a most melancholy accident which 
 has happened to one of the dearest of my friends. 
 By a wonderful congeniality of disposition, we 
 were united in the firmest friendship ; I loved him 
 as a brother. He was riding out a few days ago, 
 when his horse started, threw him, and dragged 
 him rapidly along, till his skull was fractured. 11%.
 
 93 
 
 languished in unutterable agonies for eight days, and 
 expired on Sunday morning. Young as I am; I 
 am sick of life. I see the friends of my heart se-*- 
 parated from me by the cruel hand of death, or the 
 more cruel hand of malice. My joys are rapidly 
 departing, my sorrows continually increase. Oh 
 life ! what art thou but a thorny wilderness ? The 
 expectation of a future life is the only consolation 
 I can mid to support me in the miseries of this. 
 Some few years I must linger in this vale of tears ; 
 but my journey will soon be over. It will not be 
 long before my heart shall cease to dirob, and my 
 pulse to beat. Oh ! while the blood yet circulates 
 in my veins, may my affections be set upon another 
 and a better world, where long-separated friends 
 shall be united to part no more, and shall dwell in 
 the fulness of everlasting delight ! Adieu. 
 
 J. D. W. 
 
 TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 
 
 Berkeley, December 14, 1608. 
 BEAR SIB, 
 
 My best thanks are due to you, for your 
 two obliging letters, and their very interesting con- 
 tents. I wa* much gratified by the perusal of
 
 94 
 
 3*rar animated tribute to the memory of poor deaf 
 Collings. His melancholy doom prompted the 
 following effusion, with a sight f which perhaps 
 you will not be displeased* 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN DEATH OF A 
 YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 
 
 Child of the dawn, with sparkling dew drops crown'd> 
 I mark'd the Rose her blushing charms unfold 5- 
 Ere yonder hills were ting'd with evening gold, 
 
 Nipt by the blast she wither'd on the ground. 
 
 JJaughter of Beauty ! transient is thy date, 
 But ah ! as transient is the date of Man j 
 The hour, that nVd thy bloom's uncertain span* 
 
 Consign'd my Junius to the grasp of Fate. 
 
 Sons of mortality ! the tidings hear! 
 
 Blithe as the lark he hail'd the rising day,- 
 Yet, ere the dew-star veils her lucent ray, 
 
 He lies all breathless on the blood-stain'd bier, 
 
 Alas! I tremble Lit the dread decree: 
 
 To-morrow's dawn may sound a knell for me. 
 
 J. D. W., 
 
 I feel particularly obliged for the information you 
 have given me respecting the new translation of 
 Petrarch's sonnets, and the animadversions of the 
 Critical Reviewers on his poetic character. But
 
 95 
 
 | cannot. 6ml wcmls sufficiently strong, to ex- 
 press my disgust at the shameless manner in which 
 these harpies of literature have insulted the me- 
 mory of the sweetest of poets. Every Homer 
 will have his Zoilus. But Petrarch's productions 
 will continue to command the admiration of the 
 world, when the Critical Reviewers are buried in 
 everlasting oblivion ; and his sweet enchanting 
 strains will find an echo in every feeling heart, 
 when the herd of pedantic critics are swept into 
 the shades of night. I had rather be the author of 
 Petrarch's thirty-eighth sonnet, on the death of 
 Laura, than of all the dissertations that ever ap- 
 peared in the Critical Review. 
 
 I will not trouble you for any further account 
 of the observations of these pseudo-critics ; yet if 
 you could conveniently favour me with a copy of 
 any extracts from the translation of Petrarch, 
 which may be inserted in the Review, you would 
 in a particular manner oblige me. 
 
 I have a copv of thirty of the sonnets, and three 
 of the odes of Petrarch, both in the original and 
 with an anonymous English translation. If you 
 are inclined to judge of Petrarch for yourself, I 
 will with pleasure send you this volume. In some 
 of the sonnets on " Laura living," there are cer- 
 tainly many quaint conceits, but these are univer- 
 sally to be found in the Italian writers. Hi*
 
 96 
 
 occasional obscurities are entirely to be attributed 
 to the imperfect state of the Italian language at the 
 period in which he flourished. But his sonnets 
 on " Laura dead" are the most exquisitely beau- 
 tiful which any language has produced. There 
 h in them a vein of luxuriant imagery, and a 
 glow of pathetic sentiment, which must charm 
 every reader of sensibility, and which have de- 
 servedly immortalized their author's name. I 
 have enclosed two of them in an English dress*; 
 when you have read them, I believe you will not 
 agree with the Critical Reviewers in their opinion 
 f Petrarch's merits. 
 
 Believe me ever most truly yours, 
 
 John Dawes Worgan. 
 
 TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 
 
 Berkeley, Decemlcr 15, 1508. 
 
 REV. AND DEAR SIR, 
 
 The two last letters, with which I trou- 
 bled you, were occupied in a painful vindication 
 
 * They will be found at the end of the Sonnets in this 
 'volume.
 
 97 
 
 of my character and conduct, with reference to 
 a well-known subject. As this once-distressing 
 affair at present sleeps in peace, I will not call it 
 into life again, by unnecessarily provoking a dis- 
 cussion of it. But 1 cannot satisfy my feelings, 
 without repeating to you the assurance of the gra- 
 titude I feel, for the true friendship aud kind li- 
 berality, winch you manifested towards me during 
 the whole of the business. 
 
 Farewell then, for the present, to a subject which 
 has been the source of the sweetest pleasures and 
 bitterest distresses of my life. I have now another 
 concern to occupy my attention, upon which I 
 beg leave, my most valued friend, to solicit a re- 
 newal of the kindness, which, on many former 
 occasions, you have shown me, in favouring me 
 with your opinion and advice. I allude to the 
 steps, which it will be necessary for me to take, 
 respecting my entrance into the University. In a 
 few months, the period of three years which I 
 engaged to remain with Dr. Jenner, will have ex- 
 pired. My wishes towards a clerical life are ever 
 the same ; and as, in order to the accomplishment 
 of these wishes, it is requisite that I should pass 
 through the fiery ordeal of an University education, 
 H
 
 9S 
 
 I must prepare myself for the necessary evil. T 
 propose to enter the first term after the long vaca- 
 tion, and, by taking at once the two terms in 
 which my attendance at college is not requisite, I 
 shall be able to remain with Dr. Jenifer a few 
 months longer, if he wishes it. I need not say that 
 the acquisition of a scholarship or exhibition 
 would be most desirable to me. May I then in- 
 quire of you what steps I should take with a view 
 to the attaining it? I will simply mention what 
 has occurred to my own mind. About three years 
 
 ago, Mr. corresponded, respecting me, 
 
 with a friend of college, who was so kind 
 as to promise his exertions in my favour, saying 
 at the same time that he could easily procure me 
 
 two exhibitions worth ten pounds each, at , 
 
 and that, in consequence of Mr. - 's recom- 
 mendation, he would receive nothing of me for 
 tuition, which would be an additional advantage 
 
 of ^9, annually. As Mr. , in consequence 
 
 of certain occurrences two years ago, expressed 
 his determination to give himself no further con- 
 cern respecting me, I cannot with propriety apply 
 to him on the subject. Yet I have had it in 
 
 contemplation to address a letter to Mr. , 
 
 which I think might perhaps be productive of 
 much good, without the possibility of doing harm.
 
 99 
 
 Yet, as I am unwilling to stir in so delicate u 
 matter, without the advice of an experienced 
 friend, I have taken the liberty of submitting my 
 ideas to your superior judgment. It appears to me 
 that what I do should be done with as little delay 
 as possible. 
 
 At whatever college I may be induced to enter, 
 my life will be a life of privacy. I have been so 
 long inured to persecution, and censure, and ri- 
 dicule, that I am grown completely callous to 
 them, frcm whatever quarter they may proceed. 
 A few congenial friends will constitute all my con- 
 nexions ; and, from a consciousness of the value 
 of genuine friendship, I particularly wish, in all 
 my movements, to bear an eye to the movements 
 of your son. A\ henever he enters, whether it be 
 sooner or later than the time I have proposed 
 for myself, I should gladly alter my plans, for 
 the sake of being accompanied by him. 
 
 I thank you, my dear Sir, for your friendly 
 caution, transmitted to me by my mother, that I 
 should study prose more than poetry. I meddle 
 but little with the muses at present, and seldom 
 solicit any favours of them, except it be 
 
 Some stealing melodies that heart might love, 
 Or a brief sonnet to beguile my tears. Bowles 
 h 2
 
 100 
 
 1 now principally devote my time to the study 
 of Grecian literature. 
 
 I ever am your most obliged faithful servant, 
 John Dawes Worgan. 
 
 He may look back upon the days that 
 are past, and the recollection may be sweet ; but 
 the opportunity of improving those days is gone 
 for ever ; to retrace them therefore with fond re- 
 gret, when they are no longer ours, is unworthy 
 of the immortal mind. It is also sweet to direct 
 the eye of hope towards futurity, and to feast the 
 imagination on scenes that are yet to come. These 
 dreams are consoling to the weary mind, and are 
 no derogation from the dignity of wisdom. But 
 though we beguile our solitude with these visions 
 of fancy, let us not dwell upon them as if they 
 were realities ; let us not worship the phantoms of 
 our own creation ; for before the least of our hopes 
 are realized, the heart which they animated may 
 cease to throb, the eye which they caused to beam
 
 101 
 
 with rapture may be closed in the darkness of the 
 grave. 
 
 # * # 
 
 J. D. W. 
 
 TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 
 
 Berkeley, January g, ISOC^ 
 nHV. AND DEAR SIR, 
 
 Your kind attention to my inquiries on 
 University matters, and the information and advice 
 with which you have favoured me respecting 
 them, demand my most grateful acknowledg- 
 ments. 
 
 Your son has most probably acquainted you 
 with the intention, which I expressed in my letter 
 
 to him, of entering at , and the motives 
 
 by which I was actuated in preferring that society. 
 It would therefore be superfluous for me to 
 trouble you with any remarks on that subject. 
 
 A gentleman in town, to whom I applied for 
 information respecting the exhibitions which are 
 in the gift of the London Companies, has pro- 
 mised to furnish me with all necessary intelligence 
 H 3
 
 102 
 
 concerning them. But a question has been started 
 by him, which I am unable to answer, and to 
 which i should feel highly obliged to you if you 
 would have the kindness to afford me a reply. 
 Can a student in the University of Oxford enjoy 
 the benefits of any exhibition, >\ Inch does not be- 
 long to the college in which he resides ? If this 
 question be answered in the negative, can you have 
 the goodness to inform me, where any such exhi- 
 bitions are attainable ? It is painful that those, 
 who enter the University with the disinterested 
 wish of finally promoting the glory of their God, 
 by their ministerial labours, should be obliged to 
 take so many worldly considerations into the ac- 
 count ; but I need not inform you, my dear Sir, 
 that these considerations, in my case, are matters 
 of importance and necessity. 
 
 The sonnet to which you allude, is entirely at 
 the service of the Magazine to which you have 
 transmitted it. I have a series of devotional 
 sonnets, with the composition of which I beguiled 
 my solitary hours, under the pressure of heart- 
 rending sorrows. These, when I have time, I 
 shall fairly transcribe, and take the liberty of send- 
 ing them to you, for the benefit of your opinion 
 and correction ; and if you think they will coincide 
 wdth the plan of that publication, I shall rejoice
 
 103 
 
 to see them inserted, happy if I may be deemed 
 worthy to cast my mite into the treasury, and, 
 however feebly, to co-operate with the editors, in 
 promoting the best of causes. 
 
 Acquainted as I am, my dear Sir, with the 
 numberless engagements that engross your time, 
 it is with much reluctance that I trouble you with 
 the inquiries which this letter contains; but I rely 
 on your long-continued friendship to excuse the 
 unwilling intrusion. 
 
 I beg to be most kindly remembered to all your 
 familv, and remain 
 
 Your obliged faithful servant, 
 
 J. D. VVOKGAN. 
 
 TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 
 
 Berkeley, January g, IS09. 
 MY DEAR SITtj 
 
 Yoi'R obliging lel'er, containing the re- 
 mainder of Petrarch's sonnets from the Critical Re- 
 view, I have just received, and feel most highly 
 indebted to you, for the trouble yon have kindly 
 taken in gratifying my curiosity. The result of an 
 li 4
 
 104 
 
 attentive perusal and consideration of the whole on 
 my mind is a conviction that the literary world was 
 never disgraced by critics more unjust, or a trans- 
 lator more incompetent, than those in question. 
 You can form no idea how miserably the sonnets 
 of Petrarch are mangled and butchered, in the 
 specimens of the translation which you sent me. 
 I shall now send you in return a sonnet or two, 
 which I translated about a year and a half ago ; 
 and I beg you to favour me with your unreserved 
 opinion, and your critical animadversions upon 
 them. The first is the same of which your letter 
 contains a translation ; you may therefore make a 
 comparison between their merits. 
 
 SONNET LIX. 
 
 The cheerful hours returning Zephyr leads, 
 
 With flow'rs and fruits, fair partners of his way ; 
 The swallow's chirp, the nightingale's lorn lay, 
 
 Are heard, and beauty crowns the spangled meads. 
 
 The fields rejoice ; Heav'n smiles serenely bright ; 
 His daughter's charms exulting Jove admires^ 
 Air, Ocean, Earth, confess the genial fires ; 
 
 And all their tribes in glowing love unite.
 
 105 
 
 But ah ! to me revolving seasons bring 
 
 Fresh griefs for her, who in my bosom reigns, 
 Though borne to yonder skies, for ever dear : 
 Q( her bereft, the flower-enamel'd spring, 
 The plumy songsters, and the virgin trains, 
 Bleak, barren wilds and savage forms appear. 
 
 The two sonnets, which I have enclosed, I will 
 be obliged to you to return, when you have done 
 with fhem, as I have no other copy. I send them 
 as specimens of my translation, with which I in- 
 tend to proceed in my summer evening rambles. 
 The more severely you criticize them, the more I 
 shall feel obliged to you. 
 
 1 thank you for your hints respecting the Spa- 
 nish language. The object which I have in view 
 in all my studies, is to render my life honourable 
 to myself, and useful to others : I would there- 
 fore willingly learn any language, in which there 
 were any valuable writers, not yet translated into 
 our language ; and I should think my time well 
 occupied in making a version of them. If there- 
 fore you will be kind enough to inform me what 
 are the untranslated Spanish poems to which you 
 allude, I will ask the advice of Mr. Uaylev, and 
 if he considers those poems as worthy of a trans- 
 lation, and likely to repay my labour, 1 will im- 
 mediately commence the study of the Spanish 
 langruage.
 
 106? 
 
 Should you meet with any translation of the 
 Sonnets of Petrarch, I need not say how much I 
 should be gratified by a little information respect- 
 ing them. I shall confine my version to those 
 after the death of Laura, as they are infinitely 
 superior to the rest. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir. 
 
 Ever most faithfully yours, 
 
 J. D. W. 
 
 TO MR. H. BIDDULPH. 
 
 Berkeley, January 9, I8O9. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 My last letter was so much occupied 
 with Oxonian business, that I had no opportunity 
 to enter, as I could have wished, into literary 
 matters. I therefore resume my pen, for the 
 purpose of mentioning to you the nature of my 
 studies, of asking your opinion respecting them, 
 and of inquiring the nature of your own studies. 
 For, as we are to be feilow-colkgians, I should 
 hope that our pursuits may be congenial, and 
 that we raav be united in our uuious occupations.
 
 107 
 
 I have been content, for a considerable time, to 
 sacrifice inclination at the shrine of duty ; or, in 
 other words, to forsake poetry for Grecian prose. 
 I made out a list of Latin and Greek composi- 
 tions, which I determined immediately and unin- 
 terruptedly to study. This list I have enclosed. 
 Tliose pieces, which I have marked with an as- 
 terisk, I have already perused. I should be 
 obliged to you, if you would have the kindness to 
 add to die list any writers whose works you con- 
 sider as deserving of my notice ; or to erase from 
 it any works, which you think will not repay my 
 labours. I am at present reading Plato's Phaedo, 
 which enraptures me by the sublimity of its doc- 
 trines, and the sweetness of the diction, i/y ar- 
 guments deduced from natural religion, he so 
 eloquently shows the worthlessness of our tene- 
 ments of clay, the vanity of the pursuits that oc- 
 cupy the children of mortality, and the value and 
 eternity of the soul, that I do not wonder at the 
 story we are told of a youth, who drowned lim- 
 ,*elf, after the perusal of the Pha?do, that he might 
 put its truth to the test, and be freed from the in- 
 cumbrances of flesh and blood. I cannot here 
 refrain from remarking the vast differ* nee I have 
 found between the style of Socrates' Discourses, 
 as transmitted to us by Plato, and those for which
 
 108 
 
 we -are indebted to Xenophon. I have always 
 found the Memorabilia a dull book, and I could 
 never bring myself to a relish of its contents, how- 
 eves excellent I knew their nature to be. In 
 Plato's Dialogues, on the contrary, every thing is 
 easy and animated, and there are none of the 
 wearisome metaphysical subtleties, which abound 
 in the Memorabilia. I make these observations, 
 because I know it is common to study the Memo- 
 rabilia, as affording an excellent survey of the So- 
 eratic philosophy ; and I would recommend Plato's 
 Dialogues to you, as containing an equally lu- 
 minous account of Socrates' doctrines, expressed 
 m a much more entertaining and agreeable 
 manner. 
 
 What books do you take up at college ? I have 
 thought of Mounteney's Demosthenes and Plato's 
 Dialogues. If, however, the examining masters 
 do not think proper to accept what they call muti- 
 lated works, I would substitute Aristotle's Ethics, 
 or Poetics, and Longinus, 
 
 Do you study any theological works ? I long 
 ago made a determination to read no writings on 
 religious subjects, that proceeded from a mortal 
 pen, but to use the sacred volume as its own in- 
 terpreter. If, however, you can inform me of 
 any works on divinity, which are possessed of sin-
 
 109 
 
 gnlar merit, I shall willingly deviate from my 
 resolution. 
 
 With logic and the mathematics I have not yet 
 meddled. It will be time enough to begin them 
 when I reach the banks of the Isis. [ should be 
 obliged to you, nevertheless, to inform me what 
 are the standard works on these sciences in use at 
 Oxford, that 1 might purchase them, should they 
 fall in nay way. 
 
 Could you, from any friend who has lately been 
 at Oxford, procure an account of the particulars 
 of University expenses, such an account would not 
 only be gratifying to my curiosity, but it is of 
 importance that I should receive the information 
 previously to my entrance at college. 
 
 And now, my dear friend, I have written you a. 
 long letter, on subjects which we are accustomed 
 to regard as of high importance. Yet when f 
 read what I have written, and consider it with 
 futurity in my view, I almost blush at the asso- 
 ciation of ideas, that leads us to attach so much 
 moment to pursuits, which a disembodied spirit 
 must esteem to be vanity, and the utility of which 
 will be vanished when a few fleeting years have 
 rolled over our heads. Oh ! for the unction of 
 the immortal Spirit, to raise our thoughts from 
 these secondary acquirements, to a thirst after 
 mat eternal wisdom, the value of which will con-
 
 F*n 
 
 TO MI 3 G. WATT. 
 
 At '- - -'.=; bni CtToared n* wrii 
 
 j^tr^ : - ' - r occae 
 
 lar>& . - ?or- 
 
 i.**r;rt/i thai ;.ou v*i~ rot 
 ..-.*, a ] %:.<* more solicit tfae a ; :u 
 
 . af ..- d . . ti*e iV.^iUes 
 
 f '. f ... V; . . 4'XJSz j (AX efij J . 
 
 i ha*. -: iateji r. iing the Dialogues of 
 
 /- .,-. - ".. rapt . sukainttiou at the gTajjoeur 
 
 Oi' bj* thought - c ; aublilflit) Of hxj d /Ctrine*. 
 
 f . . . vou uJ'hw ;/>e v, r.at of L^ works have beta 
 trati a <jgli*h, ar^l what are the reputed 
 
 u*:i\\\ oi the different vemonsr Abo, whether
 
 Ill 
 
 bis doctrines have been discussed by any lurninottt 
 commentator, eilhtr in our own or anv other lan- 
 guage r In oue of the aott-s on Plato, in the 
 Analecta Majoca, I find a reftieiice to Stanley's 
 History of Philosophy : do you know any thief 
 of this work : and can you conveniently ascertain 
 what pans of Plato have been reucert-d into Ej 15- 
 lish by Harris, the author of Herrne? ; and vshal 
 bv Tavlor, the celebrated diaracter, for whose 
 benefit the Lit-rary Fund was first established : 
 Perhaps, from the works to which you have access 
 in the Bristol Library, it may be in your j. over 
 to furnish me with m: u :-. 
 
 It is with much reluctance I make myself so trou- 
 blesome to vou, but in this er i 
 the globe we have no learning, either ancient or 
 modern, foreign or Dative ; and your kind atten- 
 tion to n -f.ef 
 myself that vou \s ill gratify my c v an 
 answer to th- - . as may suit your 
 veniency. 
 
 I have po-:; ber'rng my prosper? ia 
 
 Italian, and : siti a of Spanish, 
 
 till I have met with ~or^ cjnseriial soul to s?- 
 companv me in m - studies. 1: is the rr -: h*rjt- 
 less of ail emplovi uts to . . in tezr.^mq i 
 fresh lan<ruare. without a feii w-sl . ' . < trot 
 by v-ur -;de. I shall tb r./^re abandon mj pr>-
 
 jected pursuit of modern continental literature^ 
 till I haVe quitted the solitary cells of Berkeley ; 
 and in the mean time I shall follow the advice of 
 the poet, in studying without interruption the 
 " Exemplaria Grteca." For it is pleasant td 
 cultivate in solitude a language with the principles 
 of which you are already acquainted, however 
 fatiguing it may be to attempt the cultivation of 
 one with which you are totally unacquainted* 
 Believe me to be, as ever, 
 Dear Sir, 
 Your sincerely obliged friend and servant, 
 John Dawes Worga# 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Berkeley, March 8, 180g. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 Thank you for your obliging letter of 
 the 25th of February, which I have just received, 
 and for the satisfactory information it contained 
 on Platonic subjects. The account with which 
 you have kindly furnished me, has afforded me all 
 the intelligence I desired. There is only one fur-
 
 113 
 
 khor inquiry with which I will trouble you : Has 
 either Sydenham or Taylor translated the Phaedo, 
 and ha9 either of them discussed the tenets of 
 Socrates, as to the immateriality of the soul?- 
 Have they also offered any remarks on the opi- 
 nions which are frequently expressed in the 
 Phaedo, as to the nature and duration of the prin- 
 ciple of life, which animates the brute creation? 
 These are subjects which have been little noticed, 
 yet I cannot but consider them as of no triHiiig 
 interest ; and L have accordingly bestowed on them 
 a considerable portion of my thoughts, since they 
 first suggested themselves to my mind. I may be 
 asked, what benefit such inquiries can produce; 
 and whether they arc capable of contributing to 
 the present or future happiness of man ? That 
 they are directly productive of such advantages, 
 I cannot presume to assert; but how great are the 
 advantages which any discussions must afford in- 
 directly, whose tendency is to enlarge our ideas 
 of the wisdom and goodness of Omnipotence, by 
 endeavouring to explain and simplify the organi- 
 zation of animated nature ! And allowing that we 
 fail of success in the research, is not a curiosity 
 of this description more ennobling, and more wor- 
 thy of our powers, than the enthusiastic zeal of 
 the antiquary, which leads him to pore over worm- 
 eaten records in quest of barren knowledge, that 
 1
 
 114 
 
 he may reconcile apparent anachronisms in an- 
 cient fabulists, or adjust the contradictory tenets 
 of different mycologists ? All our pursuits of a 
 speculative nature may be trifles, and trifles they 
 confessedly are, compared with the sacred Wisdom 
 that teaches us how to live and how to die ; but 
 the pursuits of natural philosophy are surely of all 
 others the least trifling ; and if contrasted with the 
 frivolities that engross the attention of a majority 
 of mankind, how dignified, how sublime do they 
 appear ! 
 
 It is not because I conceive any arguments to 
 be necessary to form your own opinion on these 
 topics, that I enter into such a series of observa- 
 tions- My object is simply to elucidate the mo- 
 tives, that lead me to trouble you with so many 
 inquiries concerning Plato and his divine produc- 
 tions. His Phaedo, as well as his Crito, I have 
 read, and re-read, and my sentiments most fully 
 concur with yours, both as to their subject and 
 their style. They are worthy of a disciple of 
 Socrates : Mould that their author had lived fou 
 hundred years later ! how glorious a propagator 
 might he have been of the doctrines of Christ! 
 But this is a foolish remark, and I am ashamed of 
 having written it. The time of our birth, as well 
 as the period of our existence, is surely best de- 
 termined by Him that made us.
 
 115 
 
 I am rejoiced to hear the desire you express of 
 seeking for wisdom in the academic shades. I 
 purpose entering them in September next : and 
 how pleasant would it be for us to study Plato 
 together ! You aspire to a happy profession, 
 which may lead to the highest honours, and render 
 you an instrument of the greatest good ; and were I 
 to offer my advice, I would point out that profession 
 to you from a desire, that, as it has long been de- 
 graded by men of ignorance and corruption, its dig- 
 nity may at length be restored, by men of talent and 
 integrity. In the choice of a pursuit, however, that 
 is to be coeval with our active powers, the bent 
 of the inclination is the only guide that we can 
 safely consult. " Naturam sequcre" is the sum 
 total of all the advice that can be given. 
 
 The seal with which my last letter was closed, 
 was dug up in a church-yard in this neighbour- 
 hood. It is composed of unpolished brass, and 
 its handle is a thick ring of the same metal. I 
 rather conceive that the inscription is Hebrew, 
 since one or two of the letters are common He- 
 brew characters. The others may perhaps be 
 distorted, or unskilfully engraved. I have sought 
 in vain for an interpretation. But are you likely 
 to fall in with Mr. Adam Clarke ? He would no 
 doubt be able to solve the mystery. 
 
 I am sorry to bear that you have been so much 
 i2
 
 11(5 
 
 indisposed, but I hope you are by this time re- 
 covered. For my own part, my life is one con- 
 tinued series of indispositions. But I must not 
 murmur. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir. 
 
 Believe me to be, as ever, 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 John Dawes Worgan. 
 
 TO MR. GARDNER, Frampton-upon- Severn. 
 
 Berkeley, February \5, I8O9. 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I should sooner have acknowledged 
 the arrival of your favour of January the 18th, 
 but a series of pressing engagements has occupied 
 every moment of my time, and engrossed every idea 
 of my mind. 
 
 I thank you for the kind communication of your 
 excellent Essay on the Effects of Commerce. I 
 regret, for the sake of your fame, that it was not 
 published at the time it was first written, since its 
 concealment has afforded Mr. . an opportu- 
 nity of kidnapping the laurels which should have
 
 117 
 
 paced your brow, and of placing them on his 
 own. But I rejoice to hear that you are engaged 
 in decorating the same ideas with poetic language. 
 The subject opens an ample field for splendid 
 descriptions, animated contrasts, and pathetic apo- 
 strophes. It lias, indeed, been already noticed in 
 the " Deserted Village," and in Bowles's Poem 
 on St. Michael's Mount; yet it is far from being 
 exhausted ; and an expanded poetical dissertation 
 upon it would be novel, and highly interesting, 
 particularly at the present period, when the merits 
 of our commercial svstem are the topics of uni- 
 versal discussion. 
 
 Yet highly as I admire the execution of your 
 Essay, and much as T wish to see it arrayed in a 
 metrical garb, I must candidly confess that 1 am 
 by no means prepared to subscribe to many of the 
 doctrines you inculcate, nor to allow the majority 
 of the arguments you employ. A solitary indivi- 
 dual, like myself, who wishes to live and die in 
 the shades of retirement, can have little induce- 
 ment to meddle with the intricate discussions <>f 
 political economy, especially with those points, 
 which have been matters of dispute among the 
 wisest of legislators. Yet the result of the hrief 
 consideration 1 have bestowed on the consequences 
 of commerce, is a conviction that its progress is 
 attended with benefits that are more than sufri- 
 i ;;
 
 118 
 
 cient to counterbalance its acknowledged evils. 
 It is only injurious to the weak and foolish, who 
 would find abundant resources for injuring them- 
 selves by corrupt gratifications without it : to 
 those who have wisdom enough to improve its 
 effects in a proper manner, it yields the blessings 
 of civilization and science. But these are in a 
 great measure matters of opinion ; and the advo- 
 cates of liberal disputation must lament that your 
 reasonings have not been made public, however 
 they may question the justice of your tenets. 
 
 Have you had time to read the " Recollec- 
 tions of a Summer's Day?" And could you 
 favour me with them, and with your remarks, iu 
 the course of a week ? I am anxious to revise 
 and complete the composition, and I happen to 
 have no other copy. 
 
 I rely on the speedy fulfilment of your kind 
 promise of transmitting to me a packet of your 
 poetical pieces, and remain, 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 Your obliged faithful servant, 
 
 J. D. WoRGAN,
 
 U9 
 
 TO MR. GARDNER. 
 
 Berkeley, March 8, 1SOO. 
 BEAR SIR, 
 
 I return your able Dissertation on the 
 Effects of Commerce, with my sincere thanks for 
 your kindness in allowing me the perusal of it. 
 However essentially my sentiments may differ 
 from yours, as to the nature of the consequences 
 attendant on commerce, when considered in the 
 aggregate, your Essay commands my admiration, 
 from the energy with which your arguments are 
 delivered, and from the glowing colours in which 
 you have delineated the various scenes of change 
 and misery which you exhibit to the view. Your 
 Essay is a beautiful painting ; whether it gives a 
 correct likeness, it is not my province to deter- 
 mine. I hope it does not. 
 
 My destiny leads me to London in the course 
 of next week, when I shall be anxious to submit 
 the " Recollections of a Summer's Day" to 
 the inspection of two literary friends, one of whom 
 is a female critic. Strange, you will say, for a 
 woman to wear the cap of Aristarchtis ! I have 
 found, however, that when women are possessed 
 1 4
 
 120 
 
 of talent, they often employ it with more sagacity 
 and acuteness than the proud sons of literature are 
 in general capable of doing. But though you see 
 me so bent on rambling into every subject that 
 starts into my brain, 1 have no time at present to 
 rhapsodize, not even in praise of woman ! I must 
 therefore return to the subject with which I began, 
 and request the favour of you to transmit the said 
 Recollections to Mr. W. Davies, Mho will go 
 from Eastington to Berkeley on Friday next. I 
 shall expect your remarks with anxiety, since by 
 them the fate of my poem will in a great measure 
 be determined. 
 
 In troubling you so often for my pieces, when 
 perhaps you may not have finished the perusal of 
 them, I am afraid I may appear importunate. 
 But this is a species of impoi tunacy to which all 
 must be subject, who, like myself, abhor the 
 drudgery of transcription, and consequently possess 
 but one copy of their compositions. 
 
 With great regard, 1 ever am, 
 Dear Sir, 
 Your obliged faithful servant, 
 
 John D. W organ.
 
 Ml 
 
 TO 
 
 I6O9. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 It is not from listlessness or inattention 
 that your kind letter of the first of March has 
 so long remained unacknowledged. During the 
 greater part of the time which has elapsed since 
 its arrival, the bed has been my dwelling, and the 
 contagion of the typhus has been preying on my 
 frame. My advances in the state of convalescence 
 have been but slow, yet 1 am now sufficiently re- 
 covered to allow me to take the air, and to mingle 
 in the gav scenes of spring. 
 
 Thanks be to Providence for its protecting 
 care ! It orders all things for the best. Had the 
 choice of my fate been allowed me, 1 surely 
 should have recoiled from the idea of enduring 
 a pestilential fever. But now that I have en- 
 dured it, and that its terrors are past, I review 
 my sufferings, not only without regret, but with 
 lively satisfaction and gratitude. They gave me 
 an enviable season for tranquil thought. They 
 lifted my soul above the world, half delivering it 
 from the body, and they led nie to a train of re-
 
 122 
 
 flections on the nature of our existence, which 
 were so soothing and so animating to my feelings, 
 that I would not exchange the ennobling consola- 
 tions they afford, for all the pageants of pleasure 
 :md glory. 
 
 Alas ! how unequal is the alliance, to which our 
 spirits are ordained to submit, during the period 
 of our pilgrimage below ! What avails it that they 
 were the semblance of the Deity, created in im- 
 mortality and incorruption ? What avails it that 
 they were constituted partakers of the divine na- 
 ture, and were designed to be partakers of the di- 
 vine glory ? They are immured within a melan- 
 choly prison, within a tenement of clay, which it 
 is their office to animate and inform. The various 
 senses, which appertain to the body, they ought 
 to guide and control. They are to be the movers and 
 conductors of the corporeal machine ; and the ob- 
 ject at which their exertions are to be directed, is 
 the glory of their Creator, and the happiness of their 
 companions in life, by which, at the same time, 
 their own advancement in glory and happiness 
 would be promoted. Such are the purposes for 
 which they were created ; but what is the world 
 in which they are to move ! It is a wilderness, which 
 iniquity, like a torrent, has ovei deluged, and through 
 which the demons of folly and wickedness diffuse 
 their influence, like a poisonous contagion. And
 
 123 
 
 does the heaven-boru soul, on taking a part in 
 such a scene, display her sacred origin, by resist- 
 ing their seductive powers, and assert her native 
 dignity, by trampling under foot the most blan- 
 dishing of their allurements ': Let us ask ourselves 
 the question, and how mortifying is the reply ! 
 And can the heaven-descended soul become the 
 slave of earthly pollution ? She can, she is be- 
 come such. Does she not employ the powers of 
 the body, in procuring a few transient and un- 
 worthy gratifications ? Does she not neglect and 
 frustrate the object of her creation, does she not 
 insult her Maker and vilify herself, by yielding to 
 the impulse of lawless passions, by suffering her- 
 self to be controlled by earthly objects, instead of 
 controlling them, and, by fixing her regard upon 
 the trifles of time, forgetful of the eternal state ? 
 And does she not thus disqualify herself for the 
 heavenly inheritance, and assimilate herself to all 
 that is evil and wretched ? Reason and expe- 
 rience, as well as Revelation, reply in the affirma- 
 tive to these painful inquiries. And how shall 
 the horrors of this fatal condition be removed ? 
 Reason and experience are here unable to reply. 
 To Revelation alone, we can look with confi- 
 dence ; and how cheering is the answer it affords \ 
 Does the spirit bewail the evils into which she 
 has plunged i Does she resolve to forsake them.
 
 124 
 
 and to live as she ought ? An infinite atonement 
 has been made by the Deity himself, who was 
 pleased to lay down his glories, and reside in a 
 corporeal habitation like her own, thus to endure, 
 in the fulness of his eternal compassion, the re- 
 wards that would have devolved upon the head of 
 offending man. Ihrough a reliance on the mercy 
 of this sacred Redeemer, she may be reconciled 
 to Heaven, and by his divine assistance she may be 
 released from the corrupt propensities which ad-. 
 here to her nature, and may regain her long-lost 
 purity. Thus is a renovating change produced. 
 The soul is re-animated, and her faculties are once 
 more dedicated to the purposes for which they 
 were bestowed. The tumults of impurity are 
 succeeded by the sweet calm of holiness. She 
 learns to regard surrounding objects in their proper 
 light. She sees that the world was merely in- 
 tended for a momentary use and existence. Fare- 
 well then to the insane dependauce she formerly 
 reposed upon it ! She sees that her body, which 
 had formerly been the centre of all her hopes and 
 fears, is no part of herself, but merely a mansion 
 in which she is to move for an appointed time, of 
 the different parts of which, indeed, she is to 
 dispose, while she inhabits it, to the noblest ends, 
 but winch she shall shortly relinquish. Farewell 
 then to her former restlessness and anxiety for its
 
 1S25 
 
 welfare! It is unworthy of an immortal being to 
 indulge in painful solicitude for the fate of a 
 perishable frame. Shu looks on earth, as a sphere 
 through which she is to pass, an life, as the pe- 
 riod allowed for her journey, and on death, as the 
 summons which shall call her t . ?h. abode of 
 Him, whom to please is the stu , el o( her en- 
 passioned hope, whom to offend is the subject of 
 her anxious fear. As to the body, it is a galling 
 impediment to her in the exercise of her nergies ; 
 but she labours lo live distinctly from it, antl par- 
 ticipates but little in its concerns. Let it be 
 stretched on the couch of .--;: kness ; :iie flourishes 
 in undiminished vigour. Let it be racked \.ith 
 pain ; she smiles in the fulness of divine tran- 
 quillity. Let it be loaded with fetters, and cast 
 into the dark recesses of a dungeon; she spurns 
 the manacle, and rises with her native strength 
 into the regions of imagination. Larth and hea- 
 ven are open to her gaze ; she glides beyond the 
 stars, and penetrates into the unseen abysses of the 
 universe. Still in this life she is frail ; alas, how- 
 frail ! She fails in attaining the excellence of 
 purity which she desires, and her firmuess is too 
 often overcome by the tempting lollies she detc sis. 
 But she is supported by that Eternal lower, whose 
 succour shall never be supplicated in vain; and 
 the continual adversities, which chequer the pro-
 
 126 
 
 gress of life, confirm lier in her contempt of earth, 
 and her aspirations after a better country. And 
 her frailties shall soon be over. She advances in 
 wisdom, in perfection, and in happiness ; she is 
 more and more assimilated to the image of her 
 God; and when she shall have completed the 
 purposes for which she was sent into the body, she 
 shall be emancipated from its bondage : she shall 
 mount upon the wings of the wind, and ascend 
 triumphantly into the presence of her Father, to 
 repose for ever in his bosom, looking with pity 
 and with scorn on her former incumbrances of 
 flesh and blood, and viewing the earth from afar 
 as a rolling atom. 
 
 But I must restrain my careering fancy. If I 
 have grown more formal than the laws of corre- 
 spondence allow, and if what I have written is 
 more like a sermon than a letter, you must re- 
 member that I am just rescued from the verge of 
 the grave, and you will not wonder that these ex- 
 alted subjects are uppermost in my mind, and 
 that I wish them to be uppermost in the minds of 
 those I love. How contemptible do the frivolous 
 pursuits of life appear, when compared with those 
 which divine contemplation holds forward to the 
 view ! 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend: we cannot fully under- 
 stand these glorious subjects, while we are in this
 
 I 7 
 
 corner oi' the universe ; but we know enough of 
 them at present to sublime our thoughts, and re- 
 generate our desires, and they shall be amply de- 
 veloped to our understandings, in a happier land, 
 when our spirits are in a disembodied state. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! 
 
 Ever most truly and affectionately yours, 
 John Dawjus YYokgan.
 
 POEMS.
 
 " ' .
 
 POEMS. 
 
 RHAPSODY, 
 
 PARTLY IN IMITATION OF TIJJULI.US. 
 
 Say, for what peerless boon, what glitt'ring prize, 
 Should ardent vows with grateful incense rise ? 
 Not that a dome with lofty splendour crown'd 
 May spread my worthless glory wide around : 
 Not that my land a thousand plows may till, 
 And menial tribes await my sov'reign will ; 
 While wavy crops the laughing meads adorn, 
 By Plenty scatter'd from her golden horn : 
 Not that my chests may groan with brilliant or^, 
 And Fortune's gifts enhance my frugal store, 
 And Glory decorate my lowly name 
 With envied garlands of immortal fame: 
 K3
 
 132 
 
 But that my soul, by sacred Wisdom led, 
 May rest secure beneath some low-built shed, 
 And in thy love, Almighty Father ! blest, 
 Hail the sweet transports of eternal rest. 
 When vig'rous youth my rising passion warms, 
 And earthly scenes display their fading charms, 
 In this frail heart unchanging Monarch reign, 
 And o'er my will thy rightful sway sustain ; 
 My erring fancy and its pow'rs control, 
 And bind with cords of love my wand'ring soul. 
 In manhood's prime, and each succeeding stage, 
 Thou shalt alone my first, best thoughts engage : 
 Tost on the busy world's tempestuous sea, 
 My steadfast anchor shall be fix'd on Thee ; 
 And when decaying age shall damp my joy, 
 And the weak frame of human bliss destroy, 
 Let my glad breast with humble faith resign, 
 Trust in thy love, and on thy arm recline. 
 Then let rny soul (thy glories in her view) 
 From earth's drear wilderness her flight pursue, 
 Rest at thy feet, amid the prostrate host, 
 Who sound thy praises through th' empyreal coast ; 
 And there the counsels of thy mercy trace, 
 Sav'd by the riches of thy pard'ning grace. 
 ^ am are the ponderous loads of sordid gold, 
 A \ Inch the fond throng with eager joy behold. 
 r lho' plenteous harvests crown the yellow plain, 
 And splendid affluence spread her golden reign;
 
 133 
 
 Though many a dome, on Parian columns rais'd, . 
 Shine o'er the vale, with pageant art emblaz'd ; 
 Though grateful vistas meet the wond'ring eyes, 
 And lovely scenes in bright succession rise 
 Vain are the joys their various charms impart, 
 L nless thy presence cheer my pensive heart. 
 
 Though flowing vests adorn the glitt'ring side, 
 " Twice dipt in poison of Sidonian pride," 
 Vain are the honours of the Iberian coast, 
 Vain are the beauties Tyrian purples boast : 
 May that transcendent robe my soul array, 
 Dy'd in the blood that wash'd my sins away ! 
 Clad in this glorious dress, from terror free, 
 My longing eyes th' approaching Judge shall see. 
 
 Ye vain pursuits and transitory joys, 
 Which erring crowds with senseless ardour prize ; 
 Ye mystic rolls of philosophic lore, 
 Which learning's train with studious toil explore, 
 Ye blind delights, that charm th' infatuate great; 
 The lures of pleasure, and the pomp of state j 
 Say, can ye grant your vot'ries firm repose, 
 And shield from treach'rous friends and angry foes ? 
 Can all your boasted energies relieve 
 Afflictive care, and healing comfort give ? 
 To Fortune's fickle pow'r superior raise, 
 And guide their wandering feet thro' ilow'ry ways ? 
 And when grim Death shall point his fatal dart, 
 And pluck from earthly joys th' unwilling heart, 
 k3
 
 Say, can ye shed around a sacred ray, 
 And heav'nly comfort to the breast convey ? 
 Vain is each phantom on this earthly ball, 
 And in eternal night its brightest glories fall, 
 O let me rest in humble life secure, 
 Spurn the false world, and heav ? nly bliss ensure ! 
 Far from terrestrial joys and ravening strife, 
 Which fall, loud thund'ring, and embitter life, 
 Let me with peaceful competence reside, 
 And view secure the wreck of tow'ring pride ; 
 Let sweet Content her lasting joys afford, 
 And humble Plenty crown my frugal board : 
 Then shall mine eyes with pitying scorn survey 
 The fond delusive meteors of a day, 
 Which from the mists of erring Fancy rise, 
 And, vainly follow'd, mock the gazing eyes. 
 Then shall my thought with sacred fervour soft* 
 On seraph wing, and gain th' ethereal shore j 
 With Salem's beauty fir'd, the world despise, 
 And quit the rolling earth, to grasp the skies. 
 
 Redeeming Lord ! thy quick'ning pow'r exert, 
 And to thy law my rebel will convert. 
 Claim for thyself alone my worthless heart ; 
 Correct, refine, and purge its every part. 
 Break with strong hand th' oppressor's galling chuiu. 
 A*d in my breast confirm thy blissful reign.
 
 135 
 
 RETIREMENT 
 
 AN ODE. 
 WRITTEN IN JULY 1806. 
 
 I. 1. 
 
 Ye verdant glades and echoing groves ; 
 
 Ye streams, that lave th' enamel'd plain, 
 Where oft th' enamour'd Fancy roves, 
 
 And Virtue guides her chosen train 1 
 While Pleasure flutters on the wing, 
 Your charms my rustic pipe shall sing ; 
 
 And while th' advent'rous numbers flow, 
 Your tuneful strain, ye feather'd quires, unite ; 
 
 In softer gales, ye Zephyrs, blow ; 
 Ye blooming flow'rs, the ravish'd sense delight. 
 
 I. 2. 
 
 High in his flaming chariot borne, 
 Bright Phoebus darts a golden ray ; 
 
 The lark salutes the blushing morn, 
 And music breaks from every spray. 
 k 4
 
 136 
 
 Creation pours a general strain 
 
 To Him, whose bounty cheers the plain : 
 
 Secure the fleecy wand'rers sport, 
 And crop the meadow's dew-besprinkled bloom : 
 
 While Flora spreads her ample court, 
 And mingled sweets the spicy gale perfume. 
 
 i. 3. 
 
 .Now let us pierce the grove's embow'ring shade, 
 
 And gain th' aspiring mountain's arduous brow j 
 Gay dew-drops glitter on each spangled glade, 
 
 And freshen'd verdure smiles on ev'ry bough. 
 And see, what lovely prospects rise ! 
 
 With waving corn the vallies teem, 
 
 Which, gilded by the solar beam, 
 Like seas of gold enchant my eyes. 
 Here lofty Mendip lifts his tow'ring head, 
 
 And the twin brooks in friendly channels flow ; 
 Majestic oaks their rev'rend honours spread, 
 
 And tender saplings with soft foliage blow : 
 There hoarse Sabrina rolls her sainted tide, 
 And purling streams in smooth meanders glide.
 
 137 
 
 ii. 1. 
 
 While the warm eye with rapture strays 
 
 Through wide Creation's rich domain, 
 Or rambles in her woodland ways, 
 
 Or in her proud majestic reign, 
 All mortal accents are too faint 
 The magic of her charms to paint. 
 
 Come then, my Muse, direct thy way 
 Where gentler charms and milder beauties dwell j 
 
 There thou mayst tune thy wandering lav, 
 The praise of Piety and Worth to tell. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 Deep in the broider d vale's recess, 
 
 Evander's smiling mansion lies ; 
 Gay rural sweets the moments bless, 
 
 With Peace, immortal Virtue's prize. 
 Remote from Earth's tumultuous pow'r, 
 Devotion hails the lonesome bow'r : 
 
 Fair Concord lifts her laurel'd mien ; 
 Domestic joys enlivening bliss afford ; 
 
 And Love, to crown the joyful scene, 
 Spreads a fair offspring round tl>e friendly board.
 
 138 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 $o venal guardian damps th' unwilling hearts 
 With sordid precepts and monastic lore ; 
 
 The strenuous parent heav'nly truth imparts, 
 And various Wisdom opes her ample store. 
 
 The busy task Attention plies, 
 The list'ning children stand around 
 With gifts and genial praises crown'd, 
 While transport glistens in their eyes. 
 
 Now they review Creation's painted scenes ; 
 Now Wisdom's page inspires the faltVing 
 tongue, 
 
 Grammatic lore assiduous labour gleans-, 
 And infant voices lisp the sacred song. 
 
 Delightful scene ! let wond'ring ages find 
 
 The parent, tutor, friend, and guardian join'd." 
 
 in. 1. 
 
 Thrice happy seat of pure delight 
 These are the joys Retirement knows 
 
 Increasing pleasures charm the sight, 
 With downy peace and glad repose. 
 
 Ye sons of wealth ! your heaps enjoy r 
 
 Till sordid stores the bosom cloy :
 
 139 
 
 Ye sons of grandeur ! strain each nerve, 
 Uncertain praise and giddy pow'r to gain:-* 
 
 Let me a nobler bliss preserve, 
 And tread with humble feet the peaceful plain. 
 
 in. '*'. 
 
 Be mine to rise at earliest dawn, 
 
 And nature's bounteous King adore j 
 And wand'ring o'er the purple lawn, 
 
 To cull the meadow's balmy store. 
 Almighty Grace! with holy fire 
 My bosom warm, my heart inspire: 
 
 Let me, from earthly cares releas'd, 
 With humble ardour pour the suppliant voice ; 
 
 Ou hallow 'd joys for ever feast, 
 And fix on heav'n alone my steadfast choice. 
 
 in. 3. 
 
 Celestial Dove ! thy sacred succour bring ; 
 
 Teach me to wake the sweetly sounding chord,, 
 m pow'rful notes redeeming love to sing, 
 
 And Jesus' dying mercy to record. 
 My steps to Calvary's summit guide ; 
 Thence may reviving beams of light 
 
 Dispel the dreary shades of night, 
 And show how vain is earthly pride.
 
 140 
 
 Let Faith and Hope their healing balm bestow ; 
 
 Let heav'nly joys my drooping heart regale : 
 Thus let my life in placid currents flow, 
 
 With silent course, through sweet Retirement's 
 vale, 
 Till by degrees the less'ning shores retreat, 
 And circling waves the boundless ocean meet, 
 
 ^ 
 
 TO PEACE. 
 
 AvAUNT, detested fiend of war! 
 
 Hence with thy direful train : 
 Sheath, sheath thy sword, rush to thine iron car, 
 Drawn by red dragons o'er th' embattled plain, 
 
 And seek the realms of night again ! 
 
 Long lias thy sword been drunk with blood ; ' 
 Long has Despair impetuous stalk'd around, 
 Thick down the mountains roll'd the crimson flood, 
 And shrieks of woe the trembling shores resound. 
 "With heart of steel, and eyes of fire, 
 Swift to the Stygian depths retire ;
 
 141 
 
 Pale Hate, that licks a brother's gore, 
 With Envy, Pride, Ambition, Lust, 
 The panders of thy rage no more, 
 Hurl'd from their thrones shall bite the dust. 
 Ye brazen gates ! your massy folds upheave, 
 And all the bloody band receive, 
 Bound in an adamantine chain, 
 And whelm'd in fiery gulfs, for ever to remain. 
 But come from Heav'n, immortal Peace, 
 And bid discordant Fury cease. 
 Celestial Pow'r ! whose hallow'd sway 
 The blest empyreal plains obey ; 
 Haste, with gentle radiance crown'd, 
 Whose rays shall spread the earth around ; 
 Swift from thy golden throne arise, 
 And cheer Britannia's longing eyes : 
 In all thy soft undazzling pride 
 Through parting clouds triumphant ride: 
 Then let thy flame-wing'd coursers bear 
 Thine empty car through yielding air. 
 But thou, delightful Goddess ! deign 
 On earth to fix thy lasting reign ; 
 Gay tranquil joys to man restore, 
 And spread thy sway from shore to shore. 
 Where'er thy glad'ning smiles descend, 
 A lovely train thy steps attend : 
 Rich Commerce plows the watry main, 
 Fir'd hy tlie charms of useful gain :
 
 142 
 
 Crown'd with bright wreaths, the tuneful> T me 
 
 With votive lays adorn thy shrine ; 
 
 Fair Science sheds her cheering light, 
 
 And dissipates the mental night - r 
 
 Portentous Ignorance retires, 
 
 And Art her chosen band inspires. 
 
 pull-handed Plenty treads the lawn, 
 
 With roseate Health, at earliest dawn ; 
 
 And, dancing o'er th' enamel'd mead, 
 
 Their lovely. quire the Graces lead; 
 
 While fair Civility displays 
 
 Her friendly smiles and fostering rays. 
 Swift may the circling moments fly, 
 
 Till' man thy beaming car descry. 
 Thrice happy day, thrice welcome hour, 
 When earth shall feel thy tranquil pow'r ; 
 Then shall the thunders cease to roll, 
 Whose peals affright the turbid pole : 
 No more shall eager warriors rise, 
 Or the shrill clarion rend the skies ; 
 No more shall martial tempests roar, 
 Or deserts reek in human gore. 
 Where late the sanguine torrent roll'd, 
 The swains their waving crops behold. 
 
 ' The bending falchion cleaves the land, 
 
 .Obedient to thy blest command ; 
 The bloody sword and gory spear 
 Touch* by thy baud a acythfe appear;
 
 T43 
 
 Or in the rustic mansion lie, 
 The sport of tender infancy. 
 While many a falt'ring tongue repeats 
 His warlike grandsire's wondrous feats. 
 Wide o'er the rampart's mould'ring height, 
 Sweet verdure glads th' admiring sight, 
 And round the castle's shatter'd towers 
 Fair ivy twines her op'ning flowers. 
 
 No more shall fainting nations groan, 
 But thy celestial sceptre own. 
 T^e smiling meads shall laugh and sing. 
 Rich with the flow'ry gifts of spring ; 
 And warbling quires on every spray 
 Tune to thy praise the joyous lay. 
 Thy glittering temple shall arise, 
 And crown'd with beauty meet the skies. 
 There, with due homage, man shall bow, 
 And carol forth the grateful vow ; 
 And many an artless shrine erect, 
 With fruits and votive garlands deck'd. 
 No blood shall stain the sacred ground, 
 No victim feel the deadly wound ; 
 But vernal flow'rs of fairest hue, 
 And roses bath'd in sparkling dew, 
 With golden sheaves and purple wine, 
 By swains preferr'd, shall grace thy shrine. 
 
 When, in his golden chariot borne, 
 Bright Phoebus gives the rosy morn ;
 
 144 
 
 Or when, in milder beauty drest, 
 He deeks with gold the glowing west, 
 As oft the shepherd winds his way 
 Through meads with yellow harvests gay, 
 His oaten reed, with tuneful song, 
 The sweetly murmuring streams along, 
 To listening forests shall proclaim, 
 O lovely Peace.! thy darling name. 
 
 Fair Ceres' gifts, that gild the vale, 
 The placid eve, the balmy gale, 
 The purling rill, the friendly shade, 
 The meads with blooming flow'rs array 'd, 
 The rapturous music of the grove, 
 Where sportive tribes securely rove, 
 Shall sound thy praise in glowing strains, 
 Whose hand with plenty robes the plains, 
 Secures to man the blessings given, 
 And makes on earth a little heaven.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 A SUMMERS DAY 
 
 W IDE o'er the earth, iu sable clouds array 'd, 
 O'ershadowing Night extends her blackest shade 
 No cheerful moon displays her smiling mien, 
 No glimm'ring star illumes the dreary scene, 
 But drifting snows the labring earth assail, 
 And angry tempests desolate the vale, 
 While Boreas thunders with resistless force, 
 And stops with icy hand the streamlet's course. 
 Ah ! where is now Creation's blooming pride i 
 Where the gay scenes to vernal hours allied ? 
 No more the wild-bee murmurs o'er the lawn, 
 No more the lark salutes the rosy dawn ; 
 But while the groves by chilling blasts are torn, 
 And the bleak plains their rifled graces mourn, 
 L 2
 
 J4S 
 
 What shall the Muse's languid breast inspire, 
 Or bid her fingers wake the dormant lyre ? 
 Oft have I sat beneath the hawthorn bower, 
 While social converse cheer 'd the livelong hour, 
 Caught the wild warblings of the wood-lark's throat, 
 Or the lorn nightingale's enamour'd note ; 
 Where o'er each bank the blushing violets bloom'd, 
 And op'ning flow'rs the breezy morn perfum'd, 
 Led by retirement's hand, with glowing thought, 
 The tufted vale and echoing grove I sought ; 
 And, far secluded from the busy throng, 
 Wak'd on my jocund pipe the rural song, 
 And nurs'd the visions of romantic ease, 
 Sooth'd by the murm'ring sound of brandling trees. 
 But time has laid their verdant honours low, 
 And not a leaf adorns the whiten'd bough, 
 And not a warbler glads the cheerless day, 
 But Desolation sweeps her headlong way. 
 Yet though no more enchanting scenes invite, 
 Nor vernal charms the ravish'd sense delight, 
 Still may the Muse inspiring objects find, 
 And Nature's wealth enrich the Poet's mind. 
 iEthereal pinions memory's povv'r supplies, 
 And bids the soul with eager transport rise ; 
 Her magic hand a faithful glass displays, 
 To renovate the scenes of happier days ; v 
 
 Again the flow'rs of rich-rob'd Summer blow, 
 Again the fruits of purple Autumn glow :
 
 149 
 
 The musing heart, with oft-reverted glance, 
 Sees former joys in cheerful throngs advance. 
 Let others woo Diversion's treach'rous aid, 
 llie reeling dance, the courtly masquerade, 
 Urge the dull round of fashionable woe, 
 Groan as they smile, and sicken as they glow; 
 For them let Comus pour his venal strain, 
 With amorous nonsense, or the jest profane ; 
 For them let Drury's crowded scenes appear, 
 Rouse the false laugh, and prompt th' affected tear, 
 And midnight sports their fleeting years consume, 
 Till Death drives headlong to the yawning tomb : 
 Be mine the pleasures of the rural board, 
 Which sacred Science and Retreat afford. 
 Sweet Peace, an exile from the giddy throng, 
 Lifts her fair head Retirement's haunts among, 
 Imparts a blessing to the vain denied, 
 And lasting joys unknown to pompous pride. 
 O come, bright fugitive ! with blest control 
 Guide my rapt fancy, and exalt my soul; 
 O'er my glad heart thy genial warmth diffuse, 
 And aid with vivid pow'rs thy daughter muse : 
 Let memory's pow'r retrace the vernal scenes, 
 Unfading landscapes and perennial greens, 
 With fancied bliss amuse the vagrant thought, 
 And rove in fairy bow'rs, with deathless beauty 
 
 fraught. 
 
 L 3
 
 150 
 
 See, at her voice a new creation springs, 
 Exulting Fancy claps her eagle wings : 
 Swift o'er the clouds, by sportive zephyrs drawn, 
 Rob'd in the radiance of the purple dawn, 
 In magic hues, resplendent from afar, 
 The light-wing'd Goddess rolls her beamy car. 
 By her sustain'd, my soul the tempest braves, 
 Mounts o'er the tow'ring hills and foaming waves, 
 And glides, fair Millwood, to thy rural sheds, 
 Thy grove revisits, and thy vale retreads. 
 These, when effulgent Summer's liberal hand 
 Flung her gay flowrets o'er the laughing land, 
 To my rapt gaze their blooming charms display'd, 
 And woo'd me to their dear sequester 'd shade. 
 Now, when no more the scenes in prospect roll, 
 Their pictur'd views enchant the pensive soul, 
 And the fair visions of ideal joy, 
 Deck'd with fantastic grace, my captive thought* 
 employ. 
 
 Fair Mas the rising dawn : o'er every glade 
 Fresh verdure smil'd, and balmy zephyrs play T d : 
 When, ere the dewdrop left the spangled thorn, 
 Ere Titan's rays illum'd the dappled morn, 
 YVith Philidore I trac'd the dewy mead, 
 Where Nature's op'ning charms her votaries lead, 
 And stray \), Avonia, by thy wand'ring tide, 
 Where tow'ring Vincent bares her rocky side,
 
 151 
 
 And Bristol's turrets, gilt by Phosphor's beam, 
 Inverted glimmer in the tranquil stream. 
 Primaeval Peace her brooding wing unfurl'd, 
 And not a sound annoy 'd th' unconscious world ; 
 Save when, resounding from the dusky tower, 
 The slow-voic'd clock proclaim'd the passing hour. 
 
 Now when the mounting sun with orient ray 
 Glow'd o'er the hills, and gave the cheerful day, 
 Round the broad strand a ling'ring look we threw, 
 Thy mingled scenes, O Industry, to view, 
 And gaz'd admiring on the wealth-crown'd mart, 
 Blest with each gift of Nature and of Art, 
 The balmy produce of Sabaean fields, 
 And the rich stores that either India yields, 
 And oh ! how grateful to the judging mind, 
 By Virtue's heav'nly sympathies refin'd, 
 To view that mart, whose crowded vessels bore 
 The blood-stain'd offspring of Caffraria's shore, 
 By Slavery's guilty load no more debas'd, 
 But with the wealth of liberal Commerce grac'd ! 
 No more the tortur'd captive's piercing cries 
 Chill the 'pall'd heart, and reach the frowning skies; 
 But cheerful seamen wake the jovial strain, 
 To celebrate the glories of the main. 
 
 Now the proud dome, by pious Canning rear'd, 
 With awful grandeur in the skies appear'd ; 
 By virtuous toil in peerless beauty wrought, 
 Where many a sage religious dictate 's taught. 
 l 4
 
 1.5*2 
 
 .And here, in haunts to Sol's bright rays unknown, 
 Where Superstition rear'd her ebon throne, 
 Our pitying eyea surveyed the lonely cell, 
 Where Chatterton awoke the tuneful shell, 
 And bade his lyre the deep-ton'd music roll 
 With pleasing raptures o'er uY enamour'd soul. 
 Sweet Nature's child " accept the tribute paid 
 By fond affection to thy honour'd shade : 
 Though pallid want thy mortal hours distrest, 
 Thy genius wither 'd, and thy fires deprest ; 
 Still round thy grave unfading flow'rs shall bloom, 
 And weeping Muses ever mourn thy doom, 
 Bards yet unborn shall drop the kindred tear, 
 Embalm thy memory, and thy name revere- 
 Now, from the city's gloomy scenes withdrawn, 
 We trod th' enamel'd mead and verdant lawn, 
 Where laughing swains, with hearts for ever blithe, 
 Plied with assiduous hand the glitt'ring scythe, 
 And at each stroke the fairy webs o'erthrew, 
 From blade to blade prolong'd, and gemm'd with 
 
 dew. 
 Now o'er aspiring hills v e bc.it our way, 
 Pausing to catch the blackbird's mellow lay, 
 To pluck the wild-flow'r from its dewy eel!, 
 Or .count the herds that whiten'd o'er the delL 
 Where'er we gaz'd enchanting prospects smii'd, 
 And social converse the long way beguii'd,
 
 153 
 
 Till from the cloud-topt mountain's arduous height, 
 Iliy scenes, sweet Millwood, met the ravish'd sight. 
 
 Deep in a vale the decent mansion rose, 
 \Miere clust'ring c'nis the cultur'd plain enclose : 
 Full ninny a hamlet's lowly cots appear'd, 
 And loftier domes around their summits reared : 
 Here low-land meads display 'd thuir chequer r U 
 
 green, 
 There Mendip's oak-crown'd head co::nn'd the 
 
 scene; 
 Where heav'n-taught Mere in active virtue trod, 
 Friend of her race, of wisdom, and o( God ; 
 And gen'rous Whailey, rapt in rural ease, 
 His mansion shelter'd in embow'ring trees, 
 The lonesome woods with artful beauty grac a, 
 And crown'd with waving corn the brambled waste. 
 Yet nought so dear the wand'ring eye survey 'd, 
 As thee, lov'd Millwood, and thy sylvan shade, 
 W here tasteful Art and bounteous Nature mcet t 
 And heav'nly Peace sustains her blissful seat. 
 
 As the light skiff, impell'd by fav'ring tides, 
 On Avon's placid wave serenely glides; 
 So did my days in silent lapse succeed, 
 Crown'd with each pleasure, from each sorrow 
 
 freed, 
 When, cheerful Millwood, in thy shades embower'd, 
 High o'er the sceaes of earth my fancy tower'd :
 
 1J4 
 
 ^Jo more by visionary gleams misled, 
 
 To dazzling pride and syren pleasure dead, 
 
 My chasten'd soul renoune'd the dreams of youth. 
 
 And sought her pleasures in the arms of Truth ; 
 
 Celestial Peace her lasting joys infus'd, 
 
 And Nature's charms my sportive hours amus'd. 
 
 Oft would I rise, ere yet the morning beam 
 Chequer'd with roseate tints the twilight gleam, 
 Court the soft breezes on the fir-topt hill, 
 Or trace the windings of the devious rill. 
 The voice of joy is heard in every seat, 
 The heifer's low, the lambkin's tender bleat, 
 And plumy choristers from every tree 
 Pour the rich strains of nature's minstrelsy. 
 And while thy works a gen'ral anthem raise, 
 O Father of all Avorlds ! to sound thy praise, 
 Shall man alone th' adoring song deny, 
 And lift to Heav'n the vain-presumptuous eye: 
 No : at Religion's shrine, with filial joy, 
 Oft would my soul her noblest pow'rs employ ; 
 Oft would Devotion, with ecstatic lay, 
 By all but Heav'n unheard, her homage pay, 
 And bid the joys of blinded man farewell, 
 On Heav'n's anticipated bliss to dwell. .> 
 
 She points each work in Nature's mystic plan 
 To the unheeding heart of haughty man; 
 And as she gazes with reuew'd delight 
 On all the wonders of creating might,
 
 155 
 
 She wakes to artless notes the trembling string, 
 Loud in His praise, who gave the pow'r to sing. 
 Now when the sun with brighter radiance 
 glow'd, 
 To Millwood's dome my feet retrae'd their road, 
 Whose virtuous master bade his rural clan, 
 Ere the brisk hinds their daily toil began, 
 With duteous love th' Almighty King adore, 
 Resound his goodness, and his grace implore. 
 Ye senseless infidels, with jeering pride, 
 The suppliant voice of humble faith deride, 
 Your conscience lull, with mad'ning hopes elate, 
 And wander blindfold on the verge of fate, 
 Kiss the base chains that rivet to the earth, 
 And drown Reflection's call in boist'rous mirth ; 
 Yet pause awhile amid your festive roar, 
 And the scorn'd Christian's lowly cell explore : 
 His are the boundless joys ye seek in vain, 
 And his the peace, which Pride shall never gain : 
 Borne on the pinions of immortal faith, 
 With hope, triumphant o'er the pangs of death, 
 Still shall his bosom raise th' unceasing pray'r, 
 And trust the guidance of Almighty care. 
 The mighty Father of immortal years, 
 Who rolls in radiant march the circling spheres, 
 Bows to the suppliant voice a gracious ear, 
 Checks the lone sigh, and stops the starting tear
 
 \56 
 
 Soothes with immortal hope the eare-woni breast, 
 
 And gives on earth a gleam of heav'nly rest. 
 
 Ye sons of earth, pursue your giided toys, 
 
 And linger in the haunts of fleeting joys ; 
 
 The meteor happiness eludes your gaze, 
 
 And cadi light blast o'erlhrows the bliss you raise. 
 
 Now when the um had pour'd its hissing tide, 
 And China's stores our morning wants supplied, 
 Our strenuous thoughts to various labours bent, 
 The noontide hours in healthful cares we spent. 
 Thy voice, Evander, bade the menial throng 
 With cheerful mind their busy work prolong ; 
 Firm, though benignant, gentle, though severe, 
 While every rustic bent a duteous ear ; 
 And willing love a purer service drew 
 Than e'er the proud insulting tyrant knew. 
 And oft, by Virtue's gen'rous dictates led, 
 From plain to plain thy willing feet have sped ; 
 Thy liberal hand reliev'd Affliction's load, 
 And led the recreant step to Wisdom's road, 
 Pleas'd the drear haunts of latent woe to seek, 
 And wipe the tear from Sorrow's faded cheek, 
 While strong benevolence thy heart refin'd, 
 And Heav'n's own flame inspir'd thy vig'rousmind. 
 
 Here, from the scenes of crowded life retir'd, 
 By pure affection's warmest impulse fir'd, 
 Her infant train the mother's care instructs, 
 And the soft heart in virtue's path conducts.
 
 } 
 
 \$7 
 
 With flattering gifts and weM-tim'd praises crown'd, 
 'Hie list'nmg children j>i\ their tasks around ; 
 Th' expanding mind receives the sweeten'd lore, 
 And various Wisdom opes her ample stoic. 
 Thrice happy parents ! in whose blooming race 
 Each rising virtue blends wiln every grace ; 
 Thrice happy child rpn ! in whose rev'rend sire 
 Prudential care and watchful love conspire. 
 Suchcharmful scenes transcend the Muse's praise, 
 Too weak her lyre, too faint her loudest lays, 
 A tributary song in equal notes to raise. 
 
 Meanwhile, with glowing heart and hasty feet, 
 I bent my way to Learning's still retreat, 
 Where many a work of honour'd genius stood, 
 The golden records of the wise and good. 
 No senseless volumes, innocent of thought, 
 With empty words and idle fiction fraught ; 
 No visionary tales, supinely dull, 
 Yet oft of Folly's choicest treasures full ; 
 No novels, form'd to tarnish rising age, 
 And fan th' imperious passions' latent rage, 
 And with curst aim unguarded youth entice 
 To the wdd mazes of alluring Vice; 
 But ye, celestial train ! whose tow 'ring mind 
 Unwearied strove, to noblest, toils consigu'd, 
 To stem Profanity's impetuous tide, 
 Crush the proud bulwarks of triumphant Pridp,
 
 158 
 
 And advocate desponding Virtue's clause, 
 Deaf to the voice of censure or applause : 
 On every shelf your glorious labours shine, 
 Where heav'n-taught genius breathes in every 
 
 line, 
 And ^lowing Truth proclaims her source divine. 
 
 And not alone Religion's votaries meet, 
 But every science finds a welcome seat ; 
 Here bards*, by hallow'd inspiration taught, 
 Display the highest pow'rs of human thought. 
 
 Ye lovely monitors, whose cheering voice 
 Inspir'd your humble votary's earliest choice, 
 And cheated into joy my youthful hours, 
 With the soft magic of your tuneful powers, 
 When sportive childhood taught my feet to rove 
 To the still valley or the waving grove, 
 Dear were your numbers to my answering heart, 
 And bade each wish for empty mirth depart ; 
 Still let your guardian energies remain, 
 Still in my breast your wonted force retain ; 
 Lift my fond wishes from the toys of time, 
 Correct each passion, and each thought sublime. 
 
 And thou, companion of my youthful way, 
 Beloved harp, prolong thy tender lay. 
 
 * Milton, Young, Cowper, &c.
 
 159 
 
 Oft hast thou cheer'd my wand'rings in the vale 
 Of bitter tears, or giv'n the tender tale, 
 When Love's soft glow, or Fancy's glittering views. 
 With sweet enchantment could my hours amuse. 
 .And while my feet o'er life's bleak mountains 
 
 press, 
 Still let thy soothing tones my fancy bless ; - 
 Cheer the lone path, alleviate every care, 
 And the sweet songs of ardent hope prepare, 
 While Faith directs me to that joy-crown'd shore 
 Where sins annoy and dangers threat no more. 
 And when strong faith expires in certain bliss, 
 And Heav'n's full joys the povv'rs of hope dismiss. 
 Oh let me join the chorus of the sky, 
 Beyond the stars that deck the vault on high i 
 
 Then let my fingers touch a loftier string, 
 Then let my voice a louder anthem sing ; 
 My rescued soul ainid the chosen quire, 
 Sons of almighty Love, shall tune her lyre, 
 Low at His feet with holiest ardour fall, 
 Raise the full song, and hail him Lord of All ; 
 Whose bounteous arm for every want provides, 
 Whose mercy fosters, and whose wisdom guides! 
 
 Now when the cheerful mansion's rustic board, 
 W ith Nature's gifts in frugal plenty stor'd, 
 The full repast had spread for every guest, 
 JVy labour sweeten'd and by temperance blest,
 
 1 60 
 
 TI*e cheerful hours elaps'd in silent flow ; 
 
 Each heart was fii'tl with Friendships mutual 
 
 glow; 
 From Fashions dull frivolities released, 
 Each opening bosom shar'd the mental feast 
 Then the rich treasures of the letter'd page 
 With deathless charms our willing thoughts engage; 
 Pleas'd we survey, by faithful travelers shown, 
 The mingled beauties of each distant zone, 
 And then the moral strain our eyes explore, 
 And feast, O Virtue, on thy sacred lore. 
 Far was the sknd'rous fiend, whose venom 'd dart 
 Wounds with malicious aim the guileless heart* 
 Assails an absent neighbour s honest name, 
 Or nips the laurels of ingenuous fame, 
 No idle talk on fashion's varying course, 
 No empty mirth, detraction's endless source,- 
 But fairer scenes in heav'uly forms appeal", 
 And sweeter accents vibrate on the ear, 
 
 Such were the joys that serious thought endear \1, 
 Nor these alone our circling moments cheer'd ; 
 No stoic thralls the pining soul confin. 7 d 
 Or steel'd with apathy the listless mind ; 
 But guiltless Pleasure, in her maiden pride, 
 With all the sister Graces at her side. 
 O'er each warm heart her pleasing transports* she^ 
 Hy Reason cberish'd, and by Virtue fed*
 
 m 
 
 CursM be the wretch, who taught the baleful art, 
 Whose poisonous influence clamps th' aspiring 
 
 heart,* 
 Bow'd at the shrine of Prkle, and cali'd her 
 
 Truth, 
 And check'd the blameless energies of youth. 
 For say, did Heav'u th' unconscious heart ordain, 
 Senseless alike to pleasure and to pain r 
 
 But see, while Evening o'er the western main 
 Hails her bright star, the leader of her train ; 
 See, in Withe bands, by rustic, ardour sped, 
 The thronging tenants of the turf-built shed, 
 Guide o'er the plains, in russet garb array 'd, 
 The ripen'd produce of the teeming glade. 
 Their useful toils the high-pil'd harvests crown, 
 And Nature smiles in glories all her own ; 
 Gay peals of rapture fill the echoing bounds, 
 And " Harvest Home" from hill to hill re- 
 sounds. 
 In social converse, round the cottage door, 
 The merry swains partake their festive store, 
 And honest hearts, to Nature's feelings true, 
 The scenes of bliss with thankful hope review : 
 In soft responsive peals the village bells 
 With varying cadence cheer the broider'd dells ; 
 While calm Reflection, in the brown-rob'd w ood, 
 Pours her warm accents to the Source of good, 
 M
 
 \6t 
 
 And to His praise attunes her grateful pow'rs 
 Who bids the vales rejoice, and glads the laughin* 
 
 hours. 
 Ye too, whom infancy's fond bliss delights, 
 May share the joys which social mirth invites ; 
 For see, with lightsome heart, serenely gay, 
 Yon busy group direct their eager play. 
 
 When yellow radiance gilds the glimm'ring spires, 
 And twilight's hand unveils the starry fires, 
 Oft would I seek the closing hours of eve, 
 Pleas'd the false world, and all her pomps, to leave, 
 Watch the pale glow-worm's ineffectual beam, 
 Or Cynthia's image dancing in the stream : 
 Reflective Wisdom, with angelic mieu, 
 Has cheer'd my wand'ring in the silent scene ; 
 And while her heav'n-directed eye survey'd 
 Spring's varied bloom, or summer's grateful shade. 
 When the full year its plenteous produce shower'd, 
 Or ice-bound winter's foaming tempests lower'd, 
 Her glowing heart that Sacred Presence own'd, 
 Which, though in Heaven's empyreal height ea- 
 
 thron'd, 
 Conspicuous shines, with matchless might confest, 
 In the green vale by vernal flowrets drest, 
 As when his mandate rais'd the spangled pole, 
 And bade the starry train effulgent roll,- 
 As when cherubic harps his pow'r confess, 
 Aad flaming tongues his boundless mercy bless,
 
 163 
 
 From Earth's delusive pageantries retir'd, 
 Willi holy awe and peasive rapture fir'd, 
 She gaz'd enchanted on the bright abode, 
 Where countless worlds proclaim their forming 
 
 God, 
 And, joinM in spirit with th' angelic throng, 
 Breath'd from her glowing heart the vesper sorig. 
 
 Tims rlowM the tcnour of the livelong day, 
 Illum'd by sacred Pleasure's fost'ring ray, 
 When youthful Time prolong'd the joys of Spring; 
 And scattered blessings from her downy wing. 
 And say, can all the scenes of gro\ 'ling mirth, 
 Whose empty charms enthrall the sons of earth, 
 One wishful thought in Virtue's breast excite, 
 While scenes like these her passing hours delight ? 
 For me, whate'er the figritcbus doom ordains, 
 Enchanting pleasures or afflictive pair.s, - 
 O let me c till in rural ease reside, 
 Kant i;i 'the bliss to busy Pomp denied, 
 And, far remote from Fashion's giddy round, 
 Thy praise. Creator God, for ever sound ! 
 And oft. by memory lighted on her way, 
 With printlessYoiM sliu truant Fancy stray, 
 And thou', dear Millwood; in whose peaceful cells" 
 Fair Pleasure 'silmes and laughing Plenty dwells, 
 Where, crown' .1 with bliss, my light-wirigM mo- 
 ments new, " 
 With friends belov'd, and transports ever new, 
 M 2
 
 Though efftious F^ r6^lfife* ttiy distant stay,; v 
 Still shall re'RYembknte alt thy charms display, 
 M^wisHmiheaFt desires a kindred spot, 
 Some panned Valley; with a smiling cot, - 
 Where my- tb'd feel in rural peace may rest, 
 Freed from the ills that J>uy life invest. 
 There should the warblers unmolested roam, 
 And the lone robin find a welcome home ; 
 There the first violets of the spring should Wow > 
 And blooming flow'rs their mingled beauties show* 
 Around the porch should mantling ivy twine, 
 And spreading oaks support the clust'ring vine ; 
 Here, would kind Heav'n a lov'd associate send. 
 My life to solace, and my walks attend, 
 A book, my studious leisure to beguile, 
 With honest ease, and health's enchanting smile, 
 And the sweet muse each varied scene t' endear, 
 Exalt each pleasure, and each sorrow cheer, 
 Pleas'd would I pass my life's allotted hour, 
 Unenvious of the joys of pride or pow'r, 
 And earth's vain dross with pitying eye contemn, 
 Possess'd of Solitude's immortal gem. 
 Sworn to no system, blinded by no sect, 
 Come> hallow'd Reason, and my course direct \ 
 Oh ! teach my struggling heart, with heav'n-fix'd 
 
 choice, 
 To smile in sorrows, and in death rejoice - f
 
 16S 
 
 Blebt in the lot by guardian Wisdom given, 
 On earth to antedate the joys of heaven. 
 And when my feet have run their destin'd coutm, 
 Unnerv'd ray vigour, and extinct my force. 
 Freed from this cumbrous tenement of clay, 
 Let heav'n-born Peace illume my parting day ; 
 Led by His arm, who died from death to save* 
 My steadfast soul shall triumph o'er the grave ; 
 Faith shall direct iny wishes to the sky, 
 And holy Hope instruct me how to die. 
 
 ;;. i'x ' : . . ..;'; . 
 
 M
 
 
 , ijTij I',..'.' 1 .':- 
 
 C . .." w b'f! 
 
 ". 
 
 - I ''>.' '
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE 
 
 R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 (Author of " Elements of Self- Knowledge" " Mis- 
 cellanies in Prose and Verse," &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Occasioned by the Perusal of his ,( Kirkstall Alley-,* 
 a Poem. 
 
 1 low sweet the sacred Poet's tow'ring song ! 
 I low soothing to the soul the varied notes, 
 That warble from the lyre, by skilful hand 
 To magic tones attun'd! 'Tis sweet to hear 
 The choral symphonies of plumy throngs, 
 As, when the sunbeams glitter on the dew, 
 Their flowing accents bless th' Omnific Lord, 
 Who taught their tribes, by judging instinct led. 
 To rear the downv mansion, that derides 
 The toils of human art, and show'rs around 
 M 4
 
 168 
 
 His choicest favours. Glorious are the Jay*. 
 
 Of pious melody, when tuneful tongues,, 
 
 " 1 he pealing organ, and the pausing quire," 
 
 Raise the full anthem of celestial praise. 
 
 Yet sweeter yifcratea on the ravish'd soul 
 
 The Poet 's heav n-tauj;ht voice, when Fancy \yakea 
 
 The sow ding wire, anu nature's artless notes 
 
 Melodious echo from the past'ral reed, 
 
 When the rapt Muse in wisdom's lore instructs 
 
 The .viihng mind ;-? in pleasing bondage holds 
 
 Each vagrant thought, and stamps with lenient 
 
 hand 
 Fair Virtue's image on the yielding soul. 
 And still more potent flows th' aspiring note 
 When, l mid the moulding abbey 's lonely pile, 
 Stupendous wreck of ages, the glad soul 
 Wings from terrestrial scenes her daring flight ; 
 And pours in Reason's ear the solemn strains 
 That erst on Siloe's bank from Cherub's harp, 
 Sublimely broke : " Glory to God on high : 
 Peace to the jarring scenes of earthly strife !" 
 And Contemplation bids the chasten 'd thought, 
 Freed from its veil, review the mingled scenes 
 Of crowded life ; w ith filial awe confess 
 The present Deity, and humbly bow 
 With new-born fervour at his holy shrine. 
 
 Sweet, are creation's charms ; yet sweeter still 
 Ev'n Nature's beauties burst upon the sight.
 
 And livelier 'jfcys inspire, when raithful's'dngs- * ^ 
 
 To the mind's eye the vivid scene portTay. 
 
 Whate'er the spacious universe contains, 
 
 Of splendid, awful, beauteous, or sublime, 
 
 Still beams with brighter splendours on the soul, 
 
 With nobler graces, if the fav'ring Muse 
 
 Her pow'rful succour lend. The purling stream 
 
 More softly murmurs in the Poet's song ; 
 
 Creation's smile is brighten'd, and the quires 
 
 On every spray a sweeter anthem raise. 
 
 The Muse can bid the fading landscape glow 
 
 With never-fading colours, and restore 
 
 Each vivid scene that happier hours display'd. 
 
 These to the mind a secret charm convey, 
 
 That calms the turbid thought ; restrains the wish 
 
 That violates immortal Virtue's laws; 
 
 Blunts the keen dart of melancholy care, 
 
 Alleviates every sorrow, and inspires 
 
 Serenest joys and wisdom's pure delights. 
 
 Oft in meand'ring childhood's mirthful hours, 
 With airy freedom wand'ring from thy haunts, 
 Enchanting Fulneck ! and thy verdant seats, 
 My playful youth's abode, my careless feet 
 Have gaily rov'd among the lonesome wrecks 
 Of Kirkstall's ivied cloisters, and my eye 
 With sorrowing pleasure linger'd on the scene. 
 Oft have I carv'd my name with sportive pride 
 De^p in the tott'ring pillars, sculptur'd round.
 
 170 
 
 With frequent knife by many a rustic hand. 
 Oft have I proudly trod the moss-grown height, 
 Where erst religion's holy ministers 
 To list'nitig throngs proclaim'd the boundless love 
 Of HIM, whose fiat bade this goodly frame 
 From chaos rise, and bore the temper 'd soul 
 On strong devotion's eagle wing to Heav'n. 
 Here with faint ardour, down the naked aisles 
 I pour'd my feeble voice, and vainly strove 
 To bid the roofs re-echo to the sound. 
 Then gaily sporting on thy tufted edge, 
 Soft murmuring Aire! with juvenile compeers, 
 Have tried what prosp'rous hand could furthest 
 
 hurl 
 The fleeting stone ; and favour'd was the wight 
 By reckless youth esteem 'd, whose potent throw 
 Attain'd the distant shore : and oft supine 
 Reposing on the tufts that grace thy side, 
 Beneath the osier shade, my hands have cast 
 The dangling line, and with alluring bait 
 Entic'd the finny tenants of thy flood 
 To willing death ; and oh ! what speechless joy 
 Fir'd the glad bosom, when the yielding cork 
 Declar'd the certain prey, and, rear'd aloft, 
 The quiv'ring line display 'd the struggling perch,. 
 The glitt'ring gudgeon, or the pond'rous trout, 
 In ambient air suspended. Little thought 
 Unconscious youth of transitory time,
 
 171 
 
 Of duties undischarg'd, and many an hour 
 In idle sport. and thoughtless pleasure past. 
 Yet the fair scenes anius'd the languid years 
 Of growing childhood ; and my panting heart, 
 Whert the bright gudgeon trembled on my line, 
 Glow'd with as much delight, as graver heads, 
 Vot'ries of haughty mauhood's fonder game, 
 Feel when at grandeurs^nghestiaim-arriv'd, 
 Crown'd with insane ambition's brightest wreath, 
 For martial i victries, or the latent tracks 
 Of nobler art explored. 
 
 These blended scenes, 
 That charm'd my sportive childhood, still delight 
 The retrospective soul, when memory's hand 
 With glowing pencil draws each daisied mound, 
 Each o | >'ning prospect, and each placid joy 
 Which lur'd my infant feet, and every charm 
 That youth bestow'd. And well my pensive heart 
 Recalls the deepen'd awe, which Kirkstall's fane 
 Inspir'd, when first her wild majestic walls 
 Burst on my wond'ring fancy. Yet more fair, 
 With nobler beauty and sublimer awe, 
 They strike the bosom, in thy painting verse, 
 Instructive Dallas ! shown. Thy soaring notes 
 Give to each stone a more than mortal tongue, 
 And paint the vivid landscape to the soul, 
 In colours, ' brighter than the borrow'd hues 
 Of mimic art afford.
 
 1712 
 
 And not alone thy varied verse displays 
 Creation's beauties, but, in glowing strains, 
 Unlike the languishing seductive lays 
 Gf modern minstrels, rouses in the soul 
 Immortal flames, and bids the wond'ring eye 
 In every scene Creation'* form unfold .; - 
 Behold the Sacred Presence in the haunts 
 Of busy men, -through Nature's rural charm*, 
 The monld'ring abbey, and the rising pile, 
 The mazy streamlet, and the roaring flood, 
 Alike confest. How lovely to review, . / 
 With soul -ennobling glance, the vision'd scenes 
 Of human life ! How healthful to the mind ;."" 
 The noiseless hour, when silenc'd fancy lies 
 In silken fetters bound, and sinful man u* 
 
 Holds converse with his God ! Important hour ! 
 When conscience, faithful. monitor ! repeats , 
 Each latent crime, that, from th' untutor'd hours 
 Of giddy childhood to maturer age, 
 The blushing sun beheld. Though deepest shades 
 Of mantling night with tenfold gloom involv'd 
 The guilty deed ; though no terrestrial eye 
 Survey 'd; nor empty Rumour's brazen throat 
 To mortal ears declar'd: yet mem'ry's pow'r 
 At this still moment to the shudd'ring heart 
 Presents th' unhallow'd action, and, array'd 
 In hideous pomp, innum'rous phantoms. rise,, , 
 ITie ghastly spectres of each impious d#ed;.
 
 173 
 
 )Each slaughter^ hor! The bosom vainly strifes, 
 
 With ineffectual efforts, ., to- remove 
 
 IV unwelcome sight. She calls. the wanton aid / 
 
 Of Fancy to -dispel -the vengeful scene; 
 
 She bids the soul on future. pleasure dwell ; 
 
 Rove the gay round of visionary -bliss j. 
 
 Recall the past amusement, and depict 
 
 I deal scenes her haunting fears t' allay ; 
 
 Yet calls in vain ! for conscience still pursues 
 
 The struggling victim, -cries with thundering 
 
 voice, 
 " Your guilt confess in penitential tears, 
 Prone at your Maker's feet: while humble grief 
 Inspires the contrite pray'r and fearful sigh, 
 And warmly supplicates redeeming grace.'* 
 
 Urg^d with relentless speed, the rolling hours 
 Of mortal life depart ; with endless course 
 Year follows year, and every silent breath 
 Conveys us nearer to the fatal bourne. 
 Each year removes some pleasure that amus'd 
 Our former days : a rev'rend parent falls ; 
 A lov'd relation, or a faithful friend, 
 Life's noblest treasure, feels th' impartial stroke 
 Of all-consuming Death, and cries aloud, 
 In strains that will be heard, " Thou too must 
 
 fall! 
 Prepare* fond youth, prepare to meet tf>y< Gid H 
 The natal d*\ ^returns ; ifttemp'rate mirth; , * "
 
 174 
 
 The flowing goblet, and redundant feast, 
 Inflame the swelling heart with' venom'd joy, 
 Bid the swift hours with swifter course depart, 
 Each thought corrupt, nor leave a moment's pause 
 For calm reflection. Thus their hours recede : 
 And oh ! how few through Nature's peopled 
 
 bounds, 
 When the sad knell proclaims another year 
 For ever gone, like thee to serious thought 
 TV important period consecrate ; reflect 
 On Life's perpetual frailties, and confess 
 That earthly joys are vanity and Woe ! 
 How few, like thee, with penitent regret 
 Lament the waning hours of busy life 
 In bootless trifles squandered, and implore 
 Celestial grace, with animated hope 
 And glowing faith; to tread with constant step 
 Fair Wisdom's blissful paths ; with holy joy 
 To spurn terrestrial vanities, and grasp 
 With eager hand Religion's golden prize ! 
 
 Proceed, delightful bard ! to sacred strains 
 The hallow'd chords attune, and nobly raise 
 To sacred symphonies thy dauntless voice. 
 Let others pour the visionary song, 
 In tinkling measures, " innocent of thought,'* 
 Sooth the sad soul to sleep with lovelorn lays ; 
 Or the fond thoughts from Virtue's flow'ry path 
 To Vice's maze seduce with fatal art,
 
 175 
 
 More deadly than the Syren's luring song : 
 
 JLt others warble adulations note, 
 
 And lull with opiate fumes imperial pride, 
 
 Or titled vice : Ik: thine the nobler task. 
 
 T" attune celestial numbers, and repeat 
 
 To Albion's mirthful swains the solemn song. 
 
 And while each breast with youthful ardour glow*, 
 
 And fading pleasures lure the wand'ring feet 
 
 Far from the psitlii ot' dtiU and fl peace, 
 
 To gloomy deserts, let thy warning Muse 
 
 Sound on each heart, with heav'n-descended lav*, 
 
 Instruction's accents; / ice. ju misery guides, 
 
 Virtue to asaseJens OlUs. Tjioug-h blinded crowds 
 
 Scoli and deride, thy monitory ^ note, 
 
 Still shall fair Virtue's genuine children love 
 
 Thy welcome sung: a uever-dying fame, 
 
 Secure buyond th' assaults of giddy time, 
 
 Or envying censure, shall for ever crown 
 
 Thy steadfast labours. W heu the veual herd 
 
 Sink in oblivion's gulf, thy lovely Muse 
 
 Shall bloom in native charms", and future bard* 
 
 Embalm thy mem ry and thy name revere, 
 
 Keljgion's A'oet, and th' instructive guide 
 
 Aqd ^thful monitor of Albion's youth.
 
 176 
 
 BRITANNIA; 
 
 THE POLITICS OF A RECLUSE, 
 
 As the lone wand'rer from the beacon's brow 
 Astonish'd views the raging waves below ; 
 While fraught with death the mad'ning tempests 
 
 roar, 
 And many a wreck deforms the sea-beat shore,-* 
 He hears the Tempest Fiend wild tumult raise, 
 And the dire scene with pitying eye surveys, 
 Yet stands uninjur'd on th' impervious rock, 
 And braves the foaming billows' frustrate shock i 
 So, from Retirement's visionary height, 
 Oft has my fancy rov'd with eager flight; 
 Heard war's loud din re-echo through the land, 
 Seen slaughter'd myriads press th' itnpurpkd 
 
 strand, 
 While mad Ambition, and impetuous War, 
 Roll'd o'er the blood-stain'd earth their adamantine 
 
 car. 
 
 4
 
 T77 
 
 Yet oh ! remote within the hawthorn bower, 
 (Blest be th' Almighty Father's guardian power!) 
 Or gently wandering by the peaceful Chclt, 
 I heard of miseries vhjch other* felt. 
 The thunders roar'd around my peaceful cell, 
 But the red bolt on distant regions fell. 
 And as I lay, by dangers undistrest, 
 Far from the woes that other climes invest, 
 To Britain's God my grateful sow?* arose, 
 Whose pitying mercy crush'd her angry foes, 
 Bade the loud yell of inborn discord cease, 
 And gave the raptures of domestic peace. 
 
 O'er every clime where genial zephyrs blew, 
 And boisterous Ocean's billowy waters flow, 
 My tow'ring soul her vent'rous flight pursu'd, 
 Their manners noted, and their scenes review'd. 
 \ ot nought so beauteous on the varving globe, 
 \\ here fost'ring iEther spreads her ambient robe, 
 And nought so glorious could my fancy trace, 
 Deck'd with such matchless charms and lasting 
 
 grace, 
 As thee, fair Albion ! and thy sea-girt isle, 
 Where various gifts with envied lustre smile, 
 ffeytafce of Heav'n, whose spreading honours 
 shine, 
 From Greenland's deserts to the glowing Line, 
 W hose peerless- ijaviea plow the foaming tide, 
 Crown'd with triumphal wreaths and conqu'ring 
 
 pride;
 
 175 
 
 Blest be that Power, whose guardian love protect? 
 Thy favour'd regions, and thy bliss directs. 
 No blood-stain'd victors riot on thy plains, 
 Or load thy trembling sons with galling chains ; 
 No fearful clarion echoes through thy streets, 
 To rouse thy children from their lone retreats ; 
 No slaughter'd myriads welter in thy vales, 
 No plaintive murmurs fill the tainted gales. 
 Still, when the sunbeams glitter on the dew, 
 Thy rustic sons their peaceful toils pursue ; 
 The fleecy wanderers crop the flow'ry food, 
 And plumy songsters warble through the wood ; 
 No mad'ning foes thy rural scenes invade, 
 But Ceres' gifts replenish every glade ; 
 The wild bee murmurs through the blooming field?, 
 And the glad year its pregnant produce yields ; 
 And oft at evening, round the cottage door, 
 Thy vig'rous swains partake the frugal store, 
 Quaff the full bowl, the lovelorn ditty sing, 
 And shout, Long live Britannia's glorious King ! 
 
 And not alone with nature's bounty blest, 
 Thy peaceful sons enjoy perpetual rest ; 
 And not alone Abundance crowns thy marts, 
 And social quiet every bliss imparts ; 
 But nobler gifts propitious Ileav'n allows, 
 And fairer blessings claim thy grateful vows: 
 For on thy plains, in native splendour bright, 
 Divine Religiou sheds her cheering light ;
 
 The shades of blinded' ignorance dispels,' 
 And in the favbnr'd land conspicuous dwells; 
 "With sacred light her glowing lustres show 
 The path to ceaseless bliss or lasting woe'; 
 Her faithful powers illume the grov'ling crowd, 
 Exalt the humble, and -abase the proud; 
 And many a Porteus, fir'd with holy zeal, 
 Bids erring man his guilty nature feel, 
 Willi heav'nly truth assails the deafen'd ears, 
 Or with sweet strains the contrite bosom cheers ; 
 Then to the Cross the wounded sinner guides, 
 To wash for ever in the crimson tides. 
 See Superstition, mantled in a storm, 
 Hies from the plains, and hides her hagard form- 
 While pure Devotion from the sky descends, 
 Thy glory fosters, and thy peace defends. 
 
 And o'er thy meads, adorn'd with blooming 
 flowers, 
 Life's noblest bliss, immortal Freedom towers; 
 Alike the peasant and the prince protects, 
 Binds in one chain and by one law directs. 
 Not lawless Anarchy, whose hell-born sway 
 Lures the fond crowd, then tramples on her prey ; 
 Not the fell fiend whose pow'r by myriads curst, 
 In ruthless mis'ry Gallia's realms immers'd; 
 But sacred Liberty, divinely fair, 
 Friend to the world, and Nature's darling care; 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 From clime to clime by rev'rend sages ledj 
 By Reason foster'd and by Virtue fed. 
 Her cheering vigour to thy sons decreed, 
 Crowns every bliss, and gladdens every mead; 
 High o'er thy realms, unmov'd by party strife, 
 She guards their peace, their treasures, and their 
 
 life, 
 Hurls into night Oppression's murd'rous band, 
 And heaps with lasting joys thy favour'd strand. 
 
 Rage, ye loud storms ! assault our peaceful shore ; 
 Ye wild winds 1 riot, and, ye tempests ! roar : 
 While sacred Liberty, with eye serene, 
 Smiles on our plains, and animates the scene ; 
 While pure Religion darts her heav'nly ray, 
 And rich-rob'd vales their plenteous gifts display^ 
 Still shall our voice th' Almighty Maker bless, 
 Resound his goodness, and his pow'r confess. 
 
 Frail are the sons of earth. Her brightest 
 climes 
 Groan with increasing guilt, and countless crimes * 
 Yet thee, with Heav'n's peculiar bounty blest, 
 My natal shore ! peculiar crimes infest, 
 And basest sins almighty love requite, 
 While Seraphs shudder at the fearful sight. 
 
 . Stay, stay, ye sporters on Perdition's brink, 
 Behold th' expanse below ! behold, and think ;. 
 Ere yet the quiv'ring thunderbolt shall fly, 
 While mercy yet receives the suppliant cry y
 
 Ye sons of Albion's guilty shore ! be wise ; 
 No more your Maker's proffer'd call despise ; 
 With humble penitence approach His throne, 
 To whom the secrets of each heart are known ; 
 Attend the mandates of his gracious will, 
 And sacred Virtue's heav'nly calls fulfil, 
 Lest, when too late, you mourn th' avenging rod, 
 Vindictive thunders, and an angry God. 
 
 N
 
 
 
 AN HYMN, 
 
 .- '. . 
 
 i i 
 
 TRA5)ISLATEI> FROM THE HEBREW. 
 
 Th' Almighty Lord, whose sovereign sceptre sway'd 
 Yon azure plains, by trembling hosts obey'd ; 
 Ere in the void the starry orbs were hung, 
 Or Nature's goodly frame from Chaos sprung ; 
 What time, arising at his plastic word, 
 The fair creation own'd its glorious Lord ; 
 Then was he hail'd " Supreme, eternal King," 
 While prostrate angels touch'd the golden string. 
 And when the orbs that gild the sky decay, 
 And earth in wild confusion fades away ; 
 He will alone, tremendous Monarch, reign, 
 And arm'd with endless might his sway sustain. 
 
 He was, he is, and shall for ever be, 
 Crown'd with immortal pow'r and majesty. 
 He is the glorious One ; and who can vie 
 With Him, whose nod controls th' obedient sky ? 
 No second pow'r his mighty sway can share, 
 Or with the. Source of life and strength compare. 
 
 From vast eternity his reign began, 
 And v ith swift course through circling ages ran ;
 
 183 
 
 And when revolving years shall cease to roll, 
 And fleeting suns forsake the darken'd pole, 
 Nought shall Jehovah's boundless age confine, 
 Contract his pow'r, or bid his love decline. 
 His sure control shall swaj the seas and land, 
 And conscious worlds obey his high command ; 
 While the bright hosts that tread th' empyreal plains, 
 With sacred awe confess, " Jehovah reigns." 
 
 This is the God, in whom my soul confides, 
 Whose guardian care my feet in safety guides. 
 This the sure friend, whose arm my life redeems, 
 This the blest fount, from which my comfort 
 
 streams ; 
 This is my steadfast rock ; " a rock that braves 
 The raging tempests, and the rising waves ;" 
 1'n m in his strength I dwell in soft repose, 
 And view secure the rage of angry foes. 
 
 My glorious banner, my divine retreat, 
 My blissful lot, with heav'nlv joys replete ; 
 A\ hose gracious ear my suppliant voice attend?, 
 W hose powerful arm my trembling life defends ; 
 My guardian bulwark, and almighty shield, 
 'Tis to thy care with joyful trust I yield ! 
 By day and night with gracious hand protect, 
 And through the maze of life my steps direct. 
 The Lord is mine ; secure in him i rest, 
 /"ear shall no more invade my tranquil breast. 
 
 N 4
 
 18* 
 AD ILLUSTREM JOHANNEM RING, 
 
 LONDINI 
 
 CHIRURGUM CELEBERRIMUM, 
 
 J.D.WORGAN S.P.D. 
 
 1LLTJSTKISSIME VIE, 
 
 Accipe ignoti tibi poetae munuscula ; 
 erroribus veniam concedas, juvenisque qui vix sex- 
 decern annos vidit, ignoscentia relegas poemata. 
 Non hercule poeseos nitore, non Horatii ant 
 Ansteii divino cestro, mea carmina exornantur : 
 ast 
 
 Ulud amicitiae sanctum et venerabile Numen, 
 
 me quoque tuas laudes iniquo tentare carmine 
 jussit ; et dum Jenneri, tuisque laudibus, extrema 
 terrarum littora resonant, 
 
 Et meae (si quid loquar audiendum) 
 Vocis accedet bona pars. 
 
 Vale. 
 Cheltenham, 
 
 JawJarits ~Calcndis } 1807.
 
 185 
 
 AD ILLUSTREM JOHANNEM RING, 
 
 tONDlNl 
 CHIRURGUM CELEBERRIMUM. 
 
 Arms ? Qui soni tus auribus irruunt I 
 Q:-v voces, miserum mist ululatibus, 
 Europze subito terrificant metu 
 
 G elites, cordaque permovent ? 
 
 Audin ? Jam videor cernere fervidos 
 Heroas, gladios sanguine sordidos 
 Stringentes ; resonant litora martio 
 Fletu, terraque coutremit. 
 
 Bellatorum alii facta furentium 
 Stridenti celcbrent carmine, sertaque 
 Nectent temporibus : Non cithara graves 
 Martis conveuiunt modi. 
 
 " Nymphae, noster amor," Pierides metu 
 Perculsse fugiunt, et trepide" petunt, 
 Quern digna decorent laude, et houoribui 
 iEternis cumulent lvrae,
 
 Jam jam perspiciunt turbida Iitora, 
 AltvL et voce rogant : " Quis bonus adstitit 
 Moarenti patriae ? Quis bonus emicat 
 Humani generis pater ? 
 
 " Quis, stans intrepido corde, calumnias 
 Audacesque miuas provocat hostiutn . ? 
 Colli et munifico percitus ambitu, 
 Aufert teirigenis mala r 
 
 " Illius decorent tcmpora floribus, 
 Formosaque hedera, Pimpleidum chorus ; 
 Illius citharae factaque praedicent 
 Humani generis patris." 
 
 Non dux, terrificum militiae decus, 
 Non cristatus eques, turbave bellica ;- 
 Illoium comitat pallida mors viam, 
 Dura et subsequitur fames. 
 
 Non qui, luxuriis doctus inanibus, 
 Consultus vacuse stat sapientiae : 
 Horum vana perit gloria, firmaque 
 \ irtus nomiua rejicit : 
 
 Sed qui, despiciens munera divitum, 
 Funestis hominum prrebet opem malis ; 
 Vitam paciricis excolit artibus, 
 Genti vincluque sijbievat.
 
 w 
 
 Vos ergo, celebres, litoris Angliei 
 Splendor ! Vos, medici ! Tuque, salutifer 
 Ringt, pernetua? mcenia gloria?, 
 Scanaetis pede prospero. 
 
 En! quali radio tilius emicat 
 Sabrina; ! rutiium laudibus efferel 
 JN'omen posteritas, grataque concinet 
 Vaccina? slrenuum patrein ! 
 
 Nee, Rinoi, merita? percipient tun 
 Laudis facta minus : vivet in omnia 
 Clarum saecla decus, nescia termini 
 Stabit famaque debita. 
 
 Musarum eximiis lauribus emines 
 Ciiigcnddfl, propria luceque splendidus ; 
 Sen pollente manu pallida febrium 
 Pergas agmina pellere ;- 
 
 Sen, fnlgore mirans, JEgida proferas 
 "\ accina? rutilam ; dextraque, lane earn 
 X)i viiiam quatiens, Variol* fugam 
 Invisae pueris dedit. 
 
 Augustas miseris turba parentium 
 Complebant ululans moenia fietibns, 
 t lugent lucrjmis (heu ! nhnis irritis ! ) 
 Jvlatris vulnere ^uudiuiru
 
 I8& 
 
 Abreptum subito, et virginis ictibus 
 Mactatam faciem, jam gemitus sonant ;*- 
 Frustra ; non speciem restituit dolor, 
 Saevae aut Persephoni placet. 
 
 Tu, Ringi, studio gnarus Apollinis, 
 Matrum perpetuis corda timoribus 
 Solvis, suppeditans scutum adamantinum. 
 Coelesti auxilio potens, 
 
 Dilectae soboli praesidium dare :- 
 Jam crebre volitent ebria sanguine 
 Circum Variolas spicula provocat 
 Pubes incolumis minas. 
 
 Indefessus iter carpis in avias 
 Mendacum latebras, laetus et eripwi 
 Insanae tegumen nequitiae, genus 
 Firma suppliciis manu. 
 
 Vecors afficiens : caeca cohors furat 
 Insana rabie ; spargat anilibus 
 Commenta Improbitas nisibus ; aureg 
 Perstat, te duce, Veritas. 
 
 Et (seu magnanimus, concutiens comas, 
 Invictis domitor viribus insilit 
 SUvarum, trepidis agminibus ferum, 
 
 lustautem juiuitans necem,
 
 189 
 
 T.t crcbro laccrat corpora vulncre ; 
 Dum, terrore citi, corripiunt tugam, 
 Et spelaa pf Unit, nocte recondite, 
 Svlvasqne haud penetrabiles 
 
 Titanis radio:) Sic, rapido pede, 
 Vaccinas stolidi.s irruis hostibus ; 
 IS'ec, pergcns alacer, pr&lia deseris, 
 Donee victa jacet cohorts, 
 
 Invitoque gradus retrakit ; irritam 
 Exhalans rabiem, falsaqne compitis, 
 Mendacis cerebri progeniem, ferens, 
 Nativas tenebias petit. 
 
 Sublimi solio, Variolam fugan.s, 
 Jam I aciMna sedet ; 'ZVqae perennibus 
 Victorem probitas laudibus accipit, 
 Numen grataque pradicat. 
 
 Nee tantum medicis praeditus artibus 
 Splendes : umbo tnus muncra pnt'buit 
 Phutbus : Pa?oniam scire potentiam, 
 Dextram viribus instruetis ; 
 
 Et pulsare manus didciaona? fide* 
 Aurato docuit pectine fta^QiTiS, 
 Atque os pmecipuit fundere cannula, 
 Sacro numine pcrcitum.
 
 190 
 
 Quam suavl rithara Pieris Handel* 
 Divinam cecinit gloriam, honoribas 
 Laetis commemorans nomen, et emula 
 Fulgens splendida Batik 
 
 Ansteius, propriis praedita gratiis, 
 Cui splendet salibus lucida pagina, 
 Vestris auxiliis matribus Anglicis 
 Vaccinas recinit decus. 
 
 Et nunc Agricolis docta Britannicis 
 Reddet Virgilii Musa GeOrgica : 
 Heus ! tandem propera, neve diutius 
 Secretum teneas opus. 
 
 Matris progeniem donee Amor fovet 
 Ferventi gremio : donee imagiueni 
 Ipsius genitor diligit, almaque 
 Mortales Pietas regit : 
 
 Exardens juvenum dum recolit cohors 
 Artes ingenuas, Musave pectora 
 Vatum laita movet ; Jumque levamina 
 iEgrotis meciici ferunt ; 
 
 Vestris attribuet Candida Veritas 
 Laudem promeritis : nil valet hostium 
 Mendacum rabies : nil mains impetus 
 Rupes aquora provocat. 
 5
 
 19i 
 
 O ! vobis facilis lentaque profluat 
 Annorum series ; lenia prabeat 
 jEtemus Genitor gaudia, termiiium 
 La-tumque accipiet dies. 
 
 J. D. VV.
 
 192 
 
 AN ELEGY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1807. 
 
 Bv the pale embers of the fading fire, 
 
 Rapt in the dreams that Hope and Love inspire, 
 
 I keep my vigils, list'ning to the gale 
 
 That makes wild music down the twilight vale. 
 
 When the tir'd sense is hush'd, and calm repose 
 
 Steals o'er the heart at ev'ning's tranquil close, 
 
 'T is sweet to bid a crowded world farewell, 
 
 And seek ideal bliss in Fancy's cell. 
 
 Touch'd by her wand the thronging thoughts aris 
 
 From earth's dim scenes, and mingle with the skies. 
 
 'Hie raptur'd soul escapes her mortal frame, 
 
 A nd speeds her vent'rous course on wings of flame, 
 
 Pierces the shades of night with eagle gaze, 
 
 Or looks undazzied on th' empyreal blaze, 
 
 Hides on the pennons of embattled storms, 
 
 And holds high converse with aerial forms 
 
 Rut hark ! on yonder blast what accents float ? 
 
 Tis the .ad death-bell flings its hollow note 5
 
 19$ 
 
 It bids my mind from airy visions turn, 
 The sad realities of life to mourn. 
 And has stern Fate against thy throbbing heart 
 At length, my Ambrose, hurl'd th' expected dart? 
 Too sure thy doom is fix'd : the passing bell 
 Gives to the murm'ring winds thy mournful knell. 
 Methinks the spirits of the night I hear 
 Their mystic dirges muttering o'er thy bier ; 
 Methinks the lineaments of death [ trace, 
 The sunken eyeball, and the livid face ; - 
 The shroud's dim folds thy wasted limbs array, 
 And fierce Corruption hovers for her prey. 
 
 Adieu, fair Fancy, to thy glitt'ring views 5 
 Their charms are dimm'd by Sorrow's blackening 
 
 hues : 
 Take the dear phantoms from my musing soul, 
 Which awful thought and hallow 'd grief control. 
 
 Ambrose, thy race is run, thy toils are o'er ; 
 Thou dwellest where distress can wound no more : 
 In the still paths of life thy feet have trod, 
 And soon shall rest beneath the peaceful sod. 
 What though no trophies glitter to thy praise, 
 Nor Glory greet thee with her echoing lays : 
 Thine is a nobler boast ;- with moisten'd cheek 
 Thy narrow dwelling-place shall Friendship seek, 
 And Truth, thy leader through the paths of earth, 
 Shall teU thy children of departed worth,
 
 194 
 
 And say, while pity heaves the sigh sincere, 
 u A son of honour'd Virtue slumbers here." 
 
 That hand, which lies transform'd to pallid clay-, 
 lias wip'd the tear from Sorrow's cheek away : , 
 That deafen'd ear has caught the half-breath'd sigh 
 Of modest Want and hapless Industry : 
 That silenc'd tongue has wak'd the mirthful glow, 
 Or bade the strains of sacred Wisdom flow : 
 .And in that lifeless heart, (though stain'd within, 
 And stamp'd with many a trace of native sin,) 
 Yet Holiness a new-born dwelling rcar'd, 
 Where each bright grace of heav'nly growth ap- 
 
 pear'd ; 
 New life she gave, and righteousness, and peace, 
 From Him, whose pard'ning mercies shall wot 
 
 cease ; 
 Rous'd by her quick'ning pow'r, the heart arose 
 Triumphant o'er the world, its joys, and woes ; 
 And, as on earth it own'd a Saviour's love, 
 Is own'd by Him before the hosts above. 
 
 Lamented and rever'd ! shall artless Truth 
 Speak thy fall honours through the lips of youth; . 
 And though thou scarce hast known my humble 
 
 name, 
 Shall my wild harp thy virtuous praise proclaim * 
 Yes ! for the sons of Virtue shall be dear 
 To every heart, and claim the general tear-
 
 195 
 
 And though, by Fortune's varying will oppresf, 
 Ne'er was my bosom with thy friendship blest ; 
 Ne'er did mine eyes behold thy mortal form, 
 Ne'er did thy voice my kindred fancy warm ; 
 Still o'er thy tomb, by sacred sorrow led, 
 Let the fond muse her humble offering shed ; 
 Weep for her woe, whose burstiog sighs bemoan 
 Her tender guide and Iov'd associate flown ; 
 Weep for thy babes, on life's wide ocean tost, 
 Their watchful sire aud steadfast guardian lost ; 
 Weep for the poor, whose tearful eyes behold 
 The dark damp vault their strenuous friend enfold; 
 Weep for myself, lamenting thou hast died, 
 Ere mutual friendship had our souls allied. 
 
 But see ! what rays the midnight shades illume ; 
 What heav'nly splendours pierce th' incumbeut 
 
 gloom ! 
 Cherubic glories beam along the sky, 
 And angel forms salute the wondering eye ! 
 Mute be the plaintive note ! I rise ! I rise ! 
 Immortal Faith her eagle w ing supplies : 
 She lifts my fancy from the tufted sod, 
 To Sion's mansions, and the throne of God. 
 Hush'd be the voice of woe ! celestial peace 
 Calms my sad soul, and bids the tumult cease. 
 Methinks, transported to that blissful shore, 
 Where* heavenly quires Almighty Love adore,
 
 196 
 
 My ravish'd eyes inmnnerous throngs behold 
 Strike with ecstatic joy their lyres of gold, 
 And round Jehovah's awful throne unite, 
 In emerald crowns and robes of ambient light. 
 And who are they, yon bright exulting band, 
 Who round their Father King for ever stand ; 
 With grateful zeal prolong th' adoring strain, 
 And shout, " All glory to the Lamb once slain?" 
 These are the ransom'd throng, who firmly press'd 
 Through life's rough storm, with hoav'nly succour 
 
 bless'd ; 
 These are the joyful train, whom hallow'd woes 
 Bade on their Saviour's dying love repose : 
 Now, as with Him they surTer'd earthly care, 
 With Him they rest, and all his triumphs share* 
 
 And who is he, that shines with vivid grace, 
 While sacred beauty sparkles in his face ; 
 Who wakes to sweetest notes th' obedient lyre, 
 While speechless joys his ravish'd thought inspire i 
 T is Ambrose ! It is he ! Methinks I view 
 His visage crown'd with splendours ever new ; 
 And oh ! how alter'd from the child of woe, 
 Depress'd by sickness, and the fatal blow ! 
 Beyond the tow'ring fancy's loftiest sway, 
 In realms of aether and immortal day, 
 High on a radiant throne he sits sublime, 
 And views with pitying scorn the scenes of time,
 
 197 
 
 lie sees the guilt-stain'd pageantries of Earth, 
 How brief her glories, and how vain her mirth; 
 And, could a thought of mortal misery dart 
 Across the perfect angel's glowing heart, 
 Fain would he cry to many a blinded throng, 
 " How transient time ! eternity how long !" 
 And bid each gale the solemn strain repeat, 
 " Prepare, fond man, prepare thy God to meet." 
 
 Cease then, my soul, thy fruitless murmur still. 
 And bow obedient to the Sovereign Will. 
 That death, which prompts thy fondly-mournful 
 
 plaint, 
 Bore to celestial peace the conquering saint. 
 
 And thou, blest partner of his ardent love, 
 Dooin'd the full powers of grief and joy to prove, 
 Oil ! cease to mourn the frowns of alter'd fate, 
 Thy lost associate, and thy widow'd state. 
 Surrounding griefs may damp the starless night, 
 Prompt the deep sigh, and many a tear excite ; 
 But heav'n-born rays shall deck the morning skies, 
 And the bright sun with healing beams arise. 
 There is a Power Supreme, whose mighty swa) 
 With prostrate awe contending worlds obey ; 
 Oh! let thy soul his cheering voice attend : 
 " I am the drooping widow's changeless friend ; 
 And I will stand the orphan's faithful guide, 
 Crush every foe,- for every want provide.'* 
 o ::
 
 198 
 
 His plastic word th' aerial plaia controls, 
 Guides the wide world, and rules the spangled 
 
 poles ; 
 And shall not He thy bounded wish supply ? 
 Oh ! banish fear, and on his arm rely. 
 Still shall his guardian care thy steps direct, 
 Thy children foster, and thy cause protect ; 
 Blunt the keen darts of anguish as they fly, 
 And wipe the tear-drop from each moisten'd eye, 
 Till, when thy soul, from mortal bondage freed, 
 While earth-born glories from thy view recede, 
 Mounts on the wings of Hope, and borne above 
 To the blest regions of delight and love, 
 Thy bounding feet the sacred mansions tread, 
 And lambent glories deck thy star-crown'd head. 
 And while th' unutterable transports rise, 
 Thy long-lov'd Ambrose shall salute thine eyes ; 
 There in ecstatic bliss your souls shall meet, 
 Your crowns of glory cast at Jesus' feet ; 
 Join with seraphic hosts the duteous lay, 
 Your Saviour God adore, and endless homage pay. 
 
 And ye, who weep for your departed sire, 
 While big tears roll, and mutual groans transpire, 
 Oh ! while you mourn the father and the friend,, 
 His dying precepts let your hearts attend. 
 Bid the pure signs of holy grief appear, 
 And bow to Wisdom's voice a willing ear :
 
 199 
 
 And while your feet o'er rising life shall stray, 
 And many a .care annoy the toilsome way, 
 Oh ! keep your father's image still in view, 
 His virtues emulate, his course pursue ; 
 Live, by fair Virtue's genuine sons belov'd, 
 And die, by Conscience and by Heav'n approv'd* 
 
 Blest spirit ! if, yon starry spheres among, 
 Thine ear can listen to a mortal's song, 
 Smile on the warblings of a weak-ton'd lyre, 
 Which Friendship wakes, asTruth and Love inspire 
 And oh ! may he, whose feeble hand would raise 
 To sacred worth a monument of praise, 
 Tracing thy progress to the world unknown, 
 Aspire with thee to hail the Saviour's throne ! 
 When circling years the solar beam obscure, 
 There may we shine, of endless joy secure ; 
 When the dim stars driv'n from their centre fly, 
 And lawless ruin sweeps th' embattled sky, 
 Still shall his arm our faith and hope sustain ; 
 Still shall we bask in Sion's griefless plain ; 
 Smile at frail earth in countless atoms hurl'd, 
 Expiring nature, and a flaming world ; 
 Join the full concert of uniting spheres, 
 Rise o'er the wrecks of time, and bloom in endless 
 years. 
 
 4
 
 AN ADDRESS 
 
 ROYAL JENNERIAN SOCIETY, 
 
 ton THE EXTERMINATION OF THE SMALL-POX, 
 BY VACCINE INOCULATION ; 
 
 0V T3SIR aHNirERSAKX FSSTlfAl, MAT I^TH, l8ofc
 
 AN ADDRESS*, 
 
 Loud sounds the clarion through the turbid air,-~ 
 Wide o'er the plains impetuous legions glare; 
 To arms' To arms! the panting heroes civ, 
 To arms ! To arms ! the vocal shores reply. 
 Britannia's sons die patriot impulse feel, 
 Rush to the fight, and bare the conqu'ring steel ( 
 While martial ardour fires the dauntless throng, 
 And raptur'd Poets raise th' inspiring song. 
 But ah ! the tumults of the sanguine held 
 To Virtue's throbbing heart no transport yield. 
 Contending hosts, the trumpet's loud alarms, 
 The shouts of conquest, and the din of arms, 
 
 * This Address was printed, and presented to the 
 Jenncrian Society on thyr annual meeting in 1808.
 
 204 
 
 Awake no raptures in her gentle thought, 
 Like the glad strains by rescu'd nations taught, " 
 When gaunt Destruction's crimson flag is furj'd, 
 And heav'n-born Peace renews a wasted world. 
 She saddens at the load of ghastly cares, 
 Which man for man with studious toil prepares : 
 To softer themes she wakes the willing lyre, 
 Warm'd with a purer flame of sacred fire ; 
 And, while each vale with notes of mirth rebounds, 
 Thy praise, divine Philanthropy, she sounds. 
 Is there a heart, whose generous passions glow 
 To share another's joy, another's woe ? 
 Is there a breast, by Pity's flame refin'd, 
 That pants to work the bliss of human kind ? 
 To you, blest Patriots of the world, she 
 
 sings 
 To you the Muse her humble tribute brings. 
 That blissful train her brightest palms receive, 
 Whose heav'nly toils the suff'ring earth relieve \ 
 And, on this day, when Albion's chiefs conspire 
 From Glory's mad'ning vortex to retire, 
 And hail with votive songs the natal hour 
 Of him who stopp'd Contagion's deadly power, 
 Rous'd with a warmth to vulgar themes unknown. 
 She turns to joyful strains the plaintive groan : 
 And, while her hands unfading chaplets twine 
 Around her Jennkr's honour 'd brow to shine,
 
 She sounds that name, to Britons ever dear, 
 Which checks the infant's moan, the parent's tear. 
 Mute be the cannon's roar ! ye thunders, 
 
 cease 
 
 Ye sprightly tabrets, wake the notes of peace : 
 Let Albion's virgin train his glory speak, 
 Who shields the roses on the vermeil cheek : 
 In festal songs, ye parent band, reply, 
 While Joy's bright tear-drop glistens in each eye ; 
 And lisp his name, ye blooming infant throngs, 
 Whose heav 'n-directed arm your vital breath pro- 
 longs. 
 
 Let others urge the glittering toils of War, 
 Yok'd to Ambition's desolating car; 
 Rush to th' ensanguin'd plains, or, madly brave, 
 Impel deluded myriads to the grave : 
 'T is thine, blest Jenner, with auspicious hand, 
 To chase one Demon from the trembling land, 
 Avert the fainting babe's impending doom, 
 And rescue nations from the yawning tomb. 
 
 Too long Variola, with blood-stain'd vest, 
 Prowl'd o'er the plains, and shuddering earth op- 
 
 prest; 
 Chill'd the sad heart, polluted ev'ry gale, 
 And spread contagion o'er th' affrighted vale. 
 Ye agonizing train, who drop the tear 
 Of speechless anguish o'er th' infantile bier :
 
 20r> 
 
 Ye lovers, doom'd in beauty's prime to" mourn 
 Your dear associates from your bosoms torn ; 
 Oh! say what ills have prey'd on hopeless man, 
 Since, curs'd Variola, thy reign began. 
 Affection's groan, the parent's piercing cry, 
 Rose on each gale, and echo'd to the sky. 
 TV Almighty Father heard the deathful moan, 
 And bade Compassion leave her starry throne ; 
 Swift at his voice the meek-ey'd seraph flew, 
 Till earth's blue mountains glimmer'd in her view, 
 With downy pinion cleft th' aerial way, 
 And bade her wand the tide of anguish stay. 
 Far from the crowded haunts of empty fame, 
 She wak'd in Jenner's breast a kindred flame; 
 Straight in his hand a steely point she plac'd, 
 With matchless pow'rs and guardian virtues grac'd, 
 And said: "With this yon speckled fiend 
 
 disarm ; 
 With this, Contagion's rav'nous fury charm ; 
 This shall relieve the parent's drooping soul, 
 Sweet hope inspire, and anxious doiASt controul." 
 
 Rous'd at her strains, with Virtue's hallow'd ghnv, 
 Content his rural pleasures to forego, 
 His steadfast heart sustain'd the toilsome care, 
 That every clime his healing gifts might share. 
 With strong benevolence, his tow 'ring mind 
 The lures of wealth and private gain resign'd,
 
 207 
 
 While distant chiefs, by Wisdom's dictates led, 
 Wide o'er each landVAcciNA's blessings spread. 
 
 * See ! at Philanthropy's divine command, 
 Thy sons, Iberia, quit their native strand ; 
 
 * The expedition to which this passage alludes, is 
 of a nature unprecedented in the annals of history. A de- 
 tailed account of its origin and completion has appeared 
 in a Supplement to the Madrid Gazette of Oct. 14th, 
 1806, which informs us, that " On Sunday, the 17th 
 of September last, Dr. Francis Xavier Balmis, Surgeoa 
 Extraordinary to the King of Spain, had the honour of 
 kissing His Majesty's hand on occasion of his return from 
 a voyage round the world, executed with the sole ob- 
 ject of carrying to all the ultra-mariisc possessions of the 
 crown of Spain, and to those of several other nations, 
 the inestimable gift of Vaccine Inoculation." Dr. Balmis, 
 accompanied by several members of the Faculty, sailed 
 from Corunna on the 30th of November 1803, carry- 
 ing with him twenty-two children, who had never under- 
 gone the small-pox, for the puupose of keeping'up a suc- 
 cessive series of inoculations, and effectually preserving 
 the vaccine virus during the voyage. The expedition pro- 
 ceeded in two divisions, which severally circumna- 
 vigated the globe, disseminating Vaccination as they 
 went, through every nation, whether friends or foes. 
 They communicated it, among the rest, to the English, 
 at St. Helena, and to the Visayan Islands, " the chiefs 
 of which,'* says the Gazette, " accustomed to wage
 
 208 
 
 With dauntless hope innumerous toils they dare, 
 From pole to pole the vital gift to bear. 
 No deep-mouth'd cannons thunder o'er the main, 
 No sanguine fights the placid wave distain, 
 But smiling Peace her olive-branch displays, 
 And faltering infants lisp their Guardian's praise, 
 As on their arms the sov'reign shield they show, 
 Whose heav'nly powers repel th' eruptive foe, 
 With mystic charm extend the fleeting breath, 
 And blunt the direst of the shafts of death. 
 
 From the bleak plains, which lasting snows o'er- 
 whelm, 
 To Libya's wilds, and Afric's parching realm ;- 
 From boist'rous Oronooko's headlong stream, 
 To where the Brahmin hymns the solar beam; 
 Vaccina reigns, with deathless honours crown'd, 
 And spreads her glad'ning influence wide around; 
 And here, commission'd from the realms above, 
 Demands a nation's thanks^ a nation's love. 
 
 Perpetual war with us, have laid down their arms, ad* 
 miring the generosity of an enemy, who conferred upon 
 them the blessings of health and life, at a time when 
 they were labouring under the ravages of an epidemic 
 small-pox." In the progress of the expedition 230,00* 
 persons were kucccssfully vaccinated.
 
 09 
 
 In vain would Envy, with her venal horde, 
 Assail that name by distant climes ador'd*, 
 Or hellish Avarice, leagu'd with Death, obtain 
 Her private interest from the public bane. 
 Ye sordid minds, to genuine worth unjust, 
 Roll in your native mire, and lick the dust. 
 But know, Vaccina claims a loftier fame, 
 While thronging patriots bless her honour'd name ; 
 And, as her friends with liberal ardour meet, 
 To pour their bounteous offerings at her feet, 
 Britannia crowns the deed with just applause, 
 And beams propitious on the glorious cause ; 
 A long-lov'd King his generous aid combines, 
 And Truth, obscur'd in vain, triumphant shines. 
 These are our glories f : and, while these remain, 
 Still shall Vaccina spread her cheering reign ; 
 
 * A letter which is printed in page 90 of this volume 
 contains an account of a ceremony annually practised 
 among the Germans, which fully justifies this expression, 
 however improper it^nay appear. 
 
 f In forming an estimate of the merits of Vaccination 
 the Author would be unwilling to repose upon the 
 opinion of an individual, of a society, or of a nation. 
 Fut the experience of the whole world has given the 
 most decided testimonial in favour of the practice; and 
 Should any secondary testimonial be required, the evi- 
 dence of the Royal Colleges of Physicians andSurgeons, of 
 P
 
 210 
 
 Still shall her healing energies extend, 
 Our cares alleviate, and our race befriend; 
 And future ages, wondering as they read 
 Of woes, which once the speckled fiend de- 
 creed, 
 
 London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, which, after the most 
 laborious investigation, was laid before theBritishSenate, 
 must convey peculiar satisfaction to the mind of every 
 Englishman. Their Report contains an impartial dis- 
 cission of the subject, and concludes by stating " that 
 they feel it their duty strongly to recommend the practice 
 of Vaccination. They have been led to this conclusion 
 by no preconceived opinion, but by the most unbiassed 
 judgment, formed from an irresistible weight of evidence 
 which has been laid before them. For when the number, 
 the respectability, the disinterestedness, and the exten- 
 sive experience of its advocates, is compared with the 
 feeble and imperfect testimonies of its few opposers ; 
 and when it is considered that many, who were once 
 adverse to Vaccination, have been convinced by further 
 trials, and are now to be ranked among its warmest sup- 
 porters, the truth seems to be established as firmly as 
 the nature of such a question admits ; so that the Col- 
 lege of Physicians conceive that the Public may rea- 
 sonably look forward with some degree of hope to the 
 time when all opposition shall cease, and the general 
 concurrence of mankind shall at length be able to put an 
 end to the ravages at least, if not to the existence, of 
 the Small-Pox."
 
 211 
 
 Shall bless that arm by gracious Heav'n design'd 
 1" avert the deadly scourge of human kind, 
 And, as their tears embalm th' illustrious dead, 
 In Freedom's cause who conquer'd or who bled, 
 To Jenner's name a grateful world shall raise 
 The well-earn'd monument of deathless praise. 
 
 P2
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 *3
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET I. 
 TO AFFECTION. 
 
 Sweet nymph, who wander'st o'er the tufted vales, 
 
 Warbling soft minstrelsy, while op'ning flowers 
 Thy twining locks embrace, and balmy gales 
 
 With love-fraught acceuts fill thy jasmine bowers; 
 Oh ! come, my sorrowing moments to beguile, 
 
 And bring the speaking look, the tender sigh, 
 The timid glance, the soul-enchanting smile, 
 
 And the soft tear that flows, unknowing why. 
 By the still streamlet, o'er the dewy mead, 
 
 While Philomela trills her melting lay, 
 Thy favouring star my willing steps shall lead, 
 
 And one lov'd friend endear my lonely way. 
 The joys of Apathy let others prove ; 
 lie mine the sweet solicitudes of Love, 
 r 4
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 TO A FRIEND GOING TO LONDON, 
 
 From the dear village and its flow'ry dell, 
 
 To Pride's tumultuous scenes thy feet must go ; 
 See, where Augusta's glittering turrets swell, 
 
 Wide-blended haunts of pleasure and of woe ! 
 And while thy soul to Wealth and Fame aspires, 
 
 Thou 'It scorn the vale in Nature's beauties drest; 
 But say, can glory satiate thy desires ? 
 
 Can shining gold atone for banish'd rest ? 
 : Tis o'er a gloomy waste we're doom'd to tread, 
 
 And wiser they, who strew their path with 
 flowers ; 
 Twine the gay ehaplet for their weary head, 
 
 And nurse bright visions in Retirement's bowers; 
 Than they, who toil in Grandeur's idler schemes, 
 Yok'd to the car of Pride, or luli'd in Glory's 
 dreams.
 
 21* 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 HOME. TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Friend of my heart, whose feet with mine would 
 stray 
 From Greenland's deserts to the glowing Line ; 
 Ah ! why to distant climes direct our way ? 
 
 What scenes more bright than yonder woodlands 
 shine ? 
 There, in some cot, from busy toils withdrawn, 
 
 To us shall Friendship's noblest joys be given j 
 Together will we rove at peep of dawn, 
 
 Together watch the friendly star of even. 
 And oft, beneath the pale moon's pearly ray, 
 
 We'll linger near some fountain's murm'ring fall; 
 Catch the sweet nightingale's congenial lay, 
 
 And bless with grateful songs the Lord of All. 
 Oh ! whither woidd our fluttering fancy roam, 
 While Friendship, Health, and Peace endear our 
 tranquil home ?
 
 2iS 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 Haste then, ye waud'rers, to the haunts of Pride* 
 
 Tread the gay circles of the mazy dance ; 
 
 Willi reeling hearts in Pleasure's wilds advance, 
 And breathe her poisonous gales. Where Avon's 
 
 tide 
 Rolls in light murmurs to the western deep, 
 
 Meanwhile I rest, and on her willowy shore 
 
 Sit list'ning to Sabrina's soften'd roar,. 
 Or watch the sea-gull o'er the rocky steep 
 His circling flight pursue. Devotion's power 
 
 Lifts my freed spirit to th' empyreal plains ; 
 On Ecstacy's immortal wings upborne, 
 
 My glowing heart your grov'ling bliss disdains : 
 i pluck th' unfading rose, without a thorn; 
 
 You feel the piercing thorn, yet miss the flower.
 
 19 
 
 SONNET V. 
 
 TO THE RIVER FROOME. 
 
 Sweet, lovely stream,* across my native lawn 
 
 That roll'st in modest pride thy silent wave ; 
 My willing feet, by magic impulse drawn, 
 
 Seek the dear meadows which thy waters lave 
 Oft, with the partners of my youthful play, 
 
 I pluck'd the cowslip from thy tufted side, 
 And, as we bask'd in Pleasure's orient ray, 
 
 In gadding balls the drooping flowrets tied. 
 Pure was my bosom as thy glassy face, 
 
 Soft as thy wave my blissful moments flow'd ; 
 Jsow, while my eyes thy well-known beauties trace, 
 
 They add fresh weight to Sorrow's whelming 
 load. 
 Scenes once belov'd my anxious heart annoy : 
 Sad are tbe monuments of long-lost joy.
 
 % ( 20 
 
 SONNET VL 
 
 ON A SUICIDE. 
 
 Where yon pale cypress shades the lonely way> 
 
 Sleep the cold relics of a lovely maid : 
 Long did the star of Peace, with cloudless ray, 
 
 Beam on her path ; till barb'rous man betray'd 
 Her soft, unpractised heart. Awhile she gaz'd 
 
 With horror on herself ; till grim Despair 
 To her pale lips the fatal goblet rais'd, 
 
 Drugg'd with the poisonous draught. With 
 idiot stare, 
 And frenzied laugh, she heav'd the bitter throe, 
 
 Till Death's chill dews her beauteous face o'er-, 
 spread, 
 And dimm'd her sparkling eye. O child of woe! 
 
 Light lie the green-sward on thy hapless head ! 
 But what sliail be the guilt-stain'd wretch's doom, 
 Whose treacherous passion hurl'd thee to the tomb?
 
 22t 
 
 SONNET VIL 
 
 WRITTEN IN A GROTTO, CONTAINING 
 THE BUSTS OF ILLUSTRIOUS HEROES. 
 
 Deck'd with bright guerdons of immortal fame, 
 
 In native splendour Albion's heroes shine ; 
 A wondering world resounds their boasted name, 
 
 And twining laurels deck their brilliant shrine. 
 But say, cherubic train, whose flaming quire 
 
 Fill with ecstatic lays the vocal sky, 
 Are these the race, whom heav'n's eternal Sire 
 
 Views with peculiar smile and fav'ring eye ? 
 Go, to yon moss-clad cell direct thy feet ; 
 
 There shall thine eyes a nobler Hero view ; 
 See suppliant Faith infernal powers defeat, 
 
 And heav'nly Grace Corruption's might subdue. 
 This lowly Conqueror of himself survey, 
 And ah ! how mean is Grandeur's dazzling ray !
 
 223 
 
 SONNET VIII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BOWER DEDICATED TO 
 PEACE. 
 
 The spreading beech and verdant ivy twine, 
 
 And op'ning roses deck the friendly bower ; 
 Yet, ah ! though Nature's brightest charms combine, 
 
 Not here will Peace extend her soothing power, 
 T" is not Ambition's bait, nor Splendour's show, 
 
 Can lure the placid virgin's ling'ring feet ; 
 But the blest heart, where heav'nly passions glow, 
 
 She calls her joyful dome, her hallow'd seat. 
 If humble Faith inspire the longing breast, 
 
 If conscious guilt excite the sorrowing prayer, 
 Though poor, illiterate, destitute, oppress'd, 
 
 The cherub rears her holy temple there ; 
 And, when fell Time the blooming bow'r destroys, 
 Will fill the grateful heart with heav'n's immortal 
 joys.
 
 Q23 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 TO AMBITION. 
 
 Sound thy shrill conch, thou queen of anxious 
 cares, 
 And lift thy lurid torch, whose dazzling rays 
 May lure the fond crowd o'er thy slippery ways, 
 
 To chase the visionary prize, that glares 
 
 Upon thy rocky height. The balmy gale, 
 That whispers peace, is sweeter to my breast 
 Thau all thy lurements, aud my wishes rest 
 
 In the lov'd cot that smiles on yonder vale. 
 
 The cumbrous glories of the proud and rich 
 Within my heart no envious thought awake; 
 When death-fraught storms th' aspiring moun- 
 tains shake, 
 
 Peace spreads her wing around my humble niclu: ; 
 
 i view the distant clouds with feat less eye, 
 
 .And for the sons of Grandeur heave a sisdi.
 
 24 
 
 SONNET X. 
 
 ON A RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 
 
 Spirit of Death ! who rais'd thy vengeful arm, 
 Against my fainting breast to shake thy dart, 
 
 Foil'd is thy rage, and past thy dread alarm, 
 For Heav'n hath spar'd me, and my bounding 
 heart 
 
 Wakes to new life. Yet, 'midst the jovial strain 
 Of health and joy, the tear will dew my cheek, 
 For stern reflection to my soul will speak, 
 
 And say, dire spirit, thou shalt come again. 
 
 Again thou shalt assail this trembling frame, 
 Seize the dropt dart, and hurl it to my breast, 
 
 Quench with thy poisonous breath my vital flame, 
 And fold me in the grave's eternal rest. 
 
 Oh[ let my soul, in health's returning bloom, 
 
 Wean'd from the toys of time, prepare to meet her 
 docm
 
 22J 
 
 SONNET XI. 
 
 Thou who hast lov'd, in luxury of grief, 
 
 To pause, at midnight, o'er the tear-bath'd tomb 
 Of the lost friend, and sought a sad relief 
 
 In the drear cloister's melancholy gloom ; 
 Thy heart will throb in unison with mine, 
 
 While to the mansions of the dead I. go, 
 O'er a lov'd father's humble grave recline, 
 
 Drop the fond tear, and heave the tender throe. 
 Thrice-honour'd saint, if, from thy radiant sphere, 
 Thou see'st thy child, a weary pilgrim here, 
 
 If to thy thought my wants and woes are known, 
 Oh! through the cheerless wild my feet must tread, 
 Guide my lone course, defend my hapless head, 
 
 And tire my soul to virtue* like thy own.
 
 &6 
 
 SONNET XII. 
 WRITTEN AT FRAMPTON UPON SEVERN. 
 
 Frampton ! I love to stray thy meads along, 
 
 To mark the church-tow'r, glimmering through 
 the trees 
 That skirt thy green, and catch the mellow song, 
 
 Borne from yon woodlands by the perfum'd 
 breeze. 
 Now, rapt in musings, from some sloping mound, 
 
 I watch the skiff on Severn's billowy tide, 
 Trace the blue hills that lift their heads around, 
 
 And count the herds that grace their verdant side . 
 Sweet are thy charms, by lavish Nature given, 
 
 Yet, lovely spot ! a prouder boast is thine ; 
 For oft the Muses, at the close of even, 
 
 Have warbled in thy grove their songs divine ; 
 And while they breath'd the strain with rapture 
 
 fraught, 
 Their sweetest lavs thv fuvour'd Gardner taught!
 
 SONNET XIII. 
 
 AMBITION TRIUMPHANT OVER LOVE. 
 
 No more, ye Deities of soft desire, 
 
 With votive incense at your shrine I bow ; 
 In other breasts illume your treacherous fire ; 
 
 For wisdom's manlier bliss I breathe my vow. 
 Say, shall the soul, of godlike essence form'd, 
 
 Pine with fond anguish in the bow'r of Love : 
 Oh ! let me rise with holy transport warm'd, 
 
 Spurn the vain lure, and seek my bliss above. 
 The smiles of Beauty, and the songs of Mirth 
 
 I leave, to commune with the mighty dead ; 
 Children of glory, sons of honour 'd worth, 
 
 O'er my glad breast your kindling spirit shed. 
 To Fame's bright steep my eager feet aspire : 
 Farewell, ye Deities of soft desire ! 
 
 fi*
 
 228 
 
 SONNET XIV. 
 
 Vain is th* impassion' d vow that Fancy breathes 
 For happiness below. The child of hope 
 Awhile may saunter on the sunny slope, 
 
 And twine the wild-flow'rs in fantastic wreaths ; 
 
 Yet, ere he gains the mountain's arduous height, 
 Nipt are their beauties by the chilling blast ; 
 And thorny wilds, with labouring clouds o'ereast, 
 
 Burst in dread horror3 on his aching sight. 
 
 Trill your gay songs, exult in youthful prime, 
 Ye sons of joy, and grasp the fleeting hour : 
 Soon shall ye feel oppression's ravenous power ; 
 
 Soon shall your visions fade, your transports die. 
 
 Ah ! blest are they, who seek a happier clime, 
 
 Nor frust the bliss that blooms beneath the sky.
 
 229 
 
 SONNET XV. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SIDE. 
 
 Ye hoary cliffs, in awful grandeur pil'd, 
 
 Ye rocks, that to the waves your bosoms bare, 
 'Mid the lone caverns of your peaceful wild, 
 
 A weary wanderer seeks to hide his care. 
 True, ye may frown obdurate on my cries, 
 
 Yet more obdurate is the heart of man ; 
 Your wandering herds are heedless of my sighs ; 
 
 But, ah ! more heedless is the human clan. 
 Yet, O ye solitudes, your haunts among 
 
 A respite from her pangs my soul may gain ; 
 To answering waves she pours her plaintive song, 
 
 Unvext by pride, and folly's taunting train : 
 Your friendly tenants shall my griefs beguile ; 
 No treachrrv lurk? within their soothing smile.
 
 230 
 
 SONNET XVI. 
 
 Oh for some shadowy glen, some turf-built shed, 
 On the dark bosom of the pathless waste, 
 In whose lone haunts, with welcome horror* 
 grac'd, 
 The child of grief may rest his aching head ! 
 I ask not happiness, illusive prize ! 
 Yet, must I languish in eternal tears ? 
 Must pining grief consume my transient years, 
 And every gale be loaded with my sighs ? 
 O Peace ! receive me to thy silent cell : 
 There let my soul in stagnant ease recline : 
 Round my pale brows thy soothing poppies twine, 
 And each fond sense of grief or joy dispel : 
 Too faithful Memory, bid thy forms depart ; 
 And take, O treacherous Hope, thy visions from 
 my heart.
 
 51 
 
 SONNET XVU. 
 
 THE THUNDER-STORM. 
 
 f>zt\ the -wild Tempest-Fiend through bursting 
 clouds 
 His- fiery chariot wheels. With thund'ring sound 
 Rush the red bolts of vengeance, and around 
 
 Terrific night the deathful triumph shrouds, 
 
 Save where the lightning's flash with lurid gleams 
 Gilds the wide waste. The giddy and the gay 
 Aghast may tremble, as they blithely stray 
 
 Where pleasure lights their path with dazzling beams 
 
 Of cloudless joyance. But / love to view 
 
 This sweetly-mournful scene; yon whirlwind's 
 
 boom 
 Is music to my ear, and midnight's gloom 
 
 More welcome than the landscape's brightest hue. 
 
 For while my soul her blasted bliss bemoans, 
 
 In unison with me Creation groans. 
 
 n 4
 
 232 
 
 SONNET XVIII. 
 
 THE TEMPEST, 
 
 The moaning winds are up: with joyful eyes 
 I view the black storm low'ring o'er my head ; 
 And, while the clouds their kindred horrors 
 spread, 
 Gaze with wild rapture on th' embattled skies. 
 All hail, ye warring tempests ! ye are dear 
 To feelings such as mine. I love to pour, 
 Symphonious with the torrent's turbid roar, 
 My bitter sighs, and swell with many a tear 
 The foaming surge. Dark is yon mantling shade, 
 Yet blacker is the gloom that shrouds my sc I 
 Fierce are the whirlwinds that deform the pole, 
 Yet fiercer storms my fainting breast invade- 
 Ah! when shall Peace her healing beams display, 
 Shine o'er my heart, and smile the storm away ?
 
 3J 
 
 SONNET XIX. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 O life ! thou art a dreary waste, o'erspreact 
 
 With thorns and briers, and whelm'd in shades 
 of death ; 
 And, should a rose-bud rear its tender head, 
 
 Tis wither'd by Oppression's poisonous breath. 
 O'er thy polluted paths the sons of Time 
 
 Their gloomy course beguile with plaintive cries; 
 But who is she, that lifts her brow sublime, 
 
 Looks on the waste, and seems to grasp the skies ? 
 Tis Faith ! I trace her light-encircled form, 
 
 Her heav'n-directed eye, her cherub mien : 
 Without a fear she views the low'ring storm, 
 
 And treads without a sigh the baleful scene. 
 Unmov'd she smiles at sorrow's darkest gloom, 
 And sings of happiness beyond the tomb.
 
 234 
 
 SONNET XX 
 
 TO AFFLUENCE. 
 
 Effulgent Goddess! at whose gem - crown 'd 
 shrine, 
 
 Rapt in wild dreams, contending suppliants fall ! 
 No frequent votary to thy power divine, 
 
 Now proffers at^thy foot the fervent call. 
 No sordid store, no pompous boon, I crave ; 
 
 For well the groves and prattling streamlets 
 know, 
 My soul disdains ambition's venal slave, 
 
 The hoards of avarice, and the lures of show. 
 Come, Power benign ! my bounded wish complete : 
 
 Oh! crown the vow by temper d Reason form'd ; 
 Give me the rural cot, the calm retreat, 
 
 With letter 'd ease and social bounty wavm'd; 
 Give me enough to succour the distrest, 
 Enough to render my Ehnira bltst.
 
 VJ5 
 
 SONNET XXI. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 Ye, who have f -It affliction's searching fang, 
 Oh! tell a wretch o'erwhelm'd by kindred woes, 
 What chaim ca.i yield the grief-worn breast re- 
 pose ? 
 What balm can solace the corroding pang 
 Of heart-consuming anguish ? Shall I seek 
 The faithless scenes of pleasure as they fly ? 
 Or shall the zephyrs of a distant sky 
 Restore the roses to my faded cheek ? 
 Vain were the thought. O Pleasure, than the 
 wind 
 More fleet, more false, thy charms no more I 
 woo : 
 My soul shall trust alone her Father, God. 
 Here will I rest with holy hope resign'd, 
 
 Till hcav'n's full glories burst upon my view, 
 .And lie, who scourg'd, remove the friendly 
 rod.
 
 236 
 
 SONNET XXII. 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 Ah visionary flatterer! why delude 
 
 My swelling fancy with thine airy dream ? 
 Why on my soul thy dazzling forms obtrude, 
 
 Inconstant as the meteor's fleeting gleam : 
 Fair are thy phantoms as the changeful hues 
 
 That lend their charms to heav'n's aerial bow ; 
 Yet ah ! as transient are the lovely views, 
 
 And bhort-liv'd rapture yields to lasting woe. 
 Tir'd of thy treacherous lures, my rescu'd soul 
 
 Mounts with strong faith beyond the sphere of 
 time, 
 And seeks th' eternal shore, where pleasures roll, 
 
 And bliss shall flourish in immortal prime. 
 Daughter of magic wiles, a long farewell ! 
 On yonder starry plains my wishes dwell,
 
 237 
 
 SONNET XXII 1. 
 
 YOUTHFUL EXPECTATION. 
 
 iav child of Hope! unfurl thy flutt'ring sails- 
 Bid the bright streamer wanton in the breeze, 
 And launch adventurous on th' unruffled seas, 
 'Midst dancing sunbeams, and propitious gales ; 
 Yet oh ! impatient voyager, beware. 
 
 Bright are thy prospects, cloudless are thy skies; 
 But ah ! how soon devouring storms may rise, 
 Von broken rafts and shatter 'd sails declare. 
 Go, and be prosperous. May the sun of bliss 
 Shine on thy course, and fav'ring zephyrs blow: 
 But I too well the treacherous ocean know 
 To quit my refuge for the vast abyss : 
 Plcas'd I behold my weary wand'rings close, 
 And bless th' Almighty arm that guides me to re- 
 pose.
 
 233 
 
 SONNET XXIV. 
 
 THE HEAVENLY VISION. 
 
 Ye spirits of the just, who circle round 
 
 With everlasting lays your Father King ; 
 And bid th' ecstatic lyre His glory sound, 
 
 Till HeavVs high concave with your praises 
 ring, 
 Oft has my soul with holy rapture stray 'd, 
 
 Entrane'd in visions, o'er your sapphire plains, 
 Your bow'rs of bliss with ravish'd eye survey'd, 
 
 And heard your sweet unutterable strains. 
 Your ransom'd throng, array 'd in robes of white, 
 
 With mingling cherubs, fed my longing gaze, 
 But al; ! lor man too rapturous was the sight, 
 
 And nature sunk in don's dazzling; blaze. 
 I mourn to wake amidst a world of woe : 
 When shall I join the scenes your heav'nly visions 
 show ?
 
 239 
 
 SONNET XXV. 
 
 WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN 
 ABBEY. 
 
 Ye rev'renil cloisters, o'er whose mouldering seats 
 Celestial Peace her grey -plum'd wing displays, 
 Dec p to your lone recesses, from the blaze 
 
 Of earthly pomp, my weary soul retreats. 
 
 Bow'd by Oppression's rod, your kindred gloom 
 Shall soothe my pining sorrows, and awhile 
 Immortal hope the pangs of grief beguile. 
 
 Here shall Reflection, on the moss-clad tomb 
 
 Leaning her pensive head, with piercing eye 
 Gaze on the glories of th* eternal year, 
 Vv hen heavenly hands shall wipe each starting 
 tear, 
 
 .And crown with pleasures that shall never die. 
 
 She bids my soul her mortal cares dismiss, 
 
 Rapt in the visions of immortal bliss.
 
 240 
 
 SONNET XXVI. 
 
 THE CELL OF PEACE. 
 
 Ye scenes of earth-born pride, a long farewell ! 
 No more your phantoms shall my heart enslave; 
 Oh ! take the grief-encircled joys ye gave, 
 And let me linger in some lonely cell, 
 Where yet the cherub Innocence may show 
 Her spotless beauties, and seraphic Peace 
 Bid the wild tumults of my soul to cease, 
 And wipe with lenient hand the tear of woe. 
 And there, sweet soother of the wounded heart, 
 Shall meek-ey'd Faith her healing balm apply: 
 While Hope shall wave her fulgent torchon high, 
 And, as the pageants of an hour depart, 
 Shall point to mansions of immortal rest, 
 And wuke the holy anthems of the blest.
 
 241 
 
 SONNET XXVII. 
 
 TO A FRIEND ON THE BANKS OF THE 
 
 SEVERN. 
 
 Within thy woodbin'd cot, on Severn's marge, 
 In rural peace thou dwell'st. Thy moments giide 
 Witli peaceful tenour, and the toys of pride 
 
 Reach not thy cell. Yet should thy soul enlarge 
 
 At Wealth's deceitful views; should Glory's sound 
 Wake the fond wish, or Grandeur prompt thy vow, 
 Turn thy lone footsteps to yon mountain's brow, 
 
 And mark the mingled scenes that spread around. 
 
 There shalt thou view the streamlet's glassy wave 
 Glad the fair vale, and flow'rs adorn its verge ; 
 
 There shalt thou see the distant ocean rave, 
 
 And whelm the bark beneath its mad'ning surge ; 
 
 Like the calm riv'let be thy tranquil life ; 
 
 More fierce than ocean's rage is pride's tumultuous 
 strife.
 
 24y 
 
 SONNET XXVIII. 
 
 TO SORROW. 
 
 And wilt thou come, O unrelenting power, 
 
 Eternal partner of my dreary way ! 
 And dost thou seek again my lonesome bower, 
 
 Crush my fond hopes, and cloud my youthful day : 
 Once more, with trembling eyes, thy >\ell-known 
 form 
 
 I mark descending through the turbid air; 
 In darkness wrapt thou ridest on the storm, 
 
 With Sin thy parent, and thy child Despair. 
 Yet though frail nature trembles at thy sight, 
 
 Thou comest to my heart a friendly guest : 
 T is thine to chase the phantoms of delight, 
 
 Mould the stern will, and cleanse the guilty 
 breast. 
 Oh ! banish from, my thought the dreams of time, 
 And point the sufferer to th' immortal clime !
 
 L'43 
 
 SONNET XXIX. 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 'J - is midrrigjit, and the ruthless wintry blast 
 
 Howls o'er the fragments of the founder'd bark ! 
 S<.e ! the swoln corses on the strand are cast, 
 
 1 1 url'd by the warring elements ; and hark ! 
 T is the ureek'd mariner's expiring shriek, 
 
 Who grasp'd th' o'er hanging clitT with desp'ratc 
 force, 
 Yet, while his feet some nook of shelter seek, 
 
 Is buried in the wild-wave's refluent course. 
 Mourners ! who frame the fond lamenting tale 
 
 O'er fancied oils, *ook on real woe : 
 What are the carts that prompt your tender wad, 
 
 What, to the rending pangs tliat others know .' 
 With grief like yours, the sufferers would be blest, 
 And deem your sorrows bliss, your tumults rest.
 
 C44 
 
 SONNET XXX. 
 
 TO AN AFFLICTED FRIEND 
 
 Yes, while thou ling'rest in thy tent of clay, 
 
 Attendant on thy path Distress shall go ; 
 Yet weep not o'er the griefs that crowd thy way, 
 
 For Wisdom dwells within the house of woe. 
 The sneer of Pride, with Envy's harpy fang, 
 
 The throes of baffled Hope, and slighted Love, 
 Shall rive thy lab'ring breast with many a pang. 
 
 Oh ! let them lift thy thoughts the earth above, 
 Let the gay worldling mock thy plaintive sigh ; 
 Yet there is One, whose ear attends thy cry ; 
 
 His love shall guide thee, and his pow'r defend. 
 Poor pilgrim ! cease thy visionary fears, 
 Let holy rapture dry thy bitter tears: 
 
 The God of Mercy is thy faithful friend.
 
 245 
 
 SONNET XXXI. 
 
 A MORNING SKETCH. 
 
 Bright Phosphor lingers in the red'ning sky 
 And feather'd songsters hail the rising day ; 
 The meadows laugh, with golden beauties gay, 
 
 And russet hills rebound the reaper's cry. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the milkmaid chanting o'er her pail, 
 The whistling ploughboy saunters through the 
 
 shade, 
 The fleecy charges deck the whitening glade, 
 
 And sportive lambkins frisk along the vale. 
 
 The vigorous team slow labours in the dell, 
 
 \\ hile the shrill bells in mingled cadence sound, 
 And there, remote from Fashion's giddy round, 
 
 Sings the blithe shepherd, in his turf-built cell. 
 
 Ye cities ! what can all your pomp afford, 
 
 To vie with scenes like these, with spotless plea- 
 sure stor'd ? 
 
 V *
 
 246 
 
 SONNET XXX11. 
 
 Sister belov'd ! if pure Affection's lay, 
 
 Though short, an echo in thy heart may find, 
 Accept the warm vows from a brother's mind 
 Breath'd in a faithful strain, to greet the day 
 That gave thee birth. To live in lengthened years 
 I pray not for thee, for too well I know 
 That Earth's most pleasant paths are paths of 
 woe ; 
 And soon each pilgrim's cheek is worn with tears : 
 But this I pray, that holy Faith may raise 
 
 Thy wishes from the world : how brief thy date 
 It matters not, if Jesu's love create 
 Thy ransom'd soul anew, and guide thy ways. 
 Then may thy cares for earthly prospects end, 
 Heav'n is thy home, thy Saviour is thy friend.
 
 47 
 
 SONNET XXXIII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE. 
 
 Here, from the scenes of pageant pride releas'd, 
 
 Embower'd in bliss the rev 'rend Herbert dwells ; 
 Quits the false earth, on heav'nly joys to feast, 
 
 And seeks for Wisdom in her rural cells. 
 Though void of burdening Wealth's redundant store, 
 
 A frugal board his daily want supplies ; 
 UnskhTd in Sophistry's deceitful lore, 
 
 With humble Faith he rests, divinely wise. 
 So, when my social duties are discharg'd, 
 
 No more on transitory cares intent ; 
 Here let me rest, from earth-born toils cnlarg'd, 
 
 While Faith and Hope their healing balm present. 
 Thus let my feet their destin'd circle run, 
 Life's noblest comforts share, its deathful tumult 
 shun.
 
 248 
 
 SONNET XXXIV. 
 
 TO ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE FARMEIt's BOY," &C. &C. 
 
 Sweet poet of the mead ! whose artless muse, 
 
 To Virtue sacred and to Genius dear, 
 Rob'd the bright landscape in unfading hues, 
 
 And sang the beauties of the varying year ; 
 Long as the wild thrush carols through the wood, 
 
 Long as the ploughshare cleaves th' indented lea, 
 So long thy strains shall charm the wise and good, 
 
 And Fame shall twine her fairest wreaths for thee. 
 This be thy glory : not that Nature's powers 
 
 Thy fancy kindled at her sacred shrine ;- 
 Not that she bade thee sing her rosy bowers, 
 
 And breath'd a soul along each flowing line :- 
 But that, by Virtue's holy flame refin'd, 
 Thy pages but reflect the beauties of thy mind.
 
 249 
 
 SONNET XXXV. 
 
 TO THE NAIADS OF THE LAKES IN 
 CUMBERLAND. 
 
 Ve nymphs, that skim along the silver}' lakes, 
 
 Where Skiddaw's hoary brow reflected shows, 
 Say, can your lonesome dells, and flow'ry brakes, 
 
 Yield a calm shelter from devouring woes ? 
 Then would I raise my cot your streams beside, 
 
 And wake the merry harp to love and joy ; 
 The scenes of grief Oblivion's veil should hide, 
 
 And Hope's gay dreams my roving thoughts 
 employ. 
 Yet stay, my fluttering heart ! Beneath a sky 
 
 More bright, more pure, my bounding feet may 
 range : 
 But canst thou from thyself, O wanderer! Ayr 
 
 Can fairer suns thy sinful nature change ? 
 No more the chase of earth-born pleasures try; 
 Let all thy wishes centre iu the sky.
 
 250 
 
 SONNET XXXVI. 
 
 When blushing Eve unveils the starry fires, 
 As o'er the plains I roam with pensive eye, 
 My fellow-swains, with taunting laughter, cry : 
 
 " See the frail youth, whom ill-starr'd love inspires !" 
 
 And many a sage with leaden tongue exclaims, 
 " Fond swain ! the tyrant from thy breast repel : 
 " Shun the dire shaft, the deadly tumult quell, 
 
 " And quench by Reason's pow'r the lurking 
 flames." 
 
 Yes ! my Elmira ! to the sapient strain 
 
 Which Reason pours, my duteous heart shall 
 
 bow ; 
 For Reason smiles upon my tender vow, 
 
 And firmer binds Affection's golden chain. 
 
 Reason and Love to crown my choice agree : 
 
 I love with reason when I gaze on thee.
 
 25\ 
 
 SONNET XXXVU. 
 
 TO THE REV. J*** E***, OF YATTON, 
 SOMERSETSHIRE. 
 
 Where peaceful Yatton lifts her humble fane, 
 
 Oft have I heard thy sweetly-pow'rful tongue 
 In Virtue's path direct the rural train, 
 
 While on thy voice persuasive Wisdom hung. 
 Yet, while thy strains my pensive bosom warm'd, 
 
 With fruitless grief I saw thy cultur'd mind, 
 For crowded courts and peopled cities form'd, 
 
 To the green hamlet's moss-crown'd cell* con- 
 fin'd. 
 If lingering Health requires thy distant stay, 
 
 Let other climes thy mental labours share, 
 The beauteous transcript of thy soul convey, 
 
 And bid thy pen Religion's notes prepare : 
 These, when thy tongue shall moulder in the sod, 
 Will guide the yielding heart to Virtue and to 
 God.
 
 \zy. 
 
 SONNET XXXVIII. 
 
 TO IMAGINATION. 
 
 Celestial visitant ! whose magic wiles 
 
 The wintry gloom with vernal flow'rs can dress; 
 The tints of Mirth on Sorrow's cheek impress, 
 
 Or deck with glowing scenes the midnight aisles ; 
 
 Oh come ! refulgent in thy loveliest smiles ; 
 This lowly cell with purest raptures bless : 
 On this sad heart exert thy pleasing guiles, 
 
 And cheer with sparkling scenes my lone recess. 
 
 Farewell, ye charmless visions of renown ! 
 For softer joys my chasten'd wishes burn ; 
 One long-lov'd object to my soul restore ; 
 
 With one dear form my silent wand'rings crown, 
 And bid her image to these vales return, 
 
 Though envious Fate immures on Severn''* 
 joyless shore.
 
 253 
 
 SONNET XXXIX. 
 
 O lyre of Grief, o'er whose unliallow'd strings, 
 ]$v Misery taught, my careless fingers stray'd : 
 No more my soul invokes thy mournful aid, 
 
 My voice no more its cheerless descant sings. 
 
 Though still my heart thy sorrowing murmurs suit, 
 How vain in fruitless agonies to pine ! 
 Oh come, fond muse ! the plaintive harp resign, 
 
 Try the shrill tabret, wake the sounding lute. 
 
 In vain thy note my sufferings would relieve, 
 Yet ah ! one hope of happier scenes infuse ; 
 For one short hour my shuddering heart amuse, 
 
 And the sad sense of hagard woe deceive. 
 
 Thus, for a while, the pangs of grief remove, 
 
 Each care alleviate, and each bliss improve.
 
 SONNET XL. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF 
 WINTER. 
 
 See ! to the busy town's discordant noise 
 
 What giddy wanderers nrge their idle flight ; 
 For transient splendour leave perennial joys, 
 
 And, grasping shadows, quit sincere delight. 
 I envv not, fond crowd ! your gilded woe ; 
 
 15e mine the pleasure Nature's charms impart : 
 Hence your perfidious smile, and cumbrous show; 
 
 Be mine the joys that penetrate the heart. 
 Though Plenty glads no more th' unbleating dale, 
 
 How sweet th' encircled tire, the social board; 
 To gather wisdom from the snow-clad vale, 
 
 To share the bliss domestic scenes afford ; 
 And, 'mid the rattling storm, and dreary gloom, 
 Thy power, O Love ! can bid unfading flowrets 
 bloom.
 
 2.55 
 
 SONNET XU. 
 
 WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON THE CON- 
 CLUSION OF THE YEAR 1 800'. 
 
 Heard ye the bell that echo'd through the bound. 1 
 
 Hark ! t is the knell of the departed year : 
 
 \ e sons of earth ! its awful tidings hear ; 
 For you tie melancholy tidings sound. 
 O Death ! what ruthless havoc hast tliou made ! 
 
 Pierc'd by thy dart, what countless myriads fall! 
 
 Now the lone shepherd hears thy dooming call, 
 And now the monarch in the dust is laid. 
 
 And ah ! ere Time renews the wintry gloom, 
 / too may slumber in the dreary tomb; 
 
 This heart may cease to throb, this pulse to beat. 
 Father of Heav'n! Thou know'st my future state; 
 Teach me to brave the frowns of angry fate, 
 
 And Death himself with cheering hope to meet.
 
 e56 
 
 SONNET XLII. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH'S FORTY^ 
 THIRD SONNET. 
 
 Yon tuneful nightingale, whose tender lay 
 
 Her ravish'd young, a much-lov'd mate bemoans, 
 Soft as she trills her wild notes from the spray, 
 
 Charms the lone valley with her soothing tones: 
 And through the night she seems to share my woes, 
 And mourn the kindred pangs that prompt my 
 sigh; 
 Pangs that alone from erring Fancy rose, 
 
 Which dreamt a goddess should the grave defy. 
 How soon will Hope the slumb'ring heart surprise ! 
 How could my soul believe those radiant eyes, 
 Pure as the sun, should mingle with the clay? 
 At length the Fates my future doom reveal : 
 Lifeless to live, and seeking death, to feel 
 
 How transient earthly joys, how brief their 
 stay !
 
 '0/ 
 
 SONNET XLIII. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH'S FORTY- 
 FOURTH SONNET, 
 
 Nor stars that roll on high their wand'ring train, 
 
 Nor barks that glide along the glassy flood, 
 Nor warriors, blazing on the tented plain, 
 
 Nor deer, gay bounding thro' the gloomy wood, 
 Nor tidings that delight the longing breast, 
 
 Nor dulcet warblings of the love-tun'd lyre, 
 Nor limpid founts, nor meads in verdure drest, 
 
 Made vocal by the virgins beauteous quire, 
 Nor aught besides my grief-worn heart can prize, 
 Since she, the light and mirror of my eyes, 
 
 Sleeps in the dust. By speechless woes impell'd, 
 I call for Death, blest bound'ry to my pain, 
 Still panting to behold those charms again, 
 
 \\ Inch, ah ! 't were best I never had beheld !
 
 525S 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Does Wisdom's lore inform the silver'd head \ 
 Does holy Truth the fireless heart control ? 
 
 Does mellowing Time a sacred influence shed 
 T' exalt the wishes, and transmute the soul I 
 
 ii. 
 
 See, in the chains of thoughtless Pleasure bound, 
 What hoary myriads revel while they may, 
 
 By lengthen'd years with lengthen'd follies crown'd, 
 Clinging to wretchedness with fond delay. 
 
 m. 
 
 By the wild glare of radiant phantoms lur'd, 
 The wanderer, man, their fleeting train pursues: 
 
 \tt, when he deems the lovely forms secur'd, 
 They vanish, like the rainbow's transient hues.
 
 259 
 
 [V 
 
 Proud of his little powers, he lifts to heaven 
 The daring front, and sports his transient day ; 
 
 Heedless for what the span of life was given, 
 How vast his duties, and how short his stay. 
 
 He roves, all-playful, on Perdition's brink, 
 Yet views no yawning precipice below ; 
 
 He sees his comrades fall, yet scorns to shrink, 
 And smiles at Justice and her menae'd blow. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet soon the dream is o'er ; an angry God 
 Curbs the vain rebel in his mad career : 
 
 Crush 'd is his pride beneath the scourging rod, 
 And stretch'd his cold corpse on the gloomy bier
 
 260 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, 
 AND INSCRIBED TO HER SISTER. 
 
 Spirit ! who sittest on the mould'ring piles 
 Of the fall'n temple or disparted tower, 
 
 Or wander'st in the cloister's echoing aisles, 
 Turning thy sand-glass at each passing hour 
 
 11. 
 
 Queen of sad musings ! to thy drear domain 
 1 come, where Sorrow guides my lonely way ; 
 
 Where weeping Friendship breathes the mournful 
 strain, 
 Waves the dim torch, and points to Mary's clay.
 
 261 
 
 in. 
 
 In the dark vault she sleeps. How vain the vows 
 Breath'd by fond love to stay the fatal dart ! 
 
 The dews of Death upon her lovely brows 
 Are dried, and stiffeu'd is her guileless heart. 
 
 IY. 
 
 As the fair blossom, on the vernal morn, 
 
 Woo'd by the breeze, expands its trembling 
 flowers ; 
 
 Yet, while its leaf the dewdrops still adorn, 
 Some sweeping blast its orient bloom devours : 
 
 v. 
 
 So, in the tender pride of infant grace, 
 
 She rose, while Hope her riper charms por- 
 tray'd, 
 Pleas'd the young virtues of her soul to trace, 
 Where Truth and Love their new-born smile 
 display 'd.
 
 262 
 
 TI. 
 
 But Hope was false, and stopt were Fancy's lays 
 By the stern summons of relentless Death ; 
 
 Swift at his voice the lurking poison strays 
 
 Through each wan limb, and checks her flut- 
 t'ring breath. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou soul of infant excellence, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell, lov'd sister of my heart's best friend ! 
 My feet shall seek with hers thy silent cell, 
 
 My heart with hers its mutual sorrow blend. 
 
 vin. 
 
 When evening's rays depart, our hands shall bring 
 Fresh fiowrets, bath'd in dew, to deck thy tomb ; 
 
 And the nipt rose-buds of the virgin spring 
 
 (Emblems of thee ! ) shall join their soft perfume. 
 
 IX. 
 
 t 
 
 And dove-ey'd Innocence, thy faithful guide, 
 And Meekness, ruler of thy gentle heart; 
 
 Lighted by Love, their steps shall thither guide^ 
 While from their breast the sighs of pity start.
 
 63 
 
 x. 
 
 Yet why for thee should plaintive accents flow ? 
 
 From the bright mansions of the starry spheres, 
 In bowers of bliss, thou look'st on mortal woe, 
 
 And wonder'st at affection's fruitless tears. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yes, Mary, thou art blest : my kindling soul 
 Thy joyful seat with envious eye surveys ; 
 
 No more for thee shall Pity's murmurs roll, 
 But for myself prolong her plaintive lays. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Rest, happy spirit ! thou hast reach'd thy home ; 
 
 'Tis thine no more to bear the shocks of fate; 
 We, who remain in future scenes to roam, 
 
 Are but the pilgrims of a longer date. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And why should life provoke the lingering sigh ? 
 Swift as the lightning's gleam our youth shall 
 fleet, 
 And dim Decrepitude, with beamless eye 
 
 And nerveless hand, shall reign in manhood's scat- 
 s 4
 
 26'4 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then happiest they, whose path is soonest o'er: 
 Tor earth's most pleasant paths, are strew 'd with 
 grief ; 
 
 And the tir'd wanderer lives but to explore 
 
 How vain are mortal pleasures, and how brief ! 
 
 xv. 
 
 What though with glittering hoards our coffers groan , 
 What though the smiles of Pomp our fancy warm, 
 
 Though radiant Fashion mark us for her own, 
 And vary at our nod her Proteus form : 
 
 xvi. 
 
 What though Renown, to spread our boasted praise, 
 Loud o'er the earth her brazen trumpet sound ; 
 
 Rear the proud bust, and give th' unfading bays 
 By Glory's fingers on our temples bound : 
 
 xvn. 
 
 In the dark precincts of the final bourne, 
 
 E'en the sweet flow'rs of hallow'd Love must fade, 
 
 The pride of Grandeur fail, and Glory mourn 
 Her trophies moulder'd, and her crowns decay 'd.
 
 <2Ck 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Soon, Mary, shall the howling night-blast sweep 
 O'er him, who pours this pensive song to thee; 
 
 Beneath some floury tuft his bones shall sleep, 
 Borne to the grave across his fav'rite lea. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 She too, thy weeping sister, who remains, 
 
 Spar'd by kind Heav'n, the partner of my way ; 
 
 With Love's responsive throb to soothe my pains, 
 Cheer my still course, and brighten Pleasure's ray : 
 
 xx. 
 
 She too, ah me! in Death's cold arms must lie, 
 The worm must revel on her smiling cheek, 
 
 And sunk and hollow be the sparkling eye, 
 
 Where tender Love and generous Virtue speak. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But the drear path our feet so soon shall tread, 
 Thy feet have trodden, and its terrors known; 
 
 Thy spotless heart has, with no guilty dread, 
 Felt the last pang, and heav'd the parting moan.
 
 S(>6 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Ne'er at thy head her shafts shall Malice aim, 
 Nor at thy bosom dart her scorpion sting ; 
 
 Detraction shall not blast thy budding tame, 
 Nor scatter mildews from her poison'd wing, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thou shalt not feel Affection's hapless doom, 
 O'envhelm'd by pining grief through long-drawn 
 years ; 
 Nor see thy cheek, in vigour's rip'ning bloom, 
 Uv Sorrow blanch'd, like mine, and worn with 
 tears. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 To Him that sitteth on th' eternal throne, 
 Begin, pure spirit, thine unceasing lays ; 
 
 lie freed thy soul from earth, ere taught to groan, 
 Ere torn thy feet by Sorrow's thorny ways. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Oh for an angel's wing to speed my flight 
 High o'er the atmosphere's polluted bound ; 
 
 That I might tread your walks of rich delight, 
 And stray your star-bespangled plains around '
 
 267 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Then should my longing soul, O bliss supreme ! 
 
 Your God and King with prostrate awe survey, 
 With saints and angels chant the hallow'd theme, 
 
 And at His foot my feeble tribute lay.
 
 ESSAYS 
 
 VACCINATION 
 
 The following Essays appeared in the Gentleman's 
 Magazine for September, and the following months, 
 at the close of the year 1808, and the commencement 
 of 1809. They were undertaken by Worgan on his 
 suggestion of the utility of disseminating a knowledge 
 of the benefits to be derived from the important dis- 
 covery of ids Patron, and of meeting the common 
 objections to it in some popular periodical work. 
 They were the result of his own reading and unbiassed 
 consideration of the subject.
 
 ESSAYS ON VACCINATION. 
 
 ESSAY THE FIRST. 
 
 VV hen the happy exertions of genius or in- 
 dustry have succeeded in completing important 
 discoveries, a considerable period must generally 
 elapse before the real value of these discoveries 
 can be duly appreciated. On their first pro- 
 mulgation, the truth is liable to be obscured, 
 both bv the misguided enthusiasm of their honest 
 advocates, and also by the violent malevolence of 
 interested opponents. I he dispassionate and pe- 
 netrating mind may indeed, at all limes, discri- 
 minate between reality and misrepresentation ; but 
 to convince the multitude is no easy task. The 
 generality of the world are far more influenced by 
 ridicule than by reason. Scurrility and invective
 
 272 
 
 carry greater weight than solid arguments ; and 
 vulgar jokes are more forcible than irrefutable 
 facts. The most beneficial inventions are hence 
 retarded in their progress, and the vilest impos- 
 tures are not unfrtquently received with the 
 warmest encouragement. 
 
 These observations have been occasioned by 
 the consideration of the rise and progress of a 
 modern discovery, which has justly excited an 
 unexampled interest. I allude to the system of 
 Inoculation for the Cow -Pox, which Dr. Jenner 
 introduced into the world. The merits of this 
 discovery have been discussed with an earnestness 
 and solicitude proportionate to its confessed im- 
 portance ; and innumerable publications have ap- 
 peared on the subject. The advocates of Vacci- 
 nation have exulted in the prospect of extermi- 
 nating the Small-Pox from the face of the earth ; 
 while its opponents have framed their tales of 
 honor, replete with stories of novel diseases and 
 unheard-of plagues. So much had been said, so 
 much had been written, on both sides of the 
 question, that the subject was involved in an 
 almost impenetrable mist. At this time the Re- 
 pcrts of the Royal Colleges of Physicians and 
 Surgeons opportunely appeared ; and these, united 
 with the second Remuneration of Dr. Jenner, 
 might reasonably have been expected to settle the
 
 public opinion. Still, however, objections to the 
 Vaccine Practice are raised ; there are still some 
 who doubt the propriety of adopting it. 
 
 When I consider the many evidences in favour 
 of Vaccination, which the public documents of 
 almost every nation afford, I am at a loss to con- 
 ceive from what cause such doubts can have 
 arisen ; for I think, if an unprejudiced mind will 
 fairly consider the question, it must be convinced 
 that Vaccination has answered the promised end. 
 As this is not a topic of barren speculation, but 
 one with which the dearest interests of our nature 
 are connected, I should like, Mr. Urban, through 
 the medium of your valuable miscellany, occasion- 
 ally to make a few remarks upon it. I am con- 
 nected with no party ; I am influenced by no pre- 
 judice. I promise, in all the strictures with which 
 I may trouble you, to abstain from all personality, 
 and to consider the subject in a cool, dispassionate 
 manner, desirous alone to detect imposture, and 
 to establish truth. 'Ihe principal points to be 
 discussed are these : 
 
 I. Whether Vaccination is a preservative from 
 ttue Small-Pox ? 
 
 II. Whether it excites any other diseases in the 
 constitution, or entails any new maladies 5 
 
 III. Whether, in the present improved state of 
 
 T
 
 274 
 
 Small-Pox Inoculation, any substitute is neces- 
 sary cr expedient r 
 
 And it may not be amiss to add a word or two 
 respecting the alleged bestiality of the matter 
 employed in Vaccine Inoculation, and the sup- 
 posed difficulty of ascertaining the characters of 
 the genuine Vaccine vesicle. I do not pretend to 
 have any thing new to say on these subjects ) yet, 
 if I can arrange old ideas in a succinct and lumi- 
 nous manner, my observations may not be unac- 
 ceptable to your readers. 
 
 " Is Vaccination a preservative from the Small- 
 Pox?" 
 
 It would be impossible to answer this inquiry 
 in a more forcible and satisfactory manner, than 
 by making an extract from a recent publication 
 on this subject, by the very ingenious Dr. Scully ? 
 of Totness, in Devonshire : 
 
 " In the first place, of several thousand per- 
 sons, who, after having passed regularly through 
 the Cow-Pox, have been purposely inoculated for 
 the Small-Pox, and exposed to its contagion, 
 under every conceivable circumstance of aggrava- 
 tion, not a single instance has occurred of Vac- 
 cination having failed to afford a complete security 
 against the Small-Pox, even after an interval of 
 forty, fifty. <r sixty years. c
 
 <w5 
 
 " Secondly, the instances in which it is asserted 
 that Vaccination did fail to afford the desired se- 
 curity, occurred not in the- practice of able or 
 experienced Inoculators, who have vaccinated the 
 greatest numbers, nor within the knowledge of 
 any physician or surgeon eminent for professional 
 skill or general talent ; but uniformly to those 
 very persons, who opposed the practice before 
 any failures could have existed, and when every 
 known fact was favourable ; who decried Vacci- 
 natiou among all their acquaintances ; who never 
 adopted it, and consequently have seen little of 
 the practice; or to country practitioners, whose 
 opportunities of observation are very precarious. 
 
 " Thirdly, almost every one of those cases 
 which have been published, of Small- Pox suc- 
 ceeding to perfect Vaccination, has been actually 
 found to have been cither misrepresented or mis- 
 conceived. It bus appeared that they were either 
 cases in which there never was genuine Cow-Pox 
 at first, or cases in which there never zcas genuine 
 Sniall-Pux at last. 
 
 " And, on the whole, admitting for a moment 
 that a few case ; have actually been seen of Small - 
 Pox after perfect Vaccination, it is to be ob- 
 eerved, that they are not more numerous thau 
 those of Small-Pox occurring a second time in tl> 
 sunie person, of which there are many distinct 
 
 T .
 
 <276 
 
 instances upon record, each of them far more 
 completely authenticated than any one that has 
 yet been produced by the enemies of Vaccination ; 
 and it appears that there have been already nearly 
 as many persons vaccinated in this kingdom, as 
 ever were inoculated for the Small-Pox." 
 
 These arguments might easily be amplified ; 
 but, of themselves, they are conclusive and irre- 
 fragable ; yet it may not be amiss, in confirms 
 tion, to adduce an epitomized account of the 
 opinions of the principal medical bodies, both in 
 this country and in the other nations of Europe, 
 upon the subject. So much, however, for the 
 present. By your permission, Mr. Urban, I shall 
 trouble you with a series of Essays in continua- 
 tion, for the succeeding numbers of your Ma- 
 gazine. 
 
 Cosmopolites.
 
 77 
 
 ESSAY THE SECOND. 
 
 MK. URBAN, 
 
 In the conclusion of my paper on the 
 merits of Vaccination, which appeared in the last 
 number of your Magazine, a few arguments and 
 observations were adduced in reply to the inquiry, 
 whether Vaccination affords a proper security 
 from the Small-Pox? The facts which Mere 
 there mentioned, must of themselves be nearly 
 sufficient to convince an unprejudiced observer of 
 the efficacy of the Vaccine preservative. It now 
 remains to take an impartial review of the re- 
 maining part of the evidence on this interesting 
 topic, which may be gathered from the experience 
 of eminent individuals, and from the avowed 
 opinion of public bodies. 
 
 First, then, let us hear the evidence afforded 
 by the experience of eminent individuals. It is 
 not from dabblers in medicine; it is not from those 
 who condemn any innovation in medical practice, 
 without giving it a trial, that we are to expect to 
 derive the information which is necessary for the 
 purpose of enabling us to form a decided opinion 
 t 3
 
 578 
 
 on the merits of any discovery. We must loot 
 up to those alone, whose knowledge is too ex- 
 tensive to allow them to be the dupes of impos- 
 ture, whose characters stand too high for any one 
 to suspect them of dissimulation, and whose in- 
 dependence raises them superior to any control 
 which might arise from indigence or servility. 
 Men of this description have the best opportu-< 
 nities of ascertaining the truth, and will be most 
 likely to make a disinterested avowal of it. By 
 men of this description the Vaccine has been put 
 to the severest trial ; and the result of their in- 
 vestigations, which has frequently been given to 
 the world, may justly claim a degree of universal 
 confidence. 
 
 It would be an endless task to enumerate the 
 particulars of individual experience. Suffice it 
 to say, that professional gentlemen of the highest 
 respectability have published accounts* of the 
 inoculation of some hundreds of thousands of 
 patients with the Vaccine, without a single in- 
 stance of failure. I have heard that Dr. Jenner 
 has vaccinated an immense number of subjects 
 
 * A detailed account of the numbers successfully 
 vaccinated by many medical gentlemen, and others, 
 may be found in Mr. Pruen's " Comparative Sketch of 
 the Variolous and Vaccine Inoculations t"
 
 '279 
 
 with his own hand during an uninterrupted prac- 
 tice of ten years ; and though I have been very 
 particular in my inquiries respecting the result, I 
 have never heard of a single instance in which any 
 of his patients were subsequently affected with the 
 Small-Pox. I have seen accounts, which proceed 
 from the best authorities, of the Vaccination of 
 some millions on the continent of Europe, in our 
 East Indian settlements, and in almost every 
 corner of the civilized world. But as Englishmen 
 will naturally repose more implicit confidence in 
 facts which occur within their own shores, and of 
 the truth or falsehood of which they may, if they 
 please, be convinced by ocular demonstration, I 
 .shall confine myself chiefly to the evidence of 
 English practitioners. I should be sorry to be 
 suspected of attaching undue belief to the pub- 
 lications of the friends of Vaccination, or of 
 entertaining improper doubts of the accuracy of 
 the statements of its opponents. Yet I cannot 
 think that the assertions of a few individuals, rc/io 
 avow that they never practised Vaccination, can 
 be put into competition with the assertions of the 
 host of medical men, who have made Vaccination 
 a principal object of their attention, and who, 
 when they declare that it does afford a complete 
 security (of course, when duly conducted) against 
 the Variolous infection, speak altogether from 
 T 4
 
 230 
 
 their own experience, and assert nothing 1but what 
 they are ready to prove by indisputable facts, 
 which have occurred under their own eyes. But 
 it is an insult to the understanding to urge these 
 arguments any farther. 
 
 So much for the evidence of individuals. Now 
 let us hear the opinions of public bodies. Indi- 
 viduals may be influenced by prejudice, interest, 
 or partiality : but in a large society, consisting of 
 independent, scientific men, no such influence can' 
 possibly prevail. For the reason I before as- 
 signed, I shall not adduce the opinions of foreign 
 societies : we must of course prefer the verdict of 
 our own countrymen. What then is the opinion 
 of the Royal College of Physicians of London, 
 than which the earth does not contain a more re- 
 spectable medical body ? 
 
 " The security derived from Vaccination against 
 the Small- Pox, if not absolutely perfect, is as 
 nearly so as can perhaps be expected from any 
 human discovery ; for amongst several hundred 
 thousand cases, with the results of which the 
 College have been made acquainted, the number 
 of alleged failures has been surprisingly small, so 
 much so, as to form certainly no reasonable ob- 
 jection to the general adoption of Vaccination ; 
 for it appears that there ape not nearly so many
 
 281 
 
 failures, in a given number of vaccinated persons, 
 as there are deaths in an equal number of persons 
 inoculated for the Small-Pox. Nothing can more 
 clearly demonstrate the superiority of Vaccination 
 over the Inoculation of the Small-Pox, than this 
 consideration ; and it is a most important fact, 
 which has been confirmed in the course of this 
 inquiry, that in almost every case, where the 
 Small-Pox has succeeded Vaccination, whether 
 by Inoculation or by casual infection, the disea.se 
 has varied much from its ordinary course ; it has 
 neither been the same in the violence nor in the 
 duration of its symptoms ; but has, w ith very few 
 exceptions, been remarkably mild, as if the Small- 
 Pox had been deprived, by the previous Vaccine 
 disease, of all its usual malignity. 
 
 " It has been already mentioned, that the evi- 
 dence is not universally favourable, although it is 
 in truth nearly so, for there are a few who enter- 
 tain sentiments differing widely from those of the 
 great majority of their brethren. The College, 
 therefore, deemed it their duty, in a particular 
 manner, to inquire upon what grounds and evi- 
 dence the opposers of Vaccination rested their 
 opinions. From personal examination, as well as 
 from their writings, they endeavoured to learn the 
 lull extent and weight of their objections. They
 
 CSC 
 
 found them without experience in Vaccination, 
 supporting their opinions by hearsay information 
 and hypothetical reasoning ; and, upon investi- 
 gating the facts which they advanced, they found 
 them to be either misapprehended or misrepre- 
 sented." 
 
 The same sentiments, under different words, 
 have been expressed by the other Colleges of 
 Physicians and Surgeons in the United Kingdom. 
 But, of all their Reports, none appears to me to 
 be so clearly favourable to Vaccination, as that of 
 the Royal College of Surgeons of London. This 
 learned body had received an account of one hun- 
 dred and sixty-four thousand three hundred and 
 eighty-one cases of Vaccination. In this number 
 fifty-six cases are stated to have occurred in which 
 the Small- Pox followed. So that there is only 
 one instance of failure in almost three thousand 
 cases ; and this, observe, necessarily including the 
 result of the practice in its very infancy. Now 
 if we take three thousand hens, and put them to 
 sit upon their eggs, I rather suspect that more 
 than one of them might not succeed in hatching : 
 yet, would any man thence assert, from such a 
 deviation, that the hen does not possess the power 
 of hatching r It is equally absurd to assert that 
 Vaccination does not afford a security from the
 
 283 
 
 Small-Pox, because, among the multitudes that 
 have been vaccinated, its security may, in a few 
 instances, have occasionally failed. 
 
 I have not hastily adopted these sentiments. 
 At the first promulgation of the Vaccine discovery, 
 I regarded it as something on the same footing 
 with the Cordial Balm of Gilead, the Restora- 
 tive Drops, &c. &,c. It was not till after the 
 most scrupulous inquiry, which I made with a 
 most prejudiced mind, that I could be induced to 
 believe Vaccination to be what its friends de- 
 scribed it. Obstinate, however, as my prejudices 
 against it confessedly were, they were shortly dis- 
 pelled by the accumulating facts which continually 
 appeared in its favour. If contrary evidence, of 
 equal force and authenticity, can be adduced, I 
 shall at all times be open to conviction, and ready 
 to renounce my present sentiments. But, till 
 such evidence shall have been adduced, I must 
 maintain my opinion, that no reasonable man can 
 for a moment doubt the efficacy of the security 
 which Vaccination affords. But there is another 
 point to be discussed, which is, " Whether Vac- 
 cination entails any novel diseases on the constitu- 
 tion^" 
 
 COSMOPOLITOS,
 
 284 
 
 P. 5. I had nearly forgotten to notice a curious 
 apprehension, expressed by one or two writers 
 on Vaccination, viz. " That its preserving qua- 
 lities might decay in the course of time, and that, 
 in a few years, the constitution might again 
 become susceptible of the Small-Pox" I will 
 not take up time in showing how unphysiolo- 
 gical such an argument is, and how directly con- 
 trary to the laws of pathology. I shall content 
 myself by observing, that it is refuted by matter 
 of fact; since there are many persons now living 
 of a great old age, who Mere infected with the 
 Cow-Pox in their youth, and who have invariably 
 resisted every attempt to communicate the Small- 
 Pox to them, though the attempts were con- 
 ducted in erery way that human ingenuity could 
 devise.
 
 SJ 
 
 ESSAY THE THIRD. 
 
 The next point which I proposed to con- 
 sider in discussing the merits of Vaccination is, 
 whether it excites any other diseases, or entails 
 any new maladies on the constitution. However 
 complete might be the security from the Small- 
 Pox which Vaccination affords, however confi- 
 dently we might hope to see the Variolous con- 
 tagion at length exterminated by its agency, 
 still, if it occasioned any novel affections in 
 the constitution, the remedy might be worse 
 than the disease. As this is the most popular ar- 
 gument against Vaccination, it will demand our 
 particular attention. As I am not of the medical 
 profession, I shall not presume to speak of my 
 ozcn authority on a subject purely medical. My 
 object shall be to collect and balance the opinions 
 of those whose professional knowledge and expe- 
 rience enable them to speak with confidence, and 
 entitle their authority to universal respect. 
 
 If the Cow-Pox be productive of new diseases-, 
 we might naturally expect to find those diseases 
 most prevalent in those parts of the country where 
 die Cow-Pox is most frequently to be found. In
 
 2SS 
 
 no district of the British dominions, or, perhapsy 
 of the world, has the Vaccine disease so often oc- 
 curred, as in Gloucestershire. Yet Mr. Trye, 
 F. R. S. who has long been senior Surgeon to the 
 Gloucester Infirmary, declares, that " a more 
 healthy description of human beings does not exist, 
 nor one more free from chronic cutaneous im- 
 purities, than that which suffers most from Cow- 
 Pox, by reason of their being employed in the 
 dairies;" that, " since the establishment of the In- 
 firmary, many hundreds among the labouring 
 people have had the natural or accidental Cow- 
 Pox, which has been prevalent in that county 
 from time immemorial" " and yet not a single pa- 
 tient, in half a century, has applied to the In- 
 firmary for relief of any disease, local or constitu- 
 tional, which he or she imputed or pretended to 
 trace to the Cow-Pox." So unequivocal a de- 
 claration, from so high authority, must, I think, 
 remove every apprehension of diseases arising from 
 the statural Cow-Pox. With respect to its effects 
 when communicated by inundation, we have 
 quite as satisfactory declarations from still higher 
 authorities. 
 
 The Peport of the Committee of the House of 
 Commons on Dr. Jenner's Petition, in 1802, ex- 
 pressly states that the " Vaccine Inoculation does
 
 287 
 
 not excite other humours or disorders in the con- 
 stitution/' 
 
 The Report of the Royal College of Physicians 
 of London informs us, that " the testimonies he- 
 fore the College are very decided in declaring, that 
 Vaccination does less mischief to the constitution, 
 and less frequently gives rise to other diseases, 
 than the Small-Pox, either natural or inoculated. 
 'Hie College feel themselves called upon to state 
 this strongly, because it has been objected to Vac- 
 cination that it produces new, unheard-of, and 
 monstrous diseases. Of such assertions no proofs 
 have been produced ; and, after diligent inquiry, 
 the College believe them to have beeu either the 
 inventions of designing, or the mistakes of ignorant 
 men." 
 
 Fom the Report of the Royal College of Sur- 
 geons of Edinburgh, we lcam that " the members 
 of the College have met with no occurrence in 
 their practice of Cow- Pox Inoculation, which 
 could operate in their minds to its disadvantage ; 
 and they beg leave particularly to notice, that 
 they have seen no instance of obstinate eruption*, 
 or of new and dangerous diseases, which they 
 could attribute to the introduction among man- 
 kind of this mild preventive of Small-Pox." 
 
 After testimonies of so decided a nature from 
 public bodies, it would be superfluous, Mr.
 
 288 
 
 Urban, to occupy your pages by adducing the 
 testimonials of individual practitioners. Yet I 
 cannot refrain from inserting the opinion of Dr. 
 Willan, a gentleman, of whom Dr. Scully 
 justly observes, that his " powers and oppor- 
 tunities of observation respecting all complaints 
 of the skin, are unrivalled, and that his opinion 
 upon such subjects is looked up to by the whole 
 medical faculty of Europe." 
 Dr. Willan asserts : 
 
 First/ That "no new diseases have appeared 
 since the introduction of Vaccination." 
 
 Secondly, That " the old cutaneous complaints 
 of the metropolis have not become more frequent 
 or inveterate/' 
 
 Thirdly, That " the children of the poor are 
 not affected with glandular swellings immediately 
 after Vaccine Inoculation, as they frequently are, 
 after the Small-Pox, Measles, and Scarlatina 
 anginosa" 
 
 There are some parts of medical science, with 
 which it is the duty of every man to be somewhat 
 acquainted, and of which an unpractised individual 
 can form a tolerably competent judgment. To 
 those, however, who, without proper knowledge, 
 meddle with those subjects in medicine, correct 
 information upon which can be derived from prac- 
 tice and personal experience alone, the proverbial
 
 289 
 
 caution may in general be applied, Ne sutor ultra 
 crep'uhun. From a consciousness of this, / shall 
 refrain from making any remarks on this branch of 
 the Vaccine question, lest I should injure a cause 
 which I wish to support. In corroboration, how- 
 ever, of the testimonials which 1 have already 
 quoted, I shall take the liberty of extracting a few 
 paragraphs from the publication of Dr. Scully, to 
 which I have more than once alluded, and which 
 reflects equal honour on him as a physician and as 
 a man. 
 
 After quoting a multitude of public and private 
 opinions, Dr. Scully thus proceeds : " Now what 
 is opposed to this mass of clear, strong, and satis- 
 factory evidence ? The contradictory assertions of 
 a few individuals, and the vage speculations of 
 others. Instances are adduced of children having 
 eruptive complaints after they had had the Cow- 
 Pox ; as if it were a matter of course, that tince 
 they succeeded to, they must have been occasioned 
 by, Vaccination. It would be about as rational to 
 argue that gout is produced by Small-Pox, the 
 heat of summer by the cold of winter, death by 
 marriage, storms by calms, or any event whatever 
 by any other which preceded it. It should not be 
 forgotten that children of all ages are extremely 
 liable to cutaneous complaints ; in some families 
 they are hereditary ; and the slightest error in re- 
 u
 
 290 
 
 gard to diet, Sec. will frequently produce them in. 
 children, whose parents were altogether free from 
 them."" This would be the proper place (con- 
 cludes Dr. Scully) to expose the afflicting conse- 
 quences of the Small-Pox, natural or inoculated ; 
 but rather than count over the several permanent 
 injuries and hideous deformities which it occasions, 
 I would leave the reader to the evidence of his 
 own senses and observation. To describe in de- 
 tail the various disfigurations and deformities of 
 person, the incurable ulcerations, scrofulous com- 
 plaints, glandular affections, Sec. &c. produced or 
 engendered by the Small-Pox, would be painful 
 to the feelings of many, and could be gratifying to 
 none. I leave the subject to the reader's cool 
 contemplation." 
 
 These arguments I collect, for the purpose of 
 placing in one point of view the principal evidence 
 on this important topic. They are so full, that 
 I think they must convince the most prejudiced, 
 and sutisfy the most timid and credulous. 
 
 It is my intention in my next paper to discuss 
 the question, " Whether, in the present improved 
 state of Small-Pox Inoculation, any substitute 
 be necessary or expedient." 
 
 Cosmopolitos.
 
 125>1 
 
 ESSAY THE FOURTH. 
 
 MR. U11BAN, 
 
 In my former Essays, I have endeavoured 
 to lay before your readers a summary review of 
 the principal evidence of the merits of \ accina- 
 tion; and the facts which I impartially adduced, 
 must, I think, be more than suiiieient to convince 
 every candid observer, that the Cow- Pox inocula- 
 tion, when properly conducted, docs afford an ej- 
 fectual and permanent security against the va- 
 riolous contagion, and that it excites no nczo dis- 
 eases, and produces no injurious effects upon, the 
 constitution. Having established these important 
 points, it might be conceived that the discussion of 
 the subject was ended ; and it might be expected 
 that mankind would universally concur in eagerly 
 embracing the mild and safe preservative which is 
 offered them against a disease, that has long 
 been one of the sorest scourges of the human 
 race. There is a popular argument, however, 
 not unfrequently urged by those v\ho are not 
 avowed opponents of Vaccination, the insidious 
 nature of which is calculated to produce con- 
 siderable injury, by delaying the progress of the 
 u 2
 
 new inoculation. Upon this argument I beg leave 
 at present to offer a few remarks. 
 
 We allow, it has been said, that Vaccination 
 may generally afford security from the future in- 
 fection of the Small-Pox, and we should be re- 
 luctant to oppose the high authorities that sup- 
 port the practice : but we think that a sufficient 
 time has not elapsed since the promulgation of the 
 discovery, to enable the public to form a decided 
 opinion of its merits. At the same time, we all 
 know that the Small-Pox has been greatly miti- 
 gated by the present improved method of inocula- 
 tion, under which not more than one in three hun- 
 dred dies. Why then, should we forsake a cer- 
 tainty to adopt an uncertainty? Why should we 
 relinquish a system of inoculation, the benefits 
 of which we have evinced by the experience of a 
 century, to embrace a new system, in which we 
 have had comparatively little experience ? 
 
 The objection, that sufficient time has not been 
 aHozced to put the efficacy of Vaccination to the 
 test, must have arisen from a want of information 
 on the nature of the disease. Mankind are in- 
 debted to the genius and industry of Dr. Jenner, 
 for the idea of propagating the Vaccine infection 
 from one human being to another, by means of 
 inoculation^ and, certainly ten years only have 
 passed, since he made public his discovery. But - 
 .4
 
 293 
 
 But it must be remembered, that, though the Inocu- 
 lation of the Cow-Pox is a novel practice, yet the 
 disease, in its natural state, has been known for 
 time immemorial, and its power of preventing the 
 Small-Pox has long been acknowledged. There 
 are many well-authenticated instances upon record 
 of persons who are affected with the casual Cow- 
 Pox* in their youth, to whom the Small-Pox 
 could never afterwards be communicated, either 
 by Inoculation or Contagion; and who lived to 
 an advanced old age, in the most perfect health, and 
 completely secure from the Variolous Infection. 
 It must be unnecessary to inform any one, who 
 has the smallest acquaintance with the laws of 
 physiology, that the Vaccine matter, after pass- 
 ing successively from arm to arm through a thou- 
 sand subjects, is precisely the same, in all its 
 parts, as when originally taken from the cow. 
 The Vaccine, therefore, has in reality undergone 
 as long a trial as the Small-Pox Inoculation itself. 
 In those districts where it is most accustomed to 
 prevail, the " Vox Populi," for nearly a century, 
 has borne witness to it.s affording a full security 
 
 * Dr. Jenner, in his first publication on the subject, 
 jjives instances of its preservative effects to the extended 
 period of fifty-one years. 
 
 V 3
 
 21)4 
 
 from the Small-Pox, and its effects have ever 
 been considered as rather beneficial than injurious 
 to the constitution. On no subject, therefore, 
 can our evidence be more complete, and more 
 firmly established ; and so far from there being a 
 necessity for further time to form a proper opi- 
 nion on its merits, it has the testimony of time 
 and experience, in the fullest degree, to sup- 
 port it. 
 
 Having endeavoured to obviate this plausible 
 objection, it remains to inquire whether, in the 
 present improved state of St.iall-Pox Inoculation^ 
 amy substitute is necessary or expedient ? If the 
 welfare of the individuals inoculated were exclu- 
 sively to be considered, I should attach but little 
 importance to the Vaccine practice. But we 
 must bear in mind, that it is not merely the de- 
 crease of danger and suffering, on the pert of 
 those inoculated with Vaccine matter, as com- 
 pared with those inoculated in the former way, 
 that- constitutes the great advantage of Vaccina- 
 tion. It is the singular and invaluable circum- 
 stance of no contagion being thereby communi- 
 cated to others. The Variolous Inoculation, it 
 is true, nearly secures those to whom it is ap- 
 plied ; yet it continues for ever to keep open the 
 source of danger to others. An individual may 
 undergo the Small-Fox. so as not to suffer any
 
 295 
 
 material inconvenience ; yet he necessarily must 
 communicate the contagion to some of those with 
 whom he associates. They, in the habits of ne- 
 cessary and ordinary intercourse, may communi- 
 cate it to others ; and thus the most fatal of dis- 
 orders may be disseminated, in a manner the 
 consequences of which it is impossible to calcu- 
 late. This is the reason why the mortality occa- 
 sioned by the Small-Pox has been greater since 
 the introduction of Inoculation lhan it was before. 
 The mitigation of the disease has universally di- 
 minished the caution with which it was formerly 
 avoided. Hence it arises, that the practice of 
 Inoculation, which has prevailed among the higher 
 and middle classes of society, has diffused the na- 
 tural disease more widely among the lower orders, 
 whose determination to live and die in their own 
 way, according to the customs of their great- 
 grandfathers, has rendered them almost insupe- 
 rably averse to adopt the lenient means of remov- 
 ing or alleviating disease, which are afforded by 
 modern improvements in medical science, and 
 "which the many absurdly denominate unnatural 
 or artificial disorders. 
 
 There is an Institution i.. this metropolis, esta- 
 blished for the Inoculation of the Small-Pox, the 
 founders of which were undoubtedly actuated by 
 motives which caunot be too highly applauded 
 i I
 
 296 
 
 It waS the practice, till within the last few 
 months, to inoculate out-patients there, to the 
 amount of two thousand annually ; and it was 
 usual for these out-patients to resort twice a week 
 to the hospital, to be inspected by the surgeon. 
 These, as they passed through the streets, must 
 of course have spread ihe contagion on every side. 
 I rejoice to find, that a stop has at length been 
 put to this unjustifiable practice ; and the intro- 
 duction of a Bill into Parliament during the last 
 session, to regulate and limit the Variolous Ino- 
 culation throughout the British empire, is a most 
 auspicious circumstance, which must afiord sincere 
 delight to every one who has the welfare of the 
 human race at Heart. Whether it be warrantable 
 to continue the Small-Pox in any shape or form 
 whatever, when we have in our hands the means 
 of totally preventing it, I must leave to the de- 
 termination of those who are better versed in po- 
 litical economy. As, however, it is a subject of 
 universal interest, and as the propriety of legisla- 
 tive interference has been a matter of much dis- 
 cussion, I shall beg leave to make a few remarks 
 upon it in my next Essay. 
 
 From the whole of these considerations it 
 must, I think, appear, that even if the Inoculated 
 Small-Pox were never fatal, a non-contagious 
 substitute for it would be of the highest public
 
 297 
 
 importance, in order that the diffusion of the dis- 
 ease in the natural way might be prevented. In 
 tiiis, then, the distinguishing excellency of the 
 Vaccine discovery consists ; on this its more for- 
 cible claim to public patronage is founded. Its 
 constant mildness is a point of great importance 
 with respect to individuals ; but when the social 
 interests of populous empires are taken into the 
 account, its benefits are inestimable. Were its 
 advantages to extend no farther, how important 
 would they be to those who are engaged in our 
 naval and military Service ! " Not a soldier," 
 General Tarleton observed in the House of Com- 
 mons, " need be left in the barracks during the 
 process of Vaccination ; but they can, without 
 the least inconvenience, move from place to 
 place, just as if they were under no process what- 
 soever. They are also soon fit for their military 
 duty ; and are free from the Inoculation in a 
 much shorter period than in the old mode ; and 
 as they sustain no loss of time on account of the 
 preparation, they come very soon under arms 
 again. This I should consider to be a point of 
 great utility to this country at any time, and more 
 especially at the present period." 
 
 Many other considerations might be urged; but 
 these simple facts and arguments must be sum-
 
 98 
 
 tient to convince every candid mind of the im- 
 portance- of the Vaccine Discovery to every indi- 
 vidualj to every community, and to every nation. 
 
 Cosmopolites. 
 
 ESSAY THE FIFTH. 
 
 The fatal consequences resulting from indiscri- 
 minate Small-Pox Inoculation were the subject of 
 my last Essay. To inquire into the legality of 
 penal restrictions on that practice, and to con- 
 sider the expediency of Parliamentary interference^ 
 is the design of the present Essay. 
 
 Liberty is the proud birth-right of Englishmen. 
 In our cradles we are taught to lisp out with 
 adoration the name of Freedom. We are led, by 
 a species of hereditary impulse, to regard every 
 encroachment on our independence with a jealous 
 eye, and, every restriction we are apt to consider 
 as an infringement of our rights. But let us re- 
 member that all governments are appointed for 
 the purpose of averting evil, of whatever descrip* 
 tion it may be, from the people governed ; and 
 it is the business of Legislators to enact and to 
 enforce such laws as may shield the natioms over
 
 1299 
 
 'which they preside from every injury. Such laws, 
 to their fullest extent, are not only warrantable, 
 but indispensably necessary. And if it be proper 
 to repress moral evil in a nation by salutary 
 punishments, is it not equally proper to repress, 
 by similar means, those evils which may be in- 
 jurious to the life and health of the community ? 
 Upon this principle the penal laws in general are 
 founded, and particularly those which relate to 
 quarantine. And if it be requisite to enact re- 
 strictions that may prevent the introduction of 
 disease from abroad, is it not far more requisite 
 to adopt such measures as may restrain and eradi*- 
 cate a disease which has long preyed upon the 
 vitals of our empire, and consigned its myriads to 
 the tomb, and which still continues its depreda- 
 tions upon our fellow-countrymen? A law, there- 
 fore, which should be calculated to prevent the 
 spreading of this fatal malady, is both demanded 
 by reason, justified by policy, and sanctioned by 
 precedent. In attempting to arrest the progress 
 of the Small- Pox, we must inquire what is the 
 principal cause of its extension. We are in- 
 formed, by fatal experience, that it is the uncon- 
 trolled practice of Inoculation. \\ hile the disease 
 appeared in its natural form alone, it was dreaded, 
 shunned, and repelled, with every possible pre- 
 caution. 13 ut when it was rendered familiar to
 
 500 
 
 us bv Inoculation, our caution? were diminished, 
 though the danger to which we were exposed 
 continued the same \ and the unconcern with 
 which the disease was viewed, increased its fatality 
 to an incalculable degree. Those who are covered 
 with Variolous eruptions are at this day permitted 
 to range the public streets ! \\ hat means could 
 human ingenuity devise, more rapidly and univer- 
 sally to disseminate the contagion ? It is against 
 so destructive a freedom that penal restrictions 
 should be directed. We wish not to prohibit the 
 practice of Variolous Inoculation, absurd as it is, 
 at present. Let those who are desirous of sub- 
 mitting to it, gratify their inclinations. But 
 though they think proper to welcome the disease to 
 their own bosoms, let them not be suffered to 
 extend it to others. Let not their liberty be em- 
 ployed in such a manner as may endanger the 
 welfare of their neighbours, and annoy the in- 
 terests of the community at large. 
 
 Since then the legality 7 and necessity of penal 
 restrictions on this momentous subject are so 
 clearly manifest, it remains to inquire what mea- 
 sures it may be expedient for Parliament to 
 adopt respecting it. 
 
 Let us first examine precedents. 'I here was a 
 time when the Leprosy was prevalent among the 
 inhabitants of this country. This baleful dis-
 
 301 
 
 temper commenced its ravages upon our shores in 
 the eleventh century. Its extermination was com- 
 pleted in the seventeenth century. Hy what means 
 then was its eradication accomplished? An Act 
 was passed, in the reign of the first Edward, 
 which enjoins that every reputed leper shall be 
 examined, as to the nature of his disease, by pro- 
 perly authorized persons ; and that, if he is found 
 to be affected with the leprosv, he shall be im- 
 mediately removed from society, and taken to 
 dwell in some solitary place, lest, by his associa- 
 tion with others, he should entail upon them any 
 injury or danger. It would be almost superfluous 
 to add, that houses of reception for the leprous 
 were appointed In appropriate parts of the king- 
 dom. Tl us, by confining the infected to places 
 of seclusion, and prohibiting their mingling with 
 the uninfected, the leprosy was subdued, and at 
 length annihilated in the civilized world. Let 
 similar exertions be made, and similar plans be 
 used, to check a disease which is now the scourge 
 of our country, and which yields not to the leprosy 
 in the loathsomeness of its nature, and is infinitely 
 more dreadful in the mortality which it occasions. 
 The subject admits not of delay, for not a day 
 passes in which the Small-Pox does not hurry 
 some unhappy victim to the grave ; and it admits 
 not of frigid hesitation, or of careless cavils, as
 
 302 
 
 upon it the welfare of the infant generation so 
 materially depends. 
 
 The Bill which was introduced into the House 
 of Commons during the last session, and which 
 will be renewed in this, to prevent the spreading 
 of the Small- Pox, is excellently calculated to pro- 
 mote its object. In many particulars, indeed, it 
 requires considerable emendations : yet its prin- 
 ciple is incontrovertibly just. If its enactments are 
 enforced \\ ith a zeal and earnestness proportionate 
 to their importance, the Small-Pox will shortly 
 be known only by name among us. Without re- 
 straining the liberty which every individual has an 
 undoubted right to exercise upon his own person, 
 it merely prevents the exercise of individual free- 
 dom from affecting the safety of others. 
 
 Having considered the subject in its particular 
 bearings upon the interests of our own country, it 
 may not be irrelevant to notice the policy pursued 
 by other nations. Though no positive prohibition 
 has been given to Variolous Inoculation, yet the 
 governments of every nation in Europe, of the 
 United States of America, and of our Indian Co- 
 lonies, have unanimously discouraged it, both by 
 the most persuasive proclamations, and by their 
 own example. The removal of the inoculated 
 and infected from soc iety has, on the Continent, 
 been enforced by penal laws. In addition to
 
 303 
 
 this, the Vaccine Inoculation has been earnest!} 
 recommended by the highest authorities, and ge- 
 nerally practised among the people. And what 
 has been the result ? In the larger portion of die 
 European and American continents, and in some 
 of our Asiatic settlements, the Small-Pox has 
 long been exterminated; and in those parts where 
 it yet remains, its spreading is prevented. 
 
 A remarkable instance has lately happened, 
 which evinces the stigma attached in other coun- 
 tries to the fosterers and allowers of the Small- 
 Pox. The child of a counsellor died of the na- 
 tural Small-Pox at Brunn, in Hungary. The 
 Imperial Police, being informed of the circum- 
 stance, commanded that the body should be in- 
 terred in a solitary spot without the town, and 
 that the grave should be made considerably deeper 
 than usual. The parents were also reprimanded 
 for neglecting to have the child secured from the 
 Small-Pox by Vaccine Inoculation. An instance 
 of mortality occasioned by the Small-Pox is re- 
 garded with surprise and indignation in many fo- 
 reign nations. In our own country, strange to 
 tell, such instances daily occur, and either pas< 
 unnoticed, or are viewed with a cold indifference, 
 which must excite the deepest regret in every 
 feeling heart !
 
 304 
 
 It will be observed, that in the course of these 
 remarks I have kept the Vaccine Inoculation en- 
 tirely out of view ; since I was desirous of resting 
 my arguments upon those principles alone, the 
 justice of which is acknowledged both by the ad- 
 vocates and opponents of the Vaccine. The ex- 
 tension of the benefits which the new Inoculation 
 affords, must depend on the free choice of the 
 people ; but the prevention of the mischiefs which 
 arise from the improper practice of the old Inocu- 
 lation, requires and demands the watchful interfer- 
 ence of Government. It may be a question, 
 Whether any legislature has a right to force the 
 greatest good upon the people ; yet it is in duty 
 bound to arrest the progress of every evil by the 
 severest laws. And if the universal restriction of 
 Variolous Inoculation should happily be accom- 
 panied by an universal adoption of the Vaccine, a 
 few months would be sufficient to eradicate a 
 disease, which, during the last year, has swept off 
 one thousand one hundred and sixty-nine persons 
 within the Bills of Mortality alone. 
 
 Let these considerations suffice. May the im- 
 portance of the subject be duly felt by the British 
 Parliament ! May they consider it with the ar- 
 dour and attention which it deserves ! and may 
 the result of their deliberations be honourable to
 
 30o 
 
 themselves, and serviceable to the nation, whose 
 welfare they are appointed to protect ! 
 
 Cosmopolitos. 
 
 ESSAY THE SIXTH. 
 
 MR. URBAN, 
 
 In a series of preceding Essays, 1 have 
 endeavoured to lay before your readers a faithful 
 and impartial detail of the merits of Vaccination. 
 My object has been, to enable the candid ob- 
 server to form a proper estimate of its value ; 
 and, in the course of the discussion, no argu- 
 ments have been used, but such as have been 
 warranted by unbiassed reason ; and no statements 
 have been adduced, but such as have rested on 
 incontrovertible authority. After having consi- 
 dered the various questions connected with the 
 Vaccine discovery, with a reference both to theory 
 and to practical experience, as far as it has 
 already gone, it remains to inquire what effects 
 are likely to be produced by the Vaccine practice, 
 should its adoption become universal. Should the 
 Variolous Inoculation be universally discontinued, 
 and should the Vaccine be universally practised, 
 what consequences are we to expect .' 
 x
 
 306 
 
 Til reply to this interesting inquiry, the most 
 brilliant expectations might justly be held forth, 
 supported by arguments the most consonant to 
 reason. I>ut facts are the most convincing argu- 
 ments. The advantages that have been already 
 derived from Vaccination, in those districts where 
 it has been generally propagated, constitute the 
 best foundation on which we can rest our hopes of 
 the advantages it would yield, were its propaga- 
 tion general throughout the world. I will not go 
 to the continent of Europe for intelligence, satis- 
 factory as are accounts continually received from 
 all its nations, of the benefits that accrue to 
 them from the Vaccine discovery. Englishmen 
 will listen with greater pleasure to information 
 which proceeds from their fellow-countrymen, 
 and from nations more immediately connected* 
 with their own. I shall, therefore, confine my 
 remarks to the progress and effects of the Vaccine 
 Inoculation in the British settlements in India t 
 not because it's effects are more striking in those 
 districts than they are in many other parts of th(* 
 world, but because the details respecting therrf 
 may be compressed into a smaller compass. 
 
 In a letter, dated December 18, 180f>, front 
 Dr. Kier, of Bombay, to Dr. Jenner (which has 
 been printed in the Appendix to Mr. Murray V
 
 307 
 
 " Answer to Mr. Highmore's Objections to the 
 Bill before Parliament to prevent the spreading of 
 the Small-Pox," and which Mr. Murray states 
 to have been communicated to him by Dr. 
 Jenner), the following information is contained: 
 " The governments in India have shown everv 
 anxiety to disseminate the new Inoculation, and 
 in all these presidencies there are regular establish- 
 ments for the purpose." " On this island the 
 Small-Pox was annually epidemic : since the in- 
 troduction of the Vaccine, it has done but little 
 mischief; and for the last three years has not 
 even appeared ; indeed I am sorry for this ; for 
 such is the apathy and indolence of the Asiatic 
 character, that an evil a little removed is seldom 
 attended to or feared. I feel frequently the effects 
 of this ; for, when urging parents to bring their 
 children to my station, they tell me, ' Why fear 
 ' Atala ? (Small-Pox.) Your disease has driven 
 * it away, and we have nothing to fear. If Small- 
 ' Pox again appears, we will all come to you at 
 *' once.' If this reasoning be foolish, it would be 
 difficult to produce so strong a testimony of thei 
 confidence in the preventive efficacy of the new 
 discovery." " The mortality from the visitation 
 of the Small-Pox, in any district of thi> country, 
 is much indeed beyond what you can imagine in 
 x 2
 
 SOB 
 
 Europe. It is certain that, on a favourable com- 
 putation, one in three die of Small-Pox in this 
 country. Indeed, the mortality at certain seasons, 
 and under certain circumstances, is frequently 
 more than half; that is, when one hundred are 
 seized with this loathsome disease, fifty perish. 
 Even the Inoculated Small-Pox proves a serious 
 disease here : independently of the common ob- 
 jections that are fairly urged against the practice 
 of spreading more widely the contagion, our ex- 
 perience in this settlement has led us to conclude 
 that one child in fifty is lost." 
 
 From this artless narrative we learn the tre- 
 mendous devastation which the Variolous conta- 
 gion formerly produced in the territories of India, 
 and w-e also learn how completely it has been ex- 
 terminated by the most simple and easy means ^ 
 by the universal practice of the Vaccine Inocula- 
 tion. If then the universal practice of Vaccina- 
 tion be capable of eradicating the Small-Pox 
 from one district of the globe, it naturally follows 
 that it is equally capable of eradicating it from 
 the globe itself, whenever the practice shall have 
 become general among all mankind. 
 
 This animating prospect is not a visionary dream* 
 Look at the European continent, look at Ame- 
 rica, look at many parts of Britain ; and you will
 
 309 
 
 find that wherever Vaccination is disseminated a* 
 it ought to be, there the Small-Pox has been ba 
 niahed, and prevented from returning. Since, 
 therefore, the same causes must produce the same 
 effects, to any extent to which they may be al- 
 lowed to operate, it is self-evident that nothing 
 but unanimous exertions are wanting, to free the 
 world from the severest malady that has ever af- 
 flicted its inhabitants. I will not at present in- 
 dulge in the language of exultation, with which 
 so proud a triumph over the most fatal of diseases 
 must inspire the lips of every friend of humanity. 
 I wish to reason dispassionately ; and I would, 
 therefore, coolly inquire what are the causes that 
 impede the progress of such inestimable blessings ? 
 Why is it that a disease, which has been expelled 
 from India, should continue to send such hordes of 
 wretched victims to the grave in the metropolis of 
 the British empire ? And what methods would it 
 be expedient to adopt, that this waste of human 
 life may be prevented, that prejudice may be 
 subdued, that Vaccination may be received in 
 the manner its importance demands, and that the 
 British realms may derive from it the same ad- 
 vantages that other countries have already ex- 
 perienced? With a few unprejudiced remarks on 
 these subjects, X will trouble you, Mr. Urban, for
 
 310 
 
 the next number of your Magazine* ; and then, I 
 believe, I shall have accomplished the series of 
 Essays which 1 originally proposed, and shall 
 have disussed the subject of Vaccination in every 
 point of view. If any of your readers, however, 
 will have the goodness to mention any point that 
 I have left unnoticed, I will thankfully receive 
 their suggestions, and readily prolong the discus 
 gion. 
 
 Cosmopolites. 
 
 * The declining state of Worgan's health, and his 
 premature death, prevented the completion of this 
 
 design. 
 
 THE END.
 
 311 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 JOHN DAWES WORGAN*. 
 
 Wh i le J en n En's fost'ring hand was stretch'd to save 
 Thy genius, Worgan, from th' untimely grave ; 
 While ev'ry muse thy wit and fancy shar'd, 
 And for thy brows an early wreath prepar'd ; 
 Heav'n claim'd thy heart; and, to assert the claim, 
 Snatch 'd thee from dang'rous paths of earthly fame; 
 And gave thee, blest exchange for such renown ! 
 Immortal bliss, and a celestial crown. 
 
 January 3, 1310. J. B. Drayton. 
 
 * These lines were only received in time to find a 
 place at the end of the volume.
 
 Printed by S. Gosnkll, Little Queen Street, London.
 
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