embark for Portugal. He was among the first who perished before the walls of St Sebastian.

I do not know how, upon a subject which I began with treating half seriously, I should have fallen upon a recital so eminently painful; but this theme of poor relationship is replete with so much matter for tragic as well as comic associations, that it is difficult to keep the account distinct without blending. The earliest impressions which I received on this matter are certainly not attended with anything painful, or very humiliating, in the recalling. At my father's table (no very splendid one) was to be found every Saturday the mysterious figure of an aged gentleman, clothed in neat black, of a sad yet comely appearance. His deportment was of the essence of gravity; his words few or none; and I was not to make a noise in his presence. I had little inclination to have done so for my cue was to admire in silence. A particular elbow-chair was appropriated to him, which was in no case to be violated. A peculiar sort of sweet pudding, which appeared on no other occasion, distinguished the days of his coming. I used to think him a prodigiously rich man. All I could make out of him was, that he and my father had been schoolfellows a world ago at Lincoln, and that he came from the Mint. The Mint I knew to be a place where all the money was coined, and I thought he was the owner of all that money. Awful ideas of the Tower twined themselves about his presence. He seemed above human infirmities and passions. A sort of melancholy grandeur invested him. From some inexplicable doom I fancied him obliged to go about in an eternal suit of mourning; a captive-a stately being let out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often have I wondered at the temerity of my father, who, in spite of a habitual general respect which we all in common manifested towards him, would venture now and then to stand up against him in some argument touching their youthful days. The houses of the ancient city of Lincoln are divided (as most of my readers know) between the dwellers on the hill and in the valley. This marked distinction formed an obvious division between the boys who lived above (however brought together in a common school) and the boys whose paternal residence was on the plaina sufficient cause of hostility in the code of these My father had been a leading mountaineer; and would still maintain the general superiority, in skill and hardihood, of the above boys (his own faction) over the below boys (so were they called), of which party his contemporary had been a chieftain. Many and hot were the skirmishes on this topic-the only one upon which the old gentleman was ever brought out-and bad blood bred; even sometimes almost to the recommencement (so I expected) of actual hostilities. But my father, who scorned to insist upon advantages, generally contrived to turn the conversation upon some adroit by-commendation of the old minster; in the general preference of which, before all other cathedrals in the island, the dweller on the hill and the plain-born could meet on a conciliating level, and lay down their less important differences. Once only I saw the old gentleman really ruffled, and I remember with anguish the thought that came over me-'perhaps he will never come here again.' He had been pressed to take another plate of the viand which I have already mentioned as the indispensable concomitant of his visits. He had refused, with a resistance amounting to rigour, when my aunt, an old Lincolnian, but who had something of this, in common with my cousin Bridget, that she would sometimes press civility out of season-uttered the following memorable application: Do take another slice, Mr Billet, for you do not get pudding every day.' The old gentleman said nothing at the time-but he took occasion in the

young Grotiuses.

course of the evening, when some argument had intervened between them, to utter, with an emphasis which chilled the company, and which chills me now as I write it- Woman, you are superannuated.' John Billet did not survive long after the digesting of this affront; but he survived long enough to assure me that peace was actually restored! and, if I remember aright, another pudding was discreetly substituted in the place of that which had occasioned the offence. He died at the Mint (anno 1781), where he had long held, what he accounted, a comfortable independence; and with five pounds fourteen shillings and a penny, which were found in his escrutoire after his decease, left the world, blessing God that he had enough to bury him, and that he had never been obliged to any man for a sixpence. This was—a Poor Relation.

WILLIAM SOTHEBY.

WILLIAM SOTHEBY, an elegant and accomplished scholar and translator, was born in London on the 9th of November 1757. He was of good family, and educated at Harrow school. At the age of seventeen he entered the army as an officer in the 10th dragoons. He quitted the army in the year 1780, and purchased Bevis Mount, near Southampton, where he continued to reside for the next ten years. Here Mr Sotheby cultivated his taste for literature, and translated some of the minor Greek and Latin Wales, of which he wrote a poetical description, poets. In 1788 he made a pedestrian tour through published, together with some odes and sonnets, in 1789. Two years afterwards the poet removed to tific society of the metropolis, and was warmly London, where he mixed in the literary and scienesteemed by all who knew him. In 1798 he published a translation from the Oberon of Wieland, which greatly extended his reputation, and procured him the thanks and friendship of the German poet. fame. In 1799 he wrote a poem commemorative of ¦¦ He now became a frequent competitor for poetical the battle of the Nile; in 1800 appeared his translation of the Georgics of Virgil; in 1801 he proBritish School of Painting; and in 1802 a tragedy duced a Poetical Epistle on the Encouragement of the on the model of the ancient Greek drama, entitled Orestes. The threatened invasion of the French

roused the military spirit of Sotheby, and he entered with zeal upon the formation of a volunteer corps. When this alarm had blown over, he devoted himself to the composition of an original sacred poem, in blank verse, under the title of Saul, which appeared in 1807. The fame of Scott induced him to attempt the romantic metrical style of narrative and description; and in 1810 he published Constance de Castille, a poem in ten cantos. In 1814 he republished his Orestes,' together with four other tragedies; and in 1815 a second corrected edition of the Georgics. A tour on the continent (during which Mr Sotheby was absent for eighteen months) gave occasion to another poetical work, Italy, descriptive of classic scenes and recollections. He next began a labour which he had long contemplated, the translation of the Iliad and Odyssey, though he was upwards of seventy years of age before he entered upon the Herculean task. The summer and autumn of 1829 were spent in a tour to Scotland, during which he visited Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and explored some of the most interesting of the Highland districts. The following verses, written in a steamboat during an excursion to Staffa and Iona, show the undiminished powers of the veteran poet :-

Staffa, I scaled thy summit hoar,

I passed beneath thy arch gigantic,
Whose pillared cavern swells the roar,
When thunders on thy rocky shore
The roll of the Atlantic.

That hour the wind forgot to rave,
The surge forgot its motion,
And every pillar in thy cave
Slept in its shadow on the wave,
Unrippled by the ocean.

Then the past age before me came,

When 'mid the lightning's sweep,
Thy isle with its basaltic frame,

And every column wreathed with flame,
Burst from the boiling deep.

When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile

O'er sculptured graves I trod,

Where Time had strewn each mouldering aisle
O'er saints and kings that reared the pile,
I hailed the eternal God:

Yet, Staffa, more I felt his presence in thy cave Than where Iona's cross rose o'er the western wave. Mr Sotheby's translation of the Iliad was published in 1831, and was generally esteemed spirited and faithful. The Odyssey he completed in the following year. This was the last production of the amiable and indefatigable author. He still enjoyed the society of his friends, and even made another tour through North Wales; but his lengthened life was near a close, and after a short illness, he died on the 30th of December 1833, in the seventyseventh year of his age. The original poetical productions of Mr Sotheby have not been reprinted; his translations are the chief source of his reputation. Wieland, it is said, was charmed with the genius of his translator; and the rich beauty of diction in the Oberon, and its facility of versification, notwithstanding the restraints imposed by a difficult measure, were eulogised by the critics. In his tragedies, Mr Sotheby displays considerable warmth of passion and figurative language, but his plots are ill constructed. His sacred poem, 'Saul,' is the longest of his works. There is delicacy and grace in many of the descriptions,' says Jeffrey, 'a sustained tone of gentleness and piety in the sentiments, and an elaborate beauty in the diction, which frequently makes amends for the want of force and originality.' The versification also wants that easy flow and melody which characterise Oberon. Passages of Sotheby's metrical romance are happily versified, and may be considered good imitations of Scott. Indeed, Byron said of Mr Sotheby, that he imitated everybody, and occasionally surpassed his models.

[Approach of Saul and his Guards against the
Philistines.]

Hark! hark! the clash and clang
Of shaken cymbals cadencing the pace
Of martial movement regular; the swell
Sonorous of the brazen trump of war;
Shrill twang of harps, soothed by melodious chime
Of beat on silver bars; and sweet, in pause
Of harsher instrument, continuous flow
Of breath, through flutes, in symphony with song,
Choirs, whose matched voices filled the air afar
With jubilee and chant of triumph hymn;
And ever and anon irregular burst
Of loudest acclamation to each host
Saul's stately advance proclaimed. Before him, youths
In robes succinct for swiftness; oft they struck
Their staves against the ground, and warned the throng
Backward to distant homage. Next, his strength

Of chariots rolled with each an armed band;
Earth groaned afar beneath their iron wheels:
Part armed with scythe for battle, part adorned
For triumph. Nor there wanting a led train
Of steeds in rich caparison, for show

Of solemn entry. Round about the king,
Warriors, his watch and ward, from every tribe
Drawn out. Of these a thousand each selects,
Of size and comeliness above their peers,
Pride of their race. Radiant their armour: some
In silver cased, scale over scale, that played
All pliant to the litheness of the limb;
Some mailed in twisted gold, link within link
Flexibly ringed and fitted, that the eye
Beneath the yielding panoply pursued,
When act of war the strength of man provoked,
The motion of the muscles, as they worked
In rise and fall. On each left thigh a sword
Swung in the 'broidered baldric; each right hand
Grasped a long-shadowing spear. Like them, their
chiefs

Arrayed; save on their shields of solid ore,
And on their helm, the graver's toil had wrought
Its subtlety in rich device of war;
And o'er their mail, a robe, Punicean dye,
Gracefully played; where the winged shuttle, shot
By cunning of Sidonian virgins, wove
Broidure of many-coloured figures rare.
Bright glowed the sun, and bright the burnished mail
Of thousands, ranged, whose pace to song kept time;
And bright the glare of spears, and gleam of crests,
And flaunt of banners flashing to and fro
The noonday beam. Beneath their coming, earth
Wide glittered. Seen afar, amidst the pomp,
Gorgeously mailed, but more by pride of port
Known, and superior stature, than rich trim
Of war and regal ornament, the king,
Throned in triumphal car, with trophies graced,
Stood eminent. The lifting of his lance
Shone like a sunbeam. O'er his armour flowed
A robe, imperial mantle, thickly starred
With blaze of orient gems; the clasp that bound
Its gathered folds his ample chest athwart,
Sapphire; and o'er his casque, where rubies burnt,
A cherub flamed and waved his wings in gold.

[Song of the Virgins Celebrating the Victory.]
Daughters of Israel! praise the Lord of Hosts!
Break into song! With harp and tabret lift
Your voices up, and weave with joy the dance;
And to your twinkling footsteps toss aloft
Your arms; and from the flash of cymbals shake
Sweet clangour, measuring the giddy maze.

Shout ye! and ye! make answer, Saul hath slain His thousands; David his ten thousands slain.

Sing a new song. I saw them in their rage; I saw the gleam of spears, the flash of swords, That rang against our gates. The warders' watch Ceased not. Tower answered tower: a warning voice Was heard without; the cry of wo within: The shriek of virgins, and the wail of her, The mother, in her anguish, who fore-wept, Wept at the breast her babe as now no more. Shout ye! and ye! make answer, Saul hath slain His thousands; David his ten thousands slain. Sing a new song. Spake not the insulting foe? I will pursue, o'ertake, divide the spoil. My hand shall dash their infants on the stones; The ploughshare of my vengeance shall draw out The furrow, where the tower and fortress rose. Before my chariot Israel's chiefs shall clank Their chains. Each side their virgin daughters groan; Erewhile to weave my conquest on their looms.

Shout ye! and ye! make answer, Saul hath slain His thousands; David his ten thousands slain.

Thou heardst, O God of battle! Thou, whose look
Snappeth the spear in sunder. In thy strength
A youth, thy chosen, laid their champion low.
Saul, Saul pursues, o'ertakes, divides the spoil;
Wreathes round our necks these chains of gold, and
robes

Our limbs with floating crimson. Then rejoice,
Daughters of Israel! from your cymbals shake
Sweet clangour, hymning God! the Lord of Hosts!
Ye! shout! and ye! make answer, Saul hath slain
His thousands; David his ten thousands slain.

Such the hymned harmony, from voices breathed
Of virgin minstrels, cf each tribe the prime
For beauty, and fine form, and artful touch
Of instrument, and skill in dance and song;
Choir answering choir, that on to Gibeah led
The victors back in triumph. On each neck
Played chains of gold; and, shadowing their charms
With colour like the blushes of the morn,
Robes, gift of Saul, round their light limbs, in toss
Of cymbals, and the many-mazed dance,
Floated like roseate clouds. Thus, these came on
In dance and song; then, multitudes that swelled
The pomp of triumph, and in circles ranged
Around the altar of Jehovah, brought
Freely their offerings; and with one accord
Sang, 'Glory, and praise, and worship unto God.'
Loud rang the exultation. 'Twas the voice
Of a free people from impending chains
Redeemed; à people proud, whose bosom beat
With fire of glory and renown in arms
Triumphant. Loud the exultation rang.

There, many a wife, whose ardent gaze from far
Singled the warrior whose glad eye gave back
Her look of love. There, many a grandsire held
A blooming boy aloft, and 'midst the array
In triumph, pointing with his staff, exclaimed,
'Lo, my brave son! I now may die in peace.'

There, many a beauteous virgin, blushing deep,
Flung back her veil, and, as the warrior came,
Hailed her betrothed. But, chiefly, on one alone
All dwelt.

The Winter's Morn.

Artist unseen! that, dipt in frozen dew,

Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid, Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade, Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew! Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue,

Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made, And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade, That liquid pearl distil: thy scenes renew, Whate'er old bards or later fictions feign,

Of secret grottos underneath the wave, Where nereids roof with spar the amber cave; Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train, Who, frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen, Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.

EDWARD LORD THURLOW.

EDWARD HOVEL THURLOW (Lord Thurlow) has published several small volumes of poetry: Select Poems (1821); Poems on Several Occasions; Angelica, or the Fate of Proteus; Arcita and Palamon, after Chaucer, &c. Amidst much affectation and bad taste, there is real poetry in the works of this nobleman. He has been a source of ridicule and sarcasm to various reviewers and not servedly; yet in pieces like the following, there is a freshness of fancy and feeling, and a richness of expression, that resemble Herrick or Moore.

unde

Song to May.

May! queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire;

And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor

With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too

In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night-
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!

When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed; And for the mournful bird Greenwoods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: May, be thou blessed!

The Sun-Flower.

Behold, my dear, this lofty flower, That now the golden sun receives; No other deity has power,

But only Phoebus, on her leaves; As he in radiant glory burns, From east to west her visage turns.

The dial tells no tale more true,

Than she his journal on her leaves, When morn first gives him to her view, Or night, that her of him bereaves, A dismal interregnum bids Her weeping eyes to close their lids.

Forsaken of his light, she pines

The cold, the dreary night away, Till in the east the crimson signs

Betoken the great god of day; Then, lifting up her drooping face, She sheds around a golden grace.

O Nature, in all parts divine!

What moral sweets her leaves disclose! Then in my verse her truth shall shine, And be immortal, as the rose, Anacreon's plant; arise, thou flower, That hast fidelity thy dower!

Apollo, on whose beams you gaze,

Has filled my breast with golden light; And circled me with sacred rays,

To be a poet in his sight:
Then, thus I give the crown to thee,
Whose impress is fidelity.