e addressed to him on the Marks of Imitation,
observed, that the imagery with which the Ode to Memory opens, is
borrowed from Strada's Prolusions. The chorus in Elfrida, beginning

Hail to thy living light,
Ambrosial morn! all hail thy roseate ray:

is taken from the Hymnus in Auroram, by Flaminio.

His Sappho, a lyrical drama, is one of the few attempts that have been
made to bring amongst us that tuneful trifle, the modern Opera of the
Italians. It has been transferred by Mr. Mathias into that language, to
which alone it seemed properly to belong. Mr. Glasse has done as much
for Caractacus by giving it up to the Greek. Of the two Odes, which are
all, excepting some few fragments, that remain to us of the Lesbian
poetess, he has introduced Translations into his drama. There is more
glitter of phrase than in the versions made, if I recollect right, by
Ambrose Phillips, which are inserted in the Spectator, No. 222 and 229;
but much less of that passionate emotion which marks the original. Most
of my readers will remember that which begins,

Blest as the immortal Gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak and sweetly smile.

It is thus rendered by Mason:

The youth that gazes on thy charms,
Rivals in bliss the Gods on high,
Whose ear thy pleasing converse warms,
Thy lovely smile his eye.

But trembling awe my bosom heaves,
When placed those heavenly charms among;
The sight my voice of power bereaves,
And chains my torpid tongue.

Through every thrilling fibre flies
The subtle flame; in dimness drear
My eyes are veil'd; a murmuring noise
Glides tinkling through my ear;

Death's chilly dew my limbs o'erspreads,
Shiv'ring, convuls'd, I panting lye;
And pale, as is the flower that fades,
I droop, I faint, I die.

The rudest language, in which there was anything of natural feeling,
would be preferable to this cold splendour. In the other ode, he comes
into contrast with Akenside.

But lo! to Sappho's melting airs
Descends the radiant queen of love;
She smiles, and asks what fonder cares
Her suppliant's plaintive measures move.
Why is my faithful maid distrest?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he? soon he shall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts? he soon shall give:
Slights he thy sorrows? he shall grieve,
And soon to all thy wishes bow.

_Akenside_, b.