ight and airy kind, such as trip
lightly and nimbly along, without the load of any weighty meaning. From
these, however, "Rural Elegance" has some right to be excepted. I once
heard it praised by a very learned lady; and, though the lines are
irregular, and the thoughts diffused with too much verbosity, yet it
cannot be denied to contain both philosophical argument and poetical
spirit. Of the rest I cannot think any excellent; the "Skylark" pleases
me best, which has, however, more of the epigram than of the ode.

But the four parts of his "Pastoral Ballad" demand particular notice. I
cannot but regret that it is pastoral: an intelligent reader acquainted
with the scenes of real life sickens at the mention of the CROOK,
the PIPE, the SHEEP, and the KIDS, which it is not necessary to bring
forward to notice; for the poet's art is selection, and he ought to show
the beauties without the grossness of the country life. His stanza seems
to have been chosen in imitation of Rowe's "Despairing Shepherd." In the
first are two passages, to which if any mind denies its sympathy, it has
no acquaintance with love or nature:--

"I prized every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleased me before:
But now they are past, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I prized them no more.

When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt in my heart!
Yet I thought (but it might not be so)
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.

She gazed, as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return."

In the second this passage has its prettiness; though it be not equal to
the former:--

"I have found out a gift for my fair:
I have found where the wood pigeons breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed:

For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue."

In the third he mentions the common-places of amorous poetry with some
address:--

"'Tis his with mock passion to glow!
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold:

How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of this charm