by Milton, but by many of our _modern_ Poets.

Of the four of Milton's, justly disapproved by Mr. White, there is
one evidently a _burlesque_, written in sport. It begins,

"A book was writ of late, call'd Tetrachordon."

Doctor Johnson has the disingenuousness, in his Folio Dictionary,
under the word SONNET, to cite _that_ Sonnet at full length, as a
specimen of Milton's style in this kind of Poetry. Johnson disliked
Sonnets, and he equally disliked Blank Verse, and Odes. It is in vain
to combat the prejudice of splenetic aversion. The Sonnet is an
highly valuable species of Verse; the best vehicle for a single
detached thought, an elevated, or a tender sentiment, and for a
succinct description. The compositions of that order now before the
Reader, ensued from time to time, as various circumstances impressed
the heart, or the imagination of their Author, and as the aweful, or
lovely scenes of Nature, arrested, or allured her eye.

TO MISS SEWARD,

ON READING HER CENTENARY OF SONNETS.

Dear are the forceful energies of Song,
For they do swell the spring-tide of the heart
With rosier currents, and impel along
The life-blood freely:--O! they can impart
Raptures ne'er dreamt of by the sordid throng
Who barter human feeling at the mart
Of pamper'd selfishness, and thus do wrong
Imperial Nature of her prime desert.--
SEWARD! _thy_ strains, beyond the critic-praise
Which may to arduous skill its meed assign,
Can the pure sympathies of _spirit_ raise
To bright Imagination's throne divine;
And proudly triumph, with a generous strife,
O'er all the "flat realities of life."

High Street, Marybone,
Feb. 1, 1799.

T. PARK.

VERSES

BY THE REV. H. F. CAREY,

ON READING THE FOLLOWING PARAPHRASES.

Hear, honor'd Flaccus, from the vocal shades
Where with gay Prior, and thy [1]Teian Peer
Thou wanderest thro' the amaranthine glades,
While social joys the devious walk endear!

Or whether in the bright Elysian bowers,
Where the tall vine its lavish mantle spreads,
Thou crown'st the goblet with unfading flowers,
Sooth'd by the murmuring stream, that labors thro' the meads.

Hear, happy Bard!--to wake thy silent lyre
Our British Muse, our charming Seward, deigns!--
With more harmonious tones, more sportive fire
Beneath her hand arise the potent strains.

Then, as thou hear'st the sweet Enthusiast, own
Thy fancy's