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One of the gallants in the Spectator, famed for the number of his female admirers, upon being asked how he acquired such supreme influence over the sex, told his companions that when any of the ladies asked him who was the reigning favourite, he informed her that a picture of his lover was always to be found inside the lid of his snuff-box. The lady of course insisted on seeing the box, which when opened by her, presented a small mirror, where she beheld her own face. Waller used his verse very much like the mirror, for when prompted by a lady's request, the beauty of her features and the charms of her person were generally reflected from his page.

Many of Waller's minor pieces deserve a better fate than to perish in the ephemeral pages of a scrap book. The lines on a Girdle express a graceful compliment, "A narrow compass! and yet there

Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair,
Give me but what that riband bound,

Take all the rest, the sun goes round."

The friendship between Amoret and Sacharissa is thus tastefully alluded to

"Not the silver doves that fly,

Yoked to Cytherea's car;
Not the wings that lift so high,
And convey her son so far,

Are so lovely, sweet, and fair,
Or do more ennoble love,

Are so choicely matched a pair,

Or with more consent do move."

In the following simile Waller has been copied by Lord

Byron

"That eagle's fate and mine were one,
Which on the shaft that made him die
Espied a feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to soar so high."

Of the few gems we have been enabled to gather from the sands of this poetic Pactolus, the following song is one of the most rare and precious. It is It is perhaps as

chaste and perfect a poem as Waller ever wrote.

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Then die! that she,

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!"

If Waller had often written thus, we could praise him more. This comparison has been abundantly imitated, as in the following stanza,

"Come forth, fair lady, from thy lone retreat,
And to the world thy varied charms disclose;

Come forth, while on thy cheek the blush so sweet,
In all the grace of virgin beauty glows,

Lest thou be like the solitary rose,

That in the wild wood bloometh quite unseen,
And to the desert all its fragrance throws;

On whose gay tints no mortal eye hath been

Lo! see how soon the worm shall spoil its damask sheen."

Gray also has used it

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

The poem addressed to Lady Lucy Sidney, the sister of Sacharissa, is an agreeable and pretty effusion.

Yes, fairest blossom! do not slight

That age which you may know so soon,
The rosy morn resigns her light
And milder glory to the noon.

And then what wonders shall you do
Whose dawning beauty warms us so?
Hope waits upon the flowery prime :
And summer though it be less gay,
Yet is not looked on as a time

Of declination and decay.
For with a full hand that does bring
All that was promised by the spring."

Upon taking a general view of Waller's works, we think he is more entitled to be styled a versifier than a poet. He appears neither to have been endowed with the imagination all compact,' nor to have been gifted with the abundant riches of a copious fancy. His lays are too often such

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as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold and regularly low.

That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep,

We cannot blame indeed-but we may sleep."

He was, however, the pride and boast of his generation, 'the admired of all admirers,' and those who may censure us for attempting to hang this slight garland upon the broken monument of his fame, should recollect that Dryden once said of him, "I mention him for honour's sake, and am desirous of laying hold of his memory on all occasions; and thereby acknowledging to the world that unless he had written none of us could write."

WILLIAM COLLINS.

"Let the artist share

The palm; he shares the peril and dejected,
Faints o'er the labour unapproved-alas!
Despair and genius!"-

'AUTHORS,' said Lord Bacon, are the servants of posterity,' and to none will this remark apply with such force as to the subject of the following memoir.

It is a singular fact in the history of literature, that many works have been very falsely estimated as to their real value by contemporary criticism, the authors in some instances, acquiring honours wholly unmerited, in others, being defrauded of that fame to which they were justly entitled. The neglect of one age is, however, often amply atoned for by the admiration of the next, while the lavish applause which has been too liberally bestowed by the patronage of friends and dependents, frequently fails even to raise a feeble echo from posterity. Imperfect and erroneous as may be the verdicts that are thus occasionally delivered in the tribunals of critical taste, time always furnishes an oracle by appealing to which a correct judgment may be obtained. Nec si quid olim lusit Anacreon, delevit œtas. A century sweeps away the animosities of jealousy and the prejudices of faction, the errors of false

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taste and the caprices of fashion. The reputation of an author then comes to be tried solely with reference to the qualities of his writings, his merits and defects are placed in opposite scales, and the balance is lifted by an even and impartial hand. Neither the generosity of friendship nor the malice of envy can exert any influence. Flattery and detraction have alike lost their power. Political considerations and personal predilections become too faint to bias the reasoning, or sway the judgment of the public, and an estimate is formed which succeeding ages seldom find occasion to reverse. Eccentric individuals desirous of notoriety may be found presumptuous enough to assert that Pope was no poet, Marlborough no general, and Walpole no statesman, but such persons usually only form the leaders of a miserable and contemptible minority. Amidst the general clamour of applause, the feeble sounds of their dissentient voices are scarcely heard.

In the laboratory of time, the process of refining is carried on with remarkable circumspection and care. Nothing that is intrinsically valuable is allowed to perish. Nothing that is wholly worthless is preserved. From this crucible the golden ore of genius comes forth with renewed brightness, while the spurious alloy of mediocrity gets obscured and defaced for ever. To the multitude of writers, age is surely fatal; for no devices, however ingenious, can preserve the gilded leaves of an artificial reputation from the moth of oblivion. To the chosen few, from whom the rays of genius have fallen, futurity does but serve to brighten the lustre of their fame.

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