THIS writer was once ranked by our American critics among the great masters of English verse; and it was believed that his reputation would endure as long as the language in which he wrote. The absurd estimate of his abilities shows the wretched condition of taste in his time, and perhaps caused some of the faults in his later works.

ROBERT TREAT PAINE, junior," was born at Taunton, Massachusetts, on the ninth of December, 1773. His father, an eminent lawyer, held many honourable offices under the state and national governments, and was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. The family having removed to Boston, when he was about seven years old, the poet received his early education in that city, and entered Harvard University in 1788. His career here was brilliant and honourable; no member of his class was so familiar with the ancient languages, or with elegant English literature; and his biographer assures us that he was personally popular among his classmates and the officers of the university

When he was graduated,

he was as much distinguished for the opening virtues of his heart, as for the vivacity of his wit, the vigour of his imagination, and the variety of his knowledge. A liberality of sentiment and a contempt of selfishness are usual concomitants, and in him were striking characteristics. Urbanity of manners and a delicacy of feeling imparted a charm to his benignant temper and social disposition."

While in college he had won many praises by his poetical exercises," and on the completion of his education he was anxious to devote himself to literature as a profession. His father, a man of singular austerity, had marked out for him a different career, and obtained for him a clerkship in a mercantile house in Boston. But he was in no way fitted for the pursuits of business; and after a few months he abandoned the counting-room, to rely upon his pen for the means of living. In 1794 he established the "Federal Orrery," a political and literary gazette, and conducted it two years, but without industry or discretion, and therefore without profit. Soon after leaving the university, he had become a constant visiter of the theatre, then recently established in Boston. His intimacy with persons connected with the stage led to his marriage with an actress; and this to his exclusion from fashionable society, and a disagreement with his father, which lasted until his death.

He was destitute of true courage, and of that

• He was originally called THOMAS PAINE; but on the death of an elder brother, in 1801, his name was changed

kind of pride which arises from a consciousness of integrity and worth. When, therefore, he found himself unpopular with the town, he no longer endeavoured to deserve regard, but neglected his personal appearance, became intemperate, and abandoned himself to indolence. The office of "master of ceremonies" in the theatre, an anomalous station, created for his benefit, still yielded him a moderate income, and, notwithstanding the irregularity of his habits, he never exerted his poetical abilities without success. For his poems and other productions he obtained prices unparalleled in this country, and rarely equalled by the rewards of the most popular European authors. For the Invention of Letters," written at the request of the President of Harvard University, he received fifteen hundred dollars, or more than five dollars a line. "The Ruling Passion," a poem recited before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, was little less profitable; and he was paid seven hundred and fifty dollars for a song of half a dozen stanzas, entitled "Adams and Liberty."

His habits, in the sunshine, gradually improved, and his friends who adhered to him endeavoured to wean him from dissipation, and to persuade him to study the law, and establish himself in an honourable position in society. They were for a time successful; he entered the office of the Honourable THEOPHILUS PARSONS, of Newburyport; applied himself diligently to his studies; was admitted to the bar, and became a popular advocate. No lawyer ever commenced business with more brilliant prospects; but bis indolence and recklessness returned; his business was neglected; his reputa tion decayed; and, broken down and disheartened by poverty, disease, and the neglect of his old associates, the evening of his life presented a melancholy contrast to its morning, when every sign gave promise of a bright career. In his last years,

says his biographer, " without a library, wandering from place to place, frequently uncertain whence or whether he could procure a meal, his thirst for knowledge astonishingly increased; neither sickness nor penury abated his love of books and instructive conversation." He died in "an attic chamber of his father's house," on the eleventh of November, 1811, in the thirty-eighth year of his age.

Dr. JOHNSON said of DRYDEN, of whom PAINE was a servile but unsuccessful imitator, that "his delight was in wild and daring sallies of sentiment, in the irregular and eccentric violence of wit ;" that he "delighted to tread upon the brink of meaning where light and darkness begin to mingle; to approach the precipice of absurdity, and hover over

father.

more applicable to the copy than the original. There was no freshness in PAINE's writings; his subjects, his characters, his thoughts, were all coinmonplace and familiar. His mind was fashioned by books, and not by converse with the world. He had a brilliant fancy, and a singular command of language; but he was never content to be simple and natural. He endeavoured to be magnificent and striking; he was perpetually searching for conceits and extravagances; and in the multiplicity of nis illustrations and ornaments, he was unintelligible and tawdry. From no other writer could so many instances of the false sublime be selected. He never spoke to the heart in its own language.

PAINE wrote with remarkable facility. It is related of him by his biographers, that he had finished Adams and Liberty," and exhibited it to some gentlemen at the house of a friend. His host pronounced it imperfect, as the name of WASHINGTON was omitted, and declared that he should not approach the sideboard, on which bottles of wine had just been placed, until he had written an ad

ditional stanza. The poet mused a moment, called for a pen, and wrote the following lines, which are, perhaps, the best in the song:

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land,

Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;
For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand,
And repulse with his breast the assaults of the thunder!
His sword from the sleep

Of its scabbard would leap,
And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep!
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

He had agreed to write the "opening address," on the rebuilding of the Boston Theatre, in 1798. HODGKINSON, the manager, called on him in the evening, before it was to be delivered, and upbraided him for his negligence; the first line of it being yet unwritten. Pray, do not be angry," said PAINE, who was dining with some literary friends; "sit down and take a glass of wine."-" No, sir," replied the manager; "when you begin to write, I will begin to drink." PAINE took his pen, at a side-table, and in two or three hours finished the address, which is one of the best he ever wrote.

ADAMS AND LIBERTY.

YE sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought For those rights, which unstain'd from your sires had descended,

May you long taste the blessings your valour has bought,

And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended.

Mid the reign of mild Peace
May your nation increase,

With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece;
And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls
its waves.

In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,

Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,

The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd, To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean.

But should pirates invade, Though in thunder array'd, Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade. For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway, Had justly ennobled our nation in story, "Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day,

And envelop'd the sun of American glory.

But let traitors be told,

Who their country have sold,

And barter'd their God for his image in gold,
That ne'er will the sons, &c.

While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,

And society's base threats with wide dissolution, May Peace, like the dove who return'd from the flood,

Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution. But though peace is our aim, Yet the boon we disclaim, If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame. For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

"Tis the fire of the flint each American warms:

Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision; Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms; We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a di

vision.

While, with patriot pride,

To our laws we're allied,

No foe can subdue us, no faction divide.

For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

Our mountains are crowned with imperial oak, Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nour ish'd;

But long e'er our nation submits to the yoke, Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourished.

Should invasion impend, Every grove would descend From the hilltops they shaded our shores to defend. For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm, Lest our liberty's growth should be checked by corrosion;

Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm;

Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own

explosion.

Foes assail us in vain,

Though their fleets bridge the main,

For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain.

For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;

For, unmoved, at its portal would WASHINGTON stand,

And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder!

His sword from the sleep

Of its scabbard would leap,

And conduct with its point every flash to the deep! For ne'er shall the sons, &c.

Let Fame to the world sound America's voice; No intrigues can her sons from their government

sever;

Her pride is her ADAMS; her laws are his choice,
And shall flourish till Liberty slumbers forever.
Then unite heart and hand,
Like LEONIDAS' band,

And swear to the God of the ocean and land,
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls
its waves!

FROM A "MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE."

His heart elate, with modest valour bold,
Beat with fond rage to vie with chiefs of old.
Great by resolve, yet by example warm'd,
Himself the model of his glory form’d.
A g'owing trait from every chief he caught:
He paused like FABIUS, and like CESAR fought.
His ardent hope survey'd the heights of fame,
Deep on its rocks to grave a soldier's name;
And o'er its cliffs to bid the banner wave,
A Briton fights, to conquer and to save.....

Inspired on fields, with trophied interest graced,
He sigh'd for glory, where he mused from taste.
For high emprise his dazzling helm was plumed,
And all the polish'd patriot-hero bloom'd.
Arm'd as he strode, his glorying country saw
That fame was virtue, and ambition law;
In him beheld, with fond delight, conspire [fire.
Her MARLBOROUGH's fortune and her SIDNEY'S
Like Calvi's rock, with clefts abrupt deform'd,
His path to fame toil'd up the breach he storm'd;
Till o'er the clouds the victor chief was seen,
Sublime in terror, and in height serene.

His equal mind so well could triumph greet, He gave to conquest charms that soothed defeat. The battle done, his brow, with thought o'ercast, Benign as Mercy, smiled on perils past. The death-choked fosse, the batter'd wall, inspired A sense, that sought him, from the field retired. Suspiring Pity touch'd that godlike heart, To which no peril could dismay impart; And melting pearls in that stern eye could shine, That lighten'd courage down the thundering line. So mounts the sea-bird in the boreal sky, And sits where steeps in beetling ruin lie; Though warring whirlwinds curl the Norway seas, And the rocks tremble, and the torrents freeze; Yet is the fleece, by beauty's bosom press'd, The down that warms the storm-beat eider's breast; Mid floods of frost, where Winter smites the deep, Are fledged the plumes on which the Graces sleep.

In vain thy cliffs, Hispania, lift the sky, Where CESAR's eagles never dared to fly! To rude and sudden arms while Freedom springs, NAPOLEON'S legions mount on bolder wings. In vain thy sons their steely nerves oppose, Bare to the rage of tempests and of foes; In vain, with naked breast, the storm defy Of furious battle and of piercing sky: Five waning reigns had marked, in long decay, The gloomy glory of thy setting day; While bigot power, with dark and dire disgrace, Oppress'd the valour of thy gallant race. No martial phalanx, led by veteran art, Combined thy vigour, or confirmed thy heart: Thy bands dispersed, like Rome in wild defeat, Fled to the mountains, to entrench retreat.....

Illustrious MOORE, by foe and famine press'd, Yet by each soldier's proud affection bless'd, Unawed by numbers, saw the impending host, With front extending, lengthen down the coast. Charge! Britons, charge!" the exulting chief ex

claims:

Swift moves the field; the tide of armour flames;
On, on they rush; the solid column flies,
And shouts tremendous, as the foe defies.
While all the battle rung from side to side,
In death to conquer was the warrior's pride.
Where'er the war its unequal tempest pour'd,
The leading meteor was his glittering sword!
Thrice met the fight, and thrice the vanquish'd Gaul
Found the firm line an adamantine wall.
Again repulsed, again the legions drew,

And Fate's dark shafts in volley'd shadows flew.
Now storm'd the scene where soul could soul attest,
Squadron to squadron join'd, and breast to breast,
From rank to rank the intrepid valour glow'd,
From rank to rank the inspiring champion rode
Loud broke the war-cloud, as his charger sped;
Pale the curved lightning quiver'd o'er his head;
Again it bursts; peal, echoing peal, succeeds;
The bolt is launch'd; the peerless soldier bleeds!
Hark! as he falls, Fame's swelling clarion cries,
Britannia triumphs, though her hero dies!"
The grave he fills is all the realm she yields,
And that proud empire deathless honor shields.
No fabled phoenix from his bier revives;
His ashes perish, but his country lives.

Immortal dead! with musing awe thy foes Tread not the hillock where thy bones repose! There, sacring mourner, see, Britannia spreads A chaplet, glistening with the tears she sheds. With burning censer glides around thy tomb, And scatters incense where thy laurels bloom; With rapt devotion sainted vigil keeps— Shines with Religion, and with Glory weeps! Sweet sleep the brave! in solemn chant shall sound Celestial vespers o'er thy sacred ground! Long ages hence, in pious twilight seen, Shall choirs of seraphs sanctify thy green; At curfew-hour shall dimly hover there, And charm, with sweetest dirge, the listening air. With homage tranced, shall every pensive mind Weep, while the requiem passes on the wind Till, sadly swelling Sorrow's softest notes, It dies in distance, while its echo floats!

WILLIAM MUNFORD, the translator of the "Iliad." was born in the county of Mecklenburg, in Virginia, on the fifteenth of August, 1775. His father, Colonel ROBERT MUNFORD, was honourably distinguished in affairs during the Revolution, and afterward gave much attention to literature. Some of his letters, to be found in collections relating to the time, are written with grace and vigour, and he was the author of several dramatic pieces, of considerable merit, which, with a few minor poems, were published by his son, the subject of the present article, at Petersburg, in 1798. In his best comedy, "The Candidates," in three acts, he exposes to contempt the falsehood and corruption by which it was frequently attempted to influence the elections. In "The Patriots," in five acts he contrasts, probably with an eye to some instance in Virginia, a real and pretended love of country. He had commenced a translation of Ovin's " Metamorphoses" into English verse, and had finished the first book, when death arrested his labours. He was a man of wit and humour, and was respected for many social virtues. His literary activity is referred to thus particularly, because I have not seen that the pursuits and character of the father, have been noticed by any of the writers upon the life of the son, which was undoubtedly in a very large degree influenced by them.

WILLIAM MUNFORD was transferred from an academy at Petersburg, to the college of William and Mary, when only twelve years of age. In a letter written soon after he entered his fourteenth year, we have some information in regard to his situation and prospects. "I received from nature," he says, "a weakly constitution and a sickly body; and I have the unhappiness to know that my poor mother is in want. I am absent from her and my dear sisters. Put this in the scale of evil. I possess the rare and almost inestimable blessing of a friend in Mr. WYTHE and in Joux RANDOLPH; I have a mother in whose heart I have a large share; two sisters, whose affections I flatter myself are fixed upon me; and fair prospects before me, provided I can complete my education, and am not destitute of the necessaries of life. Put these in the scale of good." This was a brave letter for a boy to write under such circumstances.

Mr. WYTHE here referred to was afterward the celebrated chancellor. He was at this time professor of law in the college, and young MUNFORD lived in his family; and, sharing the fine enthusiasm with which the retired statesman regarded the literature of antiquity, he became an object of his warm affection. His design to translate the "Ilind" was formed at an early period, and it was robably encouraged by Mr. WYTHE, who per

sonally instructed him in ancient learning. In 1792, when Mr. WYTHE was made chancellor, and removed to Richmond, Mr. MUNFORD accompanied him, but he afterward returned to the college, where he had graduated with high honours, to attend to the law lectures of Mr. ST. GEORGE TUCKER. In his twentieth year he was called to the bar, in his native county, and his abilities and industry soon secured for him a respectable practice. He rose rapidly in his profession, and in the public confidence, and in 1797 was chosen a member of the House of Delegates, in which he continued until 1802, when he was elected to the senate, which he left after four years, to enter the Privy Council, of which he was a conspicuous member until 1811. He then received the place of clerk of the House of Delegates, which he retained until his death. This occurred at Richmond, where he had resided for nineteen years, on the twentyfirst of July, 1825. In addition to his ordinary professional and political labours, he reported the decisions of the Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals, preparing six annual volumes without assistance, and four others, afterward, in connexion with Mr. W. W. HENRY. He possessed in a remarkable degree the affectionate respect of the people of the commonwealth; and the House of Delegates, upon his death, illustrated their regard for his memory by appointing his eldest son to the office which he had so long held, and which has thus for nearly a quarter of a century longer continued in his family.

The only important literary production of Mr. MUNFORD is his HOMER. This was his life-labour. The amazing splendour of the Tale of Troy captivated his boyish admiration, and the cultiva. tion of his own fine mind enabled him but to see more and more its beauty and grandeur. It is not known at what time he commenced his version, but a large portion of it had been written in 1811, and the work was not completed until a short time before he died. In his modest preface he says: " The author of this translation was induced to undertake it by fond admiration of the almost unparalleled sublimity and beauty of the original; neither of which peculiar graces of HoMER'S muse has, he conceives, been sufficiently expressed in the smooth and melodious rhymes of POPE. It is true that the fine poem of that elegant writer, which was the delight of my boy ish days, and will always be read by me with un. common pleasure, appears in some parts more beautiful than everf the work of HOMER himself; but frequently it is less beautiful; and seldom does it equal the sublimity of the Greek." He had not seen CowPER's "Iliad" until his own was consid erably advanced, and it does not appear that he

was ever acquainted with CHAPMAN'S or SOTHEBY'S. He wrote, too, before the Homeric poetry had received the attention of those German scholars whose masterly criticisms have given to its literature an entirely new character. But he had studied the "Iliad" until his own mind was thoroughly imbued with its spirit; he approached his task with the fondest enthusiasm; well equipped with the best learning of his day; a style fashioned upon the most approved models: dignified, various, and disciplined into uniform elegance; and a judicial habit of mind, joined with a consci

EXTRACTS FROM THE "ILIAD.”

THE MEETING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

To her the mighty HECTOR made reply: *All thou hast said employs my thoughtful mind. But from the Trojans much I dread reproach, And Trojan dames whose garments sweep the If, like a coward, I should shun the war; [ground, Nor does my soul to such disgrace incline, Since to be always bravest I have learn'd, And with the first of Troy to lead the fight; Asserting so my father's lofty claim, To glory, and my own renown in arms. For well I know, in heart and mind convinced, A day will come when sacred Troy must fall, And PRIAM, and the people of renown'd Spear-practised PRIAM! Yet for this, to me Not such concern arises; not the woes Of all the Trojans, not my mother's griefs, Nor royal PRIAM's nor my brethren's deaths, Many and brave, who slain by cruel foes Will be laid low in dust, so wring my heart As thy distress, when some one of the Greeks In brazen armour clad, shall drive thee hence, Thy days of freedom gone, a weeping slave! Perhaps at Argos thou mayst ply the loom, For some proud mistress; or mayst water bring, From Mepsa's or Hyperia's fountain, sad And much reluctant, stooping to the weight Of sad necessity: and some one, then, Seeing thee weep, will say, Behold the wife Of HECTOR, who was first in martial might Of all the warlike Trojans, when they fought Around the walls of Ilion! So will speak Some heedless passer-by, and grief renew'd Excite in thee, for such a husband lost, Whose arm might slavery's evil day avert. Rut me may then a heap of earth conceal Within the silent tomb, before I hear Thy shrieks of terror and captivity."

This said, illustrious HECTOR stretch'd his arms To take his child; but to the nurse's breast The babe clung crying, hiding in her robe His little face, affrighted to behold His father's awful aspect; fearing too The brazen helm, and crest with horse-hair crown'd, Which, nodding dreadful from its lofty cone, Alarm'd him. Sweetly then the father smi ed, And sweetly smiled the mother! Soon the chief Removed the threatening helmet from his head, And placed it on the ground, all beaming bright;

entious determination to present the living HOMER, as he was known in Greece, to the readers of our time and language.

His manuscript remained twenty years in the possession of his family, and was finally published in two large octavo volumes, in Boston, in 1846. It received the attention due from our scholars to such a performance, and the general judgment appears to have assigned it a place near to CHAPMAN'S and CowPER'S in fidelity, and between COWPER'S and POPE's in elegance, energy, and all the best qualities of an English poem.

Then having fondly kiss'd his son beloved
And toss'd him playfully, he thus to Jove
And all the immortals pray'd: "O grant me, Jove,
And other powers divine, that this my son
May be, as I am, of the Trojan race
In glory chief. So! let him be renown'd
For warlike prowess and commanding sway
With power and wisdom join'd, of Ilion king!
And may the people say, This chief excels
His father much, when from the field of fame
Triumphant he returns, bearing aloft
The bloody spoils, some hostile hero slain,
And his fond mother's heart expands with joy!'
He said, and placed his child within the arms
Of his beloved spouse. She him received,
And softly on her fragrant bosom laid,
Smiling with tearful eyes. To pity moved.
Her husband saw: with kind consoling ha id
He wiped the tears away, and thus he spake
"My dearest love! grieve not thy mind for me
Excessively. No man can send me hence,
To Pluto's hall, before the appointed time;
And surely none of all the human race,
Base or e'en brave, has ever shunn'd his fate-
His fate foredoom'd, since first he saw the light.
But now, returning home, thy works attend,
The loom and distaff, and direct thy maids
In household duties, while the war shall be
Of men the care; of all, indeed, but most
The care of me, of all in Ilion born."

EMBARKATION OF THE GREEKS.
When with food and drink
All were supplied, the striplings crown'd with wine
The foaming bowls, and handed round to each,
In cups, a portion to libations due.

They, all day long, with hymns the god appeased;
The sons of Greece melodious pæans sang
In praise of great Apollo-he rejoiced
To hear that pleasant song-and when the sun
Descended to the sea, and darkness came,
They near the cables of their vessels slept.
Soon as the rosy-finger'd queen appear'd,
Aurora, lovely daughter of the dawn,
Toward the camp of Greece they took their way.
And friendly Phoebus gave propitious gales.
They raised the mast, and stretch'd the snowy sheet,
To catch the breeze which fill'd the swelling sail
Around the keel the darken'd waters roar,
As swift the vessel flies. The billows dark
She quickly mounting, stemm'd the watery way.