Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as ease and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail! Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun night has vailed the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, The genial meads, assigned to bless Long, long thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: When reduced in circumstances to the last extremity, Collins, by the death of his uncle, Colonel Martin, came into possession of two thousand pounds-a sum,' says Dr. Johnson, which he could scarcely think exhaustible, and which he did not live to exhaust.' He had just before, in order to relieve himself under a pressing emergency, engaged to translate, for Miller, the bookseller, Aristotle's Poetics, and had received his pay in advance; but he now returned the money, and being relieved from the necessity of exertion, he became still more irregular in his habits, and soon sank into a state of nervous imbecility. Dr. Johnson, on one occasion, met him carrying with him, as he travelled, an English Testament. 'I have but one book,' said Collins, but it is the best!' He passed his latter days under the care of his sister at Chichester; but it was necessary at one time to confine him in a lunatic asylum. He used, when at liberty, to wander day and night among the aisles and cloisters of Chichester cathedral, ac companying the music with loud sobs and moans. Death at length came to his relief, and in 1756, just ten years after the publication of his immortal works, his troubled and melancholy career was terminated. Collins's life affords one of the most touching examples of accomplished youth and genius, linked to personal humiliation and calamity, that throws its lights and shades over English literature. Conscious of the purity and elevation of his poetic strains, he yet had the mortification to see his finest productions fall lifeless from the press; and it was this that broke his heart, and sent him to a premature grave. Southey remarks that though utterly neglected on their first appearance, the Odes of Collins, in the course of one generation, without any adventitious aid to bring them into notice, were acknowledged to be the best of their kind in the language. Silently and imperceptibly they had risen by their own buoyancy, and their power was felt by every reader who had any true poetic feeling.' The following dirge assimilates the genius of Collins so nearly to that of Shakspeare, that wo can scarcely realize the immortal bard of Avon did not himself write it: DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, But shepherd lads assemble here And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The red-breast oft at evening hours To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake thy sylvan cell, Or midst the chase on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, And mourned till pity's self be dead. To this dirge we add the 'Ode on the Passions,' which should, perhaps, be regarded as the author's sublimest and most elevated strain : ODE ON THE PASSIONS. When Music, heavenly maid! was young, And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo; And ever and anon he beat The double drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole: Love of peace and lonely musing, But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; They would have thought who heard the strain, To some unwearied minstrel dancing: As if he would the charming air repay, Oh Music! sphere-descended maid, As in that loved Athenian bower, Oh! bid your vain endeavours cease, Confirm the tales her sons relate. JAMES MERRICK was born at Reading, in 1720. He prepared for the university at the grammar-school of his native place, and afterwards entered Trinity College, Oxford, where he so far distinguished himself as to be pronounced, by Bishop Lowth, one of the best men and most accomplished scholars of the age. He entered into orders, but the delicate state of his health would not permit him to assume the arduous duties of the ministry, and he therefore passed his life in the pursuits of literature. His death occurred in 1766. The works of Merrick consist of Poems on Sacred Subjects, Annotations on the Psalms, and on the Gospel of St. John, and a Metrical Version of the Psalms. The latter is, however, a work of but comparative merit. The following fable from this worthy divine's pen, is both amusing and instructive : THE CHAMELEON. Oft has it been my lot to mark |