It is wonderful into what obscurity that excellent poet, the late Mr. Penrose, and his truly poetical compositions, have fallen. His poems are out of print; they are now only to be found in Anderson's edition of the Poets. Any of your correspondents who have got Penrose's poems in MS. or from Anderson's Poets, would extremely oblige me by inserting in a corner of your next the Carousals of Odin, and Madness, two very short but excellent poems. The Helmets I have got in MS. I shall conclude, Mr. Urban, with the following appropriate lines from the Pursuits of Literature upon Penrose.
Have you not seen neglected Penrose bloom,
Then sink unhonour'd in a village tomb?
Content, a curate's humble path he trod;
Now, with the poor in spirit, rests with God.
Being in possession of an edition of Penrose's Poems, published in 1781, by Walter, in Charing-cross, I have great satisfaction in complying with the request of Etonensis, p. 922; and accordingly transmit copies of the two poems he requires.
It has long been a matter both of wonder and regret to me, the oblivion into which this poet has so quickly sunk; who though
Chill penury repress'd his noble rage,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own,
has certainly touched some of the true chords of poesy, and seems to have inherited no mean portion of the fire and feeling of Collins; nor can I but think such neglect disgraceful to the taste of the times in which we live. If any one can peruse that affecting effusion of his genius, intituled, "The Field of Battle," without suitable emotions, particularly in the last stanza but two, I envy him not his heart; neither is it for him, assuredly, that the following pieces are transcribed.