ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Anonymous, "To Mr. Mallet, after reading his Life of my Lord Bacon" London Evening Post (7 March 1741).
1733: Alexander Pope
1734: A. W.
1740 ca.: Aaron Hill
1747: William Collins
1754: Samuel Johnson
1755 ca.: Sarah Scott
1756: Rev. Joseph Warton
1762: William Shenstone
1763: Robert Lloyd
1763: Rev. Charles Churchill
1764: Andrew Millar
1765: Cuthbert Shaw
1780: Thomas Davies
1791: Sir Joseph Mawbey
1791: James Robertson
1791: Francis Garden
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1797: Rev. Joseph Warton
1798: Alexander Campbell
1801: Arthur Murphy
1803: Joseph Moser
1804: Rev. William Tooke
1807: Robert Southey
1822: Joseph Robertson
1824: William Hazlitt
1825: Allan Cunningham
1826: Richard Ryan
1859: William Anderson
1860: George Gilfillan
1876: James Grant Wilson
Guided by Truth, how could'st thou hope to please,
Whilst Prejudice spreads wide like a Disease?
Freely to strike Kings, Priests, and Men of Law,
Must, on th' Historian heavy Censures draw;
For Power and Pageantry the many blind,
Think not that Heav'n did all Men equal frame;
That, of Things worthy, among Mortals found,
Fair Virtue first, then Science, should be crown'd.
Yet thou arraign'st not the high Rank of King,
Conscious that Blessings from good Monarchs spring:
For Princes, whom Temptations compass round,
When all their Actions are with Justice crown'd,
Frail, Human Nature, it so much refines,
They seem as Gods. — And such ELIZA shines.
How justly drawn thy Characters appear!
Strong, moral, elegant, concise and clear.
The upright Minister here gilds thy Page;
The wicked Statesman, there, provokes thy Rage:
Each as a shining Beacon plac'd on high,
To warn us, as they catch the wond'ring Eye.
But chief see VERULAM exert his Rays;
And gild our Orb with an unusual Blaze.
Like some new Planet he attracts the Sight;
Thick Clouds of Error, instant, take their Flight.
Now, from his Zenith, he adorns the Scene,
Majestic, bright, beneficent, serene.
Yet was this Sun eclips'd, that shone so clear,
To shew that all Things are imperfect here.
Hail happy Artist, who has fram'd a Piece,
Worthy the noblest Pens of Rome or Greece!
Where the Materials by cool Judgment brought,
Are blended with warm Energy of Thought.
Not a crude, motley, indigested Heap,
Where, after Facts, Facts indolently creep:
But all conspiring to one great Design,
The Centre of each well-conducted Line.