"Terrible Crystal" is more of fright than of exultation. But the lovelier, softer, simpler, and more pensive parts of the Bible are very dear to the gentle Spectator, and are finely, if faintly, reproduced in his writings. Indeed, the principle which would derogate from Addison's works, would lead to the depreciation of portions of the Scriptures too. "Ruth" is not so grand as the "Revelation;" the "Song of Solomon" is not so sublime as the "Song of Songs, which is Isaiah's;" and the story of Joseph has not the mystic grandeur or rushing fire of Ezekiel's prophecy. But there they are in the same Book of God, and are even dearer to many hearts than the loftier portions; and so with Addison's papers beside the works of Bacon, Milton, and Coleridge.

His poetry is now in our readers' hands, and should be read with a candid spirit. They will admire the elegance and gracefully-used learning of the "Epistle to Halifax." They will not be astonished at the "Campaign," but they will regard it with interest as the lever which first lifted Addison into his true place in society and letters. They will find much to please them in his verses to Dryden, Somers, King William, and his odes on St Cecilia's Day; and they will pause with peculiar fondness over those delightful hymns, some of which they have sung or repeated from infancy, which they will find again able to "beat the heavenward flame," and start the tender and pious tear, and which are of themselves sufficient to rank Addison high on the list of Christian poets.

[Footnote 1: Among these "others" was Abraham Stanyan, plenipotentiary extraordinary at Neufchatel at the settlement of the rival claims of the Duke of Brandenberg, Holland, and France, to that principality. He was afterwards ambassador to France. He married a daughter of Dr Pritchett, Bishop of Gloucester. It is said, that, having on one occasion borrowed a sum of money from Addison, the latter observed him to be very subservient, agreeing with every opinion Mr A. expressed, till Addison, provoked, and guessing the cause, said, "Stanyan, either contradict me, or pay me my money." Our friend, Mr J. Stanyan Bigg, author of the very brilliant poem, "Night and the Soul," is a descendant of Abraham Stanyan.]

ADDISON'S POETICAL WORKS.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

TO MR DRYDEN.

  How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays
  Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise?
  Can neither injuries of time, nor age,
  Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
  Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote;
  Grief chilled his breast, and checked his rising thought;
  Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays
  The Roman genius in its last decays.
     Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possess'd,
  And second youth is kindled in thy breast;
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  Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known,
  And England boasts of riches not her own;
  Thy lines have heightened Virgil's majesty,
  And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
  Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle
  In smoother numbers, and a clearer style;
  And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
  Edges his satire, and improves his rage.
  Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
  And still outshines the bright original.
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     Now Ovid boasts the advantage of thy song,
  And tells his story in the British tongue;
  Thy charming verse and fair translations show
  How thy own laurel first began to grow;
  How wild Lycaon, changed by angry gods,
  And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods.
     Oh, mayst thou still the noble task prolong,
  Nor age nor sickness interrupt thy song!
  Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
  Have watered kingdoms, and dissolved in streams;
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  Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould
  Turned yellow by degrees, and ripened into gold:
  How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,
  Have lived a second life, and different natures tried.
  Then will thy Ovid, thus transformed, reveal
  A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Mag. Coll. Oxon, June 2, 1693.
  The Author's age, 22.

A POEM TO HIS MAJESTY,[2] PRESENTED TO THE LORD KEEPER.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JOHN SOMERS,

LOKD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL.

  If yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
  Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares,
  If yet your time and actions are your own,
  Receive the present of a Muse unknown:
  A Muse that in adventurous numbers sings
  The rout of armies, and the fall of kings,
  Britain advanced, and Europe's peace restored,
  By Somers' counsels, and by Nassau's sword.
     To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong,
  Who helped to raise the subject of my song;
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  To you the hero of my verse reveals
  His great designs; to you in council tells
  His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
  Of towns unstormed, and battles yet to come.
  And well could you, in your immortal strains,
  Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:
  But since the state has all your cares engross'd,
  And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,
  Attend to what a lesser Muse indites,
  Pardon her faults and countenance her flights.
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     On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait,
  And from your judgment must expect my fate,
  Who, free from vulgar passions, are above
  Degrading envy, or misguided love;
  If you, well pleased, shall smile upon my lays,
  Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise;
  For next to what you write, is what you praise.

TO THE KING.

  When now the business of the field is o'er,
  The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar;
  When every dismal echo is decay'd,
  And all the thunder of the battle laid;
  Attend, auspicious prince, and let the Muse
  In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
     Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
  Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
  My Muse, expecting, on the British strand
  Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
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  She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe,
  When Europe was concerned in every blow;
  But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; is
  The trumpets, drums, and cannons drowned her voice:
  She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore,
  And floating corps lie beating on the shore:
  She saw thee climb the banks, but tried in vain
  To trace her hero through the dusty plain,
  When through the thick embattled lines he broke,
  Now plunged amidst the foes, now lost in clouds of smoke.
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     Oh that some Muse, renowned for lofty verse,
  In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse!
  Draw thee beloved in peace, and feared in wars,
  Inured to noonday sweats, and midnight cares!
  But still the godlike man, by some hard fate,
  Receives the glory of his toils too late;
  Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds;
  One age the hero, one the poet breeds.
     A thousand years in full succession ran
  Ere Virgil raised his voice, and sung the man
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  Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers bore
  On stormy seas and