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With greedy looks, and gaping mouth that cried,

And roar'd for meat as she should there have died;
Her body thin and bare as any bone,
Whereto was left nought but the case alone.

And that, alas, was knawn on every where,

All full of holes, that I ne mought refrain From tears, to see how she ber arms could tear,

And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain ;

When all for nought she fain would so sustain
Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade,
Than any substance of a creature made.
Great was her force, whom stone wall could not stay;

Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw;
With gaping jaws that by no means ymay

Be satisfied from hunger of her maw;

But eats herself as she that hath no law;
Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain,
Where you may count each sinew, bone and vein.

On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes,

That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shright in so huge wise,

As made hell gates to shiver with the might,*

Wherewith a dart we saw how it did light
Right on her breast, and therewithal pale DEATH
Enthrilling it to reve her of her breath.
And by and by a dumb dead corpse we saw,

Heavy and cold, the shape of death aright,
That daunts all earthly creatures to his law;

Against whose force in vain it is to fight,

Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight; Ne town, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower, But all perforce must yeild unto his power.

* What an admirable and highly poetical line!

His dart anon out of the corpse he took,

And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook,

That most of all my fears affrayed me;

His body dight with nought but bones, perdie,
The naked shape of man there saw I plain,
All, save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Lastly stood War, in glittering arms yclad,

With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued, In his right hand a naked sword he had,

That to the hilts was all with blood embrued;

And in his left, that kings and kingdoms rued,
Famine and fire he held, and therewithal
He razed towns, and threw down towers and all.

Cities he sack’d, and realms that whilom flower'd

In honour, glory, and rule above the best, He overwhelm’d, and all their fame devour'd,

Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd,

Till he their wealth, their name, and all opprest, His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side There hung his targe with gnashes deep and wide.

In midst of wbich depainted there we found

Deadly DEBATE, all full of snaky hair, That with a bloody fillet was ybound,

Outbreathing nought but discord every where;

And round about were pourtray'd here and there The hugy hosts; Darius and his power, His kings, princes, his peers, and all his power !"* &c.

The merit of these descriptions does not require to be pointed out. They seem to me more picturesque, and of a more sombre and sublime cast than those of Spenser, himself. I trust my readers will think they illustrate the point, for which I have introduced them.

* Mirror for Magistrates, second edition, 1563. But these lines are extracted by Warton in his History of English Poetry, which I did not recollect when I first began to transcribe them.,

To return to Collins. His imagination, if not always quite as moral or as bold as Sackville's, was eminently beautiful and brilliant. In the Ode to the Passions the personifications are exquisitely picturesque, animated, and appropriate; the language is so purely poetical and finished, and the harmony of the numbers is so felicitous, as to leave it without a rival; and indeed without any attempt at rivalry in its own class. *

Dec. 14, 1808.

ART. DCCLVI.
No. LVII. On Book-Making.
« Nil est deterius latrone rudo;
Nil securius est malo poeta.”

MART. THERE cannot be a question, that re-combining the old materials of literature, without any new results, or even any material improvement of the order and method pursued, to which the term Bookmaking has been contemptuously applied, requires discouragement and censure. It is, no doubt, a common practice in these, and has been in all days, since the first invention of printing.

But it is equally certain that the word so under* Mrs. Barbauld has prefixed an excellent Essay on Collins's Poetry, before her edition of his Poems, 1797; but in the view which I have taken, I am not aware that I have interfered with it.

stood is very often most grossly misdirected. This blame is often thrown upon volumes where new results arise from the new position of the matter; where research has been exercised in bringing it forward; or at least an active and cultivated memory employed in forming its new arrangement.

As books increase, they still generate the necessity of others; and compilers, though not among the higher ranks of authors, are labourers whose services in the fields of literature are indispensable. They are often requisite to do the drudgery even of first gathering together and binding up the sheaves where others have cut the corn.

He, who tells me that he requires no aid to his memory, and that the repetition of any thing which is to be found in print among the books of his library, is absolutely superfluous, must either deem me very stupid, if he hopes to gain my belief, or must allow me to suppose his books very few, and the course of his studies exceedingly limited. I even consider no small benefit gained, in many cases, by the addition of a few notes, or a better type and paper.

The mere use of paste and scissars, the jumbling together the disjointed parts of books in a different form, merely by way of disguising the piracy, and solely for the purpose of lucre, is indeed vile and highly reprehensible. And every one must observe daily instances of this contemptible abuse.

If vanity induces a man, who dares not trust the powers of his own mind, to grasp at the fame of authorship, by re-editing the works of others, the passion is at least innocent, and often produces effects useful and laudable. But it is something much better than vanity that frequently generates this exertion. It is often a generous duty; and often a noble desire of a virtuous intellectual occupation in pursuits productive of public instruction or pleasure.

It may be admitted that persons so employed sometimes mistake the value of their materials, and sometimes when they judge rightly of them make a false estimate of the public taste. But for these errors or ill fortunes, no liberal or wise mind will blame their urdertakings; nor need they despair that full justice will at length be done them. Time will weigh them in the true balance; and they will find their place according to their worth.

There was a day probably, when old Fuller was confounded by those, who when they get a cant term of censure deal it about them to the right and to the left, and always without discrimination, among the book-makers of his generation! I am afraid he was not totally without an occasional trait or two of it in some of his numerous works. But his predominant merits have made his volumes buoyant over all these prejudices. His Worthies; his Church-History; his Abel Redivivus, &c. not only rise in price, but are found to contain large portions of instructive and amusing matter. His vivacity and his learning have surmounted his quaintness; and his diligence has brought together, if not exclusively preserved, numerous minute notices, which they who love to make the past predominate over the present will always highly value. Loyd, the imitator, and in many parts plagiarist, of Fuller, may more properly be called a book-maker;

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