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soft images; for beauty is more easily found than magnanimity.

      The delicacy, which he cultivated, restrains him to a certain nicety and caution, even when he writes upon the slightest matter. He has, therefore, in his whole volume, nothing burlesque, and seldom anything ludicrous or familiar. He seems always to do his best; though his subjects are often unworthy of his care.

      It is not easy to think without some contempt on an author, who is growing illustrious in his own opinion by verses, at one time, “To a Lady, who can do anything but sleep, when she pleases;” at another, “To a Lady who can sleep when she pleases;” now, “To a Lady, on her passing through a crowd of people;” then, “On a braid of divers colours woven by four Ladies;” “On a tree cut in paper;” or, “To a Lady, from whom he received the copy of verses on the paper-tree, which, for many years, had been missing.”

      Genius now and then produces a lucky trifle. We still read the Dove of Anacreon, and Sparrow of Catullus: and a writer naturally pleases himself with a performance, which owes nothing to the subject. But compositions merely pretty have the fate of other pretty things, and are quitted in time for something useful; they are flowers fragrant and fair, but of short duration; or they are blossoms to be valued only as they foretell fruits.

      Among Waller’s little poems are some, which their excellency ought to secure from oblivion; as, To Amoret, comparing the different modes of regard with which he looks on her and Sacharissa; and the verses on Love, that begin, “Anger in hasty words or blows.”

      In others he is not equally successful; sometimes his thoughts are deficient, and sometimes his expression.

      The numbers are not always musical; as,

      Fair Venus, in thy soft arms

       The god of rage confine:

       For thy whispers are the charms

       Which only can divert his fierce design.

       What though he frown, and to tumult do incline;

       Thou the flame

       Kindled in his breast canst tame

       With that snow which unmelted lies on thine.

      He seldom indeed fetches an amorous sentiment from the depths of science; his thoughts are for the most part easily understood, and his images such as the superfices of nature readily supplies; he has a just claim to popularity, because he writes to common degrees of knowledge; and is free at least from philosophical pedantry, unless perhaps the end of a song to the Sun may be excepted, in which he is too much a Copernican. To which may be added the simile of the “palm” in the verses “on her passing through a crowd;” and a line in a more serious poem on the Restoration, about vipers and treacle, which can only be understood by those who happen to know the composition of the Theriaca.

      His thoughts are sometimes hyperbolical and his images unnatural

      The plants admire,

       No less than those of old did Orpheus’ lyre;

       If she sit down, with tops all tow’rds her bow’d,

       They round about her into arbours crowd;

       Or if she walks, in even ranks they stand,

       Like some well-marshall’d and obsequious band.

      In another place:

      While in the park I sing, the listening deer

       Attend my passion, and forget to fear:

       When to the beeches I report my flame,

       They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.

       To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers

       With loud complaints they answer me in showers.

       To thee a wild and cruel soul is given,

       More deaf than trees, and prouder than the Heaven!

      On the head of a stag:

      O fertile head! which every year

       Could such a crop of wonder bear!

       The teeming earth did never bring,

       So soon, so hard, so large a thing:

       Which might it never have been cast,

       Each year’s growth added to the last,

       These lofty branches had supplied

       The earth’s bold sons’ prodigious pride:

       Heaven with these engines had been scaled,

       When mountains heap’d on mountains fail’d.

      Sometimes having succeeded in the first part, he makes a feeble conclusion. In the song of “Sacharissa’s and Amoret’s Friendship,” the two last stanzas ought to have been omitted.

      His images of gallantry are not always in the highest degree delicate.

      Then shall my love this doubt displace

       And gain such trust that I may come

       And banquet sometimes on thy face,

       But make my constant meals at home.

      Some applications may be thought too remote and unconsequential; as in the verses on the Lady Dancing:

      The sun in figures such as these

       Joys with the moon to play:

       To the sweet strains they advance,

       Which do result from their own spheres;

       As this nymph’s dance

       Moves with the numbers which she hears.

      Sometimes a thought, which might perhaps fill a distich, is expanded and attenuated till it grows weak and almost evanescent.

      Chloris! since first our calm of peace

       Was frighted hence, this good we find,

       Your favours with your fears increase,

       And growing mischiefs make you kind.

       So the fair tree, which still preserves

       Her fruit, and state, while no wind blows,

       In storms from that uprightness swerves;

       And the glad earth about her strows

       With treasure from her yielding boughs.

      His images are not always distinct; as in the following passage, he confounds Love as a person with Love as a passion:

      Some other nymphs, with colours faint,

       And pencil slow, may Cupid paint,

       And a weak heart in time destroy;

       She has a stamp, and prints the boy;

       Can, with a single look, inflame

       The coldest breast, the rudest tame.

      His sallies of casual flattery are sometimes elegant and happy, as that in return for the Silver Pen; and sometimes empty and trifling, as that upon the Card torn by the Queen. There are a few lines written in the Duchess’s Tasso, which he is said by Fenton to have kept a summer under correction. It happened to Waller, as to others, that his success was not always in proportion to his labour.

      Of these pretty compositions, neither the beauties nor the faults deserve much attention. The amorous verses have this to recommend them, that they are less hyperbolical than those of some other poets. Waller is not always at the last gasp; he does not die of a frown, nor live upon a smile. There is, however, too much love, and too many trifles. Little things are made too important: and the Empire of Beauty is represented as exerting its influence further than can be allowed by the multiplicity of human passions, and the variety of human wants. Such books, therefore, may be considered as showing the world under a false appearance, and, so far as they obtain credit from the young and unexperienced, as misleading expectation, and misguiding practice.

      Of his nobler and more weighty

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