SIR J. DENHAM.

The soldier then in Grecian arts unskill'd,
Returning rich with plunder from the field,
If cups of silver or of gold he brought
With jewels set, and exquisitely wrought,
To glorious trappings strait the plate he turn'd,
And with the glitt'ring spoil his horse adorn'd.
DRYDEN.

What wonder if the kindly beams he shed,
Revived the drooping arts again;
If science raised her head,
And soft humanity, that from rebellion fled.

DRYDEN.

All arts and artists Theseus could command, Who sold for hire, or wrought for better fame.

DRYDEN.

POPE.

There Shakspeare! on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world! O eyes sublimeWith tears and laughter for all time!

MRS. E. B. BROWNING.

The glory dies not, and the grief is past.
SIR S. E. BRYDGES: Death of Sir Walter Scott.

Where sense with sound and ease with weight combine

In the pure silver of Pope's ringing line;
Or where the pulse of man beats loud and strong
In the frank flow of Dryden's lusty song.

BULWER: New Timon.

When Bishop Berkeley said, "There was no matter,"

And proved it-'twas no matter what he said.
BYRON.

Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

BYRON.

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.

BYRON.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact, in Virtue's name, let Crabbe attest:
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
BYRON: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,
Robed in the lightning which his hand allay'd.
BYRON: Age of Bronze.

The starry Galileo with his woes.
BYRON: Childe Harold.
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle.

BYRON: Bride of Abydos. Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life? BYRON.

The self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostate of affection-he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence.

BYRON: Childe Harold.

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.

The Ariosto of the North.

BYRON.

BYRON: Childe Harold.

Horace's wit and Virgil's state
He did not steal, but emulate;

And when he would like them appear,

Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear.
SIR J. DENHAM.

What from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow,
Or what more easy nature did bestow
On Shakspeare's gentler muse, in thee full-grown
Their graces did appear.

SIR J. DENHAM.

So the twins' humours in our Terence are Unlike; this harsh and rude, that smooth and fair.

SIR J. DENHAM.

Noble Boyle, not less in nature seen
Than his great brother read in states and men.
DRYDEN.

Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear.

DRYDEN.

In easy dialogues is Fletcher's praise:
He moved the mind, but had not pow'r to raise.

DRYDEN.

When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whose Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfused as oil and waters flow:
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
DRYDEN.

Ganfride, who couldst so well in rhyme com-
plain
The death of Richard, with an arrow slain.
DRYDEN.

Homer, whose name shall live in epic song,
While music numbers, or while verse has feet.
DRYDEN.

Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn:
The first in majesty of thought surpass'd,
The next in gracefulness; in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go:
To make a third she join'd the other two.
DRYDEN: On Milton.

Horace, with sly insinuating grace,
Laugh'd at his friend, and look'd him in the
face;

Would raise a blush where secret vice he found, And tickle while he gently probed the wound; With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled, But made the desperate passes when he smiled. DRYDEN.