LIFE OF CAWTHORN.

JAMES CAWTHORN, the son of an upholsterer and cabinet-maker, in Sheffield, was born on the 4th of November, 1719. Being early sent to a grammar school in his native place, he soon began to feel the energies of genius; and, while yet himself under the discipline of an elementary teacher, undertook to instruct mankind in literature and manners by a periodical paper, styled The Tea Table. In 1735, he was transferred to a grammar school at Kirkley-Lonsdale, in Westmoreland; where his buds of poetry soon began to develop themselves; and, after a variety of smaller effusions, he produced, the year after his removal, a forgotten poem, called the Perjured Lover, upon the subject of Inkle and Yarico.

In the same year, he appears to have acted as assistant in the school of a Mr. Christian, of Rotheram; and, two years after, he was matriculated of Clare-Hall, in Cambridge. His name is not found among the graduates; but he had obtained his master's degree before the year 1743. From Cambridge, he went to London; and was, for some time, the assistant of a schoolmaster in Soho Square, whose daughter he married. He took orders, about this time; and, in 1743, was elected

master of Tunbridge School. He published the epistle of Abelard to Eloisa, in 1746; a sermon, in 1745, upon the election of two burgesses, in Westminster; and another, in 1748, at the annual visitation of the company of Skinners. Though little skilled in horsemanship, he was very fond of riding; and, on the 15th of April, 1761, a fall from his horse put a period to his life. He was buried in Tunbridge church; where his sister gave him a monument with the following inscription:

Hic silus est

JACOBUS CAWTHORN, A. M.
Schola Tunbrigiensis magister,

Qui juventuti tum moribus tum literis instituenda
Operam magno non sine honore dedit.
Opibus, quas largâ manu distribuit,
Fecitur, et in æternum fruetur.
Obiit, 'heu citices! Aprilis 15, 1761,
Etatis 40.

Soror moesta ex grato animo hoc posuit.

Cawthorn is one of those authors, whom we find it difficult to praise, or to blame. He commits few faults in composition; and his beauties are not of the highest order. His thoughts are just, and his language harmonious; but there is too much prolixity and too little animation. It is hard to say, that he does not recompense us for our time; but the readers of poetry always demand more than a bare recompense; and, though Cawthorn may afford sufficient delight for one perusal, he will hardly entice us to a second.

JAMES CAWTHORN.

TO MISS

OF HORSEMANDEN, IN KENT.

WHEN wit and science trim'd their wither'd bays,
At Petrarch's voice, and beam'd with half their rays,
Some heaven-born genius panting to explore
The scenes oblivion wish'd to live no more,
Found Abelard in grief's sad pomp array'd,
And call'd the melting mourner from the shade.
Touch'd by his woes, and kindling at his rage,
Admiring nations glow'd from age to age;
From age to age the soft infection ran,
Taught to lament the hermit in the man;
Pride drop'd her crest, ambition learn'd to sigh,
And dove-like pity stream'd in every eye.

Sick of the world's applause, yet fond to warm
Each maid that knows with Eloise to charm,
He asks of verse to aid his native fire,
Refines and wildly lives along the lyre:
Bids all his various passions throb anew,
And hopes, my fair, to steal a tear from you.
Cc 2

O, bless'd with temper, bless'd with skill to pour
Life's every comfort on each social hour!
Chaste as thy blushes, gentle as thy mien,
Too grave for folly, and too gay for spleen;
Indulg'd to win, to soften, to inspire,

To melt with music, and with wit to fire:
To blend, as judgment tells thee how to please,
Wisdom with smiles, and majesty with ease;
Alike to virtue as the graces known,
And proud to love all merit but thy own!

These are thy honours, these will charms supply, When those dear suns shall set in either eye; While she, who, fond of dress, of paint, and place, Aims but to be a goddess in the face;

Born all thy sex illumines to despise,
Too mad for thought, too pretty to be wise,
Haunts for a year fantastically vain,

With half our Fribbles dying in her train:
Then sinks, as beauty fades and passion cools,
The scorn of coxcombs, and the jest of fools>

ABELARD TO ELOISE.

(FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1747.)

ARGUMENT.

Abelard and Eloise flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age, in learning and beauty; but for nothing more famous than for their unfor. tunate passion. After a long course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this separation, that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained a history of his misfortunes, fell into the hands of Eloisa: this occasioned those celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted), which gives so lively a picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and passion.

POPE.

AH! why this boding start? this sudden pain,
That wings my pulse, and shoots from vein to vein?
What mean, regardless of yon midnight bell,
These earth-born visions saddening o'er my cell?
What strange disorder prompts these thoughts to
glow,

These sighs to murmur, and these tears to flow? 'Tis she, 'tis Eloisa's form restor❜d,

Once a pure saint, and more than saints ador'd! She comes in all her killing charms confess'd, Glares through the gloom, and pours upon my breast, Bids Heaven's bright guard from Paraclete remove, And drags me back to misery and love.