is a drachm of the Tincture, and half a drachm of Magnesia in each draught. The blood had no sign of Inflammation, but of a bright red; the serum of a dark yellow with little transparency, not viscid to the touch. The draughts (which I took over night only) made me sweat almost immediately, and opened a little in the morning, the consequence is, that I have still many slight complaints, broken and unrefreshing sleeps, as before, less feverish than I was in a morning. Instead of it a sensation of weariness and soarness in both feet, which goes off in the day, a frequent dizziness and lightness of head, easily fatigued with motion. Sometimes a little pain in my breast, as I had in the winter. These symptoms are all too slight to make an illness, but they do not make perfect health, that is sure.

Though I allow abundance for your kindness and partiality to me, I am much pleased with the good opinion you seem to have of the Bard. You may alter that, Robed in the sable, &c.' almost in your own words, thus,

With fury pale, and pale with woe,
Secure of Fate, the Poet stood, &c.

Though haggard, which conveys to you the idea of a Witch, is indeed only a metaphor taken from an unreclaimed Hawk, which is called a haggard, and looks wild and farouche, and jealous of its liberty. I have sent now to Stonehewer a bit more of the Prophecy, and desire him to shew it you immediately: it is very rough and unpolished at present, Adieu, Dear Sir, I am ever truly yours,

T. G.

She-wolf of France with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate;
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heaven; what terrors round him wait;
Amazement in his van, with flight combined,

And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

* Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm,

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,

Youth in the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A smile of horror on their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse!

Long years of havock urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye

Grim towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's hallow'd head.
Above, below, the Rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe we spread.
The bristled boar, in infant gore,

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail,

All hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's issue, hail!

Girt with many a

ANTIST. 3.·

Youthful Knights, and Barons bold,
Sublime their starry fronts they rear,

With dazzling helm, and horrent spear,
And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old,

In bearded majesty appear.

In the midst a Form divine,

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
Her
her

A Lyon-port, an awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air!
What strains of vocal transport round hee play!
Hear, from the grave, great Taliessin, hear,

They breathe a soul, to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,

Waves in the eye of Heaven, her many-coloured wings.

Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

STROPHE 3.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate,

(Weave we the woof, the thread is spun),

Half of thy heart we consecrate,

(The web is wove, the work is done.)

thus

Stay, oh stay, nor here forlorn

me unbless'd, unpitied here

Leave your despairing Caradoc to mourn.

track

In yon bright clouds, that fires the western skies,

melt

They sink, they vanish from my eyes.

solemn scenes

But ah! what scenes of Heaven on Snowdon's height, glitt'ring

Descending slow their golden skirts unroll!
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul.

EPODE 3.

The verse adorn again,

Fierce War and faithful Love,

And Truth severe by Fairy-Fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horrour tyrant of the throbbing breast,

A voice, as of the Cherub-Quire,

Gales from blooming Eden bear,

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me, with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign,
Be thine Despair, and scepter'd Care,

To triumph, and to die are mine.

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he sunk to endless night.

LETTER XLIX,

MR. GRAY TO MR. STONEHEWER.*

August 21, 1755.

I THANK you for your intelligence about Herculaneum, which was the first news I received of it. I have since turned over Monsignor Baiardi's book,+ where I have learned how many grains of modern wheat the Roman Congius, in the Capitol, holds, and how many thousandth parts of an inch the Greek foot consisted of more or less, (for I forget which) than our own. He proves also by many affecting examples, that an Antiquary may be mistaken: That for any thing any body

* Auditor of Excise. His friendship with Mr. Gray commenced at College, and continued till the death of the latter.-Mason. Mr. Stonehewer, was, while at Cambridge the Tutor, afterwards the private Secretary, and intimate friend of the late Duke of Grafton.-Ed.

+ I believe the book here ridiculed was published by the authority of the King of Naples. But afterwards, on finding how ill qualified the Author was to execute the task, the business of describing the Antiquities found at Herculaneum was put into other hands; who have certainly, as far as they have gone, performed it much better.-Mason.