herself even into the bosom of Johnson himself, from whom we could
scarcely have looked for such images as are to be found in the following
stanzas.

By gloomy twilight half reveal'd,
With sighs we view the hoary hill,
The leafless wood, the naked field,
The snow-stopp'd cot, the frozen rill.

No music warbles through the grove,
No vivid colours paint the plain;
No more with devious steps I rove
Through verdant paths, now sought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempest roars,
Congeal'd impetuous showers descend;
Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella and a friend.

Sappho herself might have owned a touch of passionate tenderness, that
he has introduced into another of these little pieces:

--The Queen of night
Round us pours a lambent light,
Light that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow.

His Latin poetry is not without a certain barbaric splendour; but it
discovers, as might be expected, no skill in the more refined graces of
the Augustan age. The verse he quoted to Thomas Warton as his favourite,