eternal novels of Marivaux and Crebillon." Against his moral character
there exists no imputation; and notwithstanding a sneering hint of
Walpole's, his religious creed seems to have been orthodox.

With all his learning and genius, he has done little. His letters and
poems remind you of a few scattered leaves, surviving the
conflagration of the Alexandrian library. The very popularity of the
scraps which such a writer leaves, secures the torments of Tantalus to
his numerous admirers in all after ages. His letters, in their grace,
freedom, minuteness of detail, occasional playfulness, delicious
_asides_ of gossip, and easy vigour of description, are more worthy of
his powers, as a whole, than his poetry. The poetic fragments he has
left are rarely of such merit as to excite any wish that they had been
finished. His genius, although true and exquisite, was limited in its
range, and hidebound in its movements. You see his genius, like a
child, always casting a look of terror round on its older companion
and guardian--his taste. Like Campbell, "he often spreads his wings
grandly, but shrinks back timidly to his perch again, and seems afraid
of the shadow of his own fame." Within his own range, however, he is
as strong as he is delicate and refined. His two principal Odes have,
as we hinted, divided much the opinion of critics. Dr Johnson has
assailed them in his worst style of captious and word-catching
criticism. Now, that there is much smoke around their fire, we grant.
But we argue that there is genuine fire amidst their smoke,--first,
from the fact that so many of their lines, such as,

"The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love;"
"The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye;"
"Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves;"
"Sailing with supreme dominion