'I never sit thus,' says Sophia, 'but I think of the two lovers,
so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead in each
other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description,
that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture.'--'In my
opinion,' cried my son, 'the finest strokes in that description
are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman
poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon that figure
artfully managed all strength in the pathetic depends.'--'It is
remarkable,' cried Mr Burchell, 'that both the poets you mention
have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their
respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet.
Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their
defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of
Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant
images, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that
improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps,
madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I
should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have
made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to
the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is I
think at least free from those I have mentioned.'


A BALLAD.

'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.