Chiche, in Essex, was created Viscount Colchester, 19 James I., with a collateral remainder to Sir Thomas Savage, of Rock-savage, in Cheshire, who had married Elizabeth Laughton; and at length coheir of the said Thomas Lord Darcie; and in the second Charles I. he was created Earl Rivers, with the same remainder. Thus this Sir Thomas Savage was called Viscount Colchester, and was heir to an earldom; but he did not succeed to it, for he died in 1635, before his father-in-law, who survived till 1639, when his son, Sir John Savage, second baronet (the brother of the marchioness), became second Earl Rivers, and died 1654. He had three sons, and five daughters: Jane, the second daughter, married, first, George Brydges, sixth Lord Chandos; secondly, Sir William Sedley; thirdly, George Pitt, of Strathfieldsay, in Hampshire; and having obtained Sudely castle from her first husband, left it to this third husband, Mr. Pitt. The Marchioness of Winchester was mother of Charles Powlett, first Duke of Bolton, whose daughter, Lady Jane, married John Egerton, third Earl of Bridgewater, from whom all the subsequent peers of that title descended. Thomas Savage, third Earl Rivers, dying 1694, was succeeded by his son Richard, fourth earl, who died without issue male, 1712.* He was succeeded by his cousin, John, son of Richard Savage, third son of the second earl. The title became extinct in 1728. I take the date of this Epitaph to have been 1631, for a reason given by me in "The Topographer," 1789, vol. i. which Todd has referred to. The Song on May Morning' is in the tone of the beautifully descriptive passages in 'Comus.'

The Verses at a Vacation Exercise in the College' are full of ingenuity and imagery, and have several fine passages; but, though they blame "new-fangled toys" with a noble disdain, they are themselves in many parts too fantastic.

As to the Epitaph on Shakspeare,' Hurd despises it too much. It is true, that it is neither equal to the grand cast of Milton's poems, nor worthy of the subject; but still it would honour most poets, except the last four lines, which are a poor con

ceit.

The two strange Epitaphs on Hobson the Carrier' are unworthy of the author. The rough lines on the New Forcers of Conscience' are interesting on account of the historical notes of Warton, to which they have given occasion.

The Translations' are scarcely worth notice, except the Ode of Horace, which has a plain and native vigour.

Of the Psalms' I have said all that is necessary in the poet's Life.

UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.

YE flaming powers, and winged warriours bright,
That erst with musick, and triumphant song,
First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear,
So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along
Through the soft silence of the listening night;
Now mourn; and, if sad share with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distil no tear,

Burn in your sighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep sorrow :

Richard Savage, the poet, was, or claimed to be, his natural son, by the Countess of Macclesfield.

Your fiery essence can distil no tear,

Burn in your sighs.

Milton is puzzled how to reconcile the transcendent essence of angels with the infirmities of men. In 'Paradise Lost,' having made the angel Gabriel share in a repast of fruit with Adam, he finds himself under a necessity of getting rid of an obvious objection, that material food does not belong to intellectual or ethereal substances and to avoid certain circumstances, humiliating and disgraceful to the dignity of the angelic nature, the natural consequences of concoction and digestion, he forms a new theory of transpiration, suggested by the wonderful transmutations of

He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us case:
Alas, how soon our sin

Sore doth begin

His infancy to seize!

O more exceeding love, or law more just?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we, by rightful doom remediless,

Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
High throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;

And that great covenant which we still transgress
Entirely satisfied;

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful justice, bore for our excess;

And seals obedience first, with wounding smart,
This day; but O! ere long,

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT 4, DYING OF A COUGH.

O FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,
Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted
Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry;
For he, being amorous on that lovely dye

That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss.

For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer,
By boisterous rape the Athenian damsel got,
He thought it touch'd his deity full near,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away the infamous blot

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chemistry. In the present instance, he wishes to make angels weep: but, being of the essence of fire, they cannot produce water: at length, he recollects that fire may produce burning sighs. It is debated in Thomas Aquinas whether angels have not, or may not have, beards.-T. WARTON.

b O more exceeding love, or law more just ?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!

Virgil, Ecl. viii. 49:

Crudelis mater magis, an puer improbus ille ?

Improbus ille puer; crudelis tu quoque mater.- RICHARDSON.
e Emptied his glory.

An expression taken from Philipp. ii. 7, but not as in our translation :--" He made himself of no reputation;" but, as it is in the original, “He emptied himself.”--NEWTON.

d Written in 1625, and first inserted in edition 1673. He was now seventeen.— T. WARTON.

• For since grim Aquilo, &c.

Boreas ravished Orithyia. Ovid. Metam. vi. 677.-T. WARTON.

Of long-uncoupled bed and childless eld,

Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held.

So, mounting up in icy-pearled car,
Through middle empire of the freezing air
He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far;
There ended was his quest, there ceased his care.
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair;

But, all unwares, with his cold-kind embrace
Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place.

Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate;
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,
Whilom did slay his dearly-loved mate,
Young Hyacinth', born on Eurotas' strand,
Young Hyacinth, the pride of Spartan land;

But then transform'd him to a purple flower:

Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power!

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,

Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,
Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb.
Could Heaven for pity thee so strictly doom?

O, no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality, that show'd thou wast divine.

Resolve me then, O soul most surely blest
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear),
Tell me, bright spirit, where'er thou hoverest;
Whether above that high first-moving sphere,
Or in the Elysian fields (if such there were "),

O, say me true, if thou wert mortal wight,
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight?

Wert thou some star, which from the ruin'd roof
Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall;

For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,
Whilom did slay his dearly-loved mate,
Young Hyacinth.

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35

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From these lines one would suspect, although it does not immediately follow, that a boy was the subject of the ode: but in the last stanza the poet says expressly :

Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child,

Her false-imagined loss cease to lament.

Yet, in the eighth stanza the person lamented is alternately supposed to have been sent down to earth in the shape of two divinities, one of whom is styled a "just maid," and the other a "sweet-smiling youth." But the child was certainly a niece, a daughter of Milton's sister Philips, and probably her first child.-T. WARTON.

If such there were.

He should have said "are," if the rhyme had permitted. - HURD.

Which careful Jove in Nature's true behoof
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late Earth's sons besiege the wall

Of sheeny Heaven, and thou some goddess fled,
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head?

Or wert thou that just maid, who once before
Forsook the hated earth, O, tell me sooth,
And camest again to visit us once more?
Or wert thou that sweet-smiling youth?

Or that crown'd matron sage, white-robed Truth?
Or any other of that heavenly brood,

Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good?

Or wert thou of the golden-winged host,
Who, having clad thyself in human weed,
To earth from thy prefixed seat didst post,
And after short abode fly back with speed,

As if to show what creatures heaven doth breed;
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire

To scorn the sordid world, and unto heaven aspire?

But, O! why didst thou not stay here below
To bless us with thy Heaven-loved innocence,
To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe,
To turn swift-rushing black Perdition hence,
Or drive away the slaughtering Pestilence",

To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart?

But thou canst best perform that office where thou art.

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Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child,
Her false-imagined loss cease to lament,
And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild:
Think what a present thou to God hast sent,
And render him with patience what he lent.

This, if thou do, he will an offspring give,

That, till the world's last end shall make thy name to live.

To turn swift-rushing black Perdition hence,

Or drive away the slaughtering Pestilence.

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Among the blessings, which the "heaven-loved" innocence of this child might have imparted, by remaining upon earth, the application to present circumstances, the supposition that she might have averted the pestilence now raging in the kingdom, is happily and beautifully conceived. On the whole, from a boy of seventeen, this Ode is an extraordinary effort of fancy, expression, and versification: even in the conceits, which are many, we perceive strong and peculiar marks of genius. I think Milton has here given a very remarkable specimen of his ability to succeed in the Spenserian stanza. He moves with great ease and address amidst the embarrassment of a frequent return of rhyme.-T. WARTON.

ON TIME

FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain!

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,

Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood;

When every thing that is sincerely good

And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine

About the supreme throne

Of him, to whose happy-making sight alone

When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb;
Then, all this earthy grossness quit,

Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time*.

AT A SOLEMN MUSICK.

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy;
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse;
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ
Dead things with imbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent',

In Milton's manuscript, written with his own hand, fol. 8, the title is, 'On Time. To be set on a clock-case.-T. WARTON.

Individual.

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Eternal, inseparable. As in 'Paradise Lost,' b. iv. 485, b. v. 610.-T. WARTON. * Milton could not help applying the most solemn and mysterious truths of religion on all subjects and occasions. He has here introduced the beatific vision, and the investiture of the soul with a robe of stars into an inscription on a clock-case. Perhaps something more moral, more plain and intelligible, would have been more proper. John Bunyan, if capable of rhyming, would have written such an inscription for a clock-case. The latter part of these lines may be thought wonderfully sublime; but it is in the cant of the times. The poet should be distinguished from the enthusiast.T. WARTON.

Yet still, I think, Milton is here no enthusiast: the triumph, which he mentions, will certainly be the triumph of every sincere Christian.-TODD.

■ That undisturbed song of pure concent, &c.

The "undisturbed song of pure concent" is the diapason of the music of the spheres, to which, in Plato's system, God himself listens.-T. WARTON.