Smollett's poetry need not detain us long. In his twin satires, "Advice" and "Reproof," you see rather the will to wound than the power to strike. There are neither the burnished compression, and polished, pointed malice of Pope, nor the gigantic force and vehement fury of Churchill. His "Tears of Scotland" is not thoroughly finished, but has some delicate and beautiful strokes. "Leven Water" is sweet and murmuring as that stream itself. His "Ode to Independence," as we have said elsewhere, "should have been written by Burns. How that poet's lips must have watered, as he repeated the line--
and remembered he was not their author! He said he would have given ten pounds to have written 'Donochthead'--he would have given ten times ten, if, poor fellow! he had had them, to have written the 'Ode to Independence'--although, in his 'Vision of Liberty,' he has matched Smollett on his own ground." Grander lines than the one we have quoted above, and than the following--
are not to be found in literature. Round this last one, the whole ode seems to turn as on a pivot, and it alone had been sufficient to stamp Smollett a man of lofty poetic genius.
----Sed podice levi Caeduntur tumidæ, medico ridente, mariscæ. O proceres! censore opus est, an haruspice nobis?
----Nam quis Peccandi finem posuit sibi? quando recepit Ejectum semel atteritâ de fronte ruborem?
Enough, enough; all this we knew before; 'Tis infamous, I grant it, to be poor: And who, so much to sense and glory lost, Will hug the curse that not one joy can boast? From the pale hag, oh! could I once break loose, Divorced, all hell should not re-tie the noose! Not with more care shall H-- avoid his wife, Nor Cope[1] fly swifter, lashing for his life, Than I to leave the meagre fiend behind.
Exert your talents; Nature, ever kind, 10 Enough for happiness bestows on all; 'Tis Sloth or Pride that finds her gifts too small. Why sleeps the Muse?--is there no room for praise, When such bright constellations blaze? When sage Newcastle[2], abstinently great, Neglects his food to cater for the state; And Grafton[3], towering Atlas of the throne, So well rewards a genius like his own: Granville and Bath[4] illustrious, need I name, For sober dignity, and spotless fame; 20 Or Pitt, the unshaken Abdiel yet unsung: Thy candour, Chomdeley! and thy truth, O Younge!