same cause—the forsaking simplicity and nature, and following artificial models and straining after affected diction. He was essentially a hymn writer, and among the lyrics the most beautiful and effective pieces are those which either are hymns or approach nearest to that order of composition. The modern reader will be impatient of the frequent apostrophe, and, although “personification, that is, the transformation of the qualities of the mind, and abstract ideas, and general notions into living embodiments,” has ever been regarded as one of the noblest exercises and proofs of the poetic faculty, we suppose few will be disposed to regard Watts’ excursions in this way with favour. He possessed this power in an eminent degree: instantaneously, apparently, a sentiment became an image, and the image pointed to a tender and pathetic treatment. His elegy on the death of William III. has often been cited as a fine piece of elegiac personification; should it seem extravagant to the reader, it would scarcely seem so to Lord Macaulay; and it must be remembered that Dr. Watts was one who regarded himself and the nation as profoundly indebted, surely not unnaturally, for freedom and prosperity to the arms and government of the deceased king. He was young when he wrote these verses. William, as we have said, died the day on which Watts was ordained to the work of the ministry, 1702. The verses present a picture of the illustrious hero lying in state, surrounded by the weeping arts and graces of society. Dr. Gibbons, not inappropriately, speaks of the piece as “the largest constellation of personifications occurring amongst the Doctor’s Odes:” Preserve, O venerable pile, Inviolate thy sacred trust; To thy cold arms the British isle, Weeping, commits her richest dust. Rest his dear sword beneath his head; Round him his faithful arms shall stand: Fix his bright ensigns on his bed, The guards and honours of our land. High o’er the grave _Religion_ set In solemn guise; pronounce the ground Sacred, to bar unhallowed feet, And plant her guardian virtues round. Fair _Liberty_, in sables drest, Write his loved name upon his urn; William, the scourge of tyrants past, And awe of princes yet unborn. Sweet _Peace_, his sacred relics keep, With olives blooming round her head, And stretch her wings across the deep To bless the nations with the shade. Stand on the pile, immortal _Fame_, Broad stars adorn thy brightest robe; Thy thousand voices sound his name In silver accents round the globe. _Flattery_ shall faint beneath the sound, While hoary _Truth_ inspires the song; _Envy_ grow pale, and bite the ground, And _Slander_ gnaw her forky tongue. Night and the grave, remove your gloom; Darkness becomes the vulgar dead; But glory bids the royal tomb Disdain the horrors of a shade.