we could fancy that both these personages had come fresh from the study of the English garden. The distresses of Elfrida, and the heroism of Caractacus, are in danger of becoming objects of secondary consideration, while we are admiring the shades of Harewood, and the rocks of Mona. He has attempted to shelter himself under the authority of Sophocles; but though there are some exquisite touches of landscape painting in that drama, the poet has introduced them with a much more sparing hand. It is said that Hurd pruned away a great deal more luxuriance of this kind, with which the first draught of the Elfrida was overrun; and we learn from Gray, in his admirable letter of criticism on the Caractacus, that the opening of that tragedy was, as it at first stood, even much more objectionable than at present. Such descriptions are better suited to the Masque, a species of drama founded on some wild and romantic adventure, and of which the interest does not depend on the manners or the passions. It is therefore more in its place in Argentile and Curan, which he calls a legendary drama, written on the old English model. He composed it after the other two, and during the short time that his wife lived; but, like several of his poems, it was not published till the year of his decease. The beginning promises well: and the language of our old writers is at first tolerably well imitated. There is afterwards too much trick and too many prettinesses; such is that of the nosegay which the princess finds, and concludes from its tasteful arrangement to be the work of princely fingers. The subordinate parts, of the Falconer, and Ralph, his deputy, are not sustained according to the author's first conception of them. The story is well put together. He has, perhaps, nothing else that is equal in expression to the following passage. Thou know'st, when we did quit our anchor'd barks, We cross'd a pleasant valley; rather say A nest of sister vales, o'erhung with hills Of varied form and foliage; every vale Had its own proper brook, the which it hugg'd In its green breast, as if it fear'd to lose The treasur'd crystal. You might mark the course Of these cool rills more by the ear than eye, For, though they oft would to the sun unfold Their silver as they past, 'twas quickly lost; But ever did they murmur. On the verge Of one of these clear streams, there stood a cell O'ergrown with moss and ivy; near to which, On a fall'n trunk, that bridged the little brook A hermit sat. Of him we ask'd the name Of this sweet valley, and he call'd it Hakeness. (_Argentile and Curan_, A, 1.) In two lines more, we are unluckily reminded that this is no living landscape. Thither, my Sewold, go, or pitch thy tent Near to thy ships, for they are near the _scene_.