Besides Guilpin, a very rare volume of early Verse by Ashmore, furnishes a hitherto overlooked Epigram, wherein "Nosce Teipsum" and the Epigrams, are noticed with well-put praise. I am fortunate enough to be able to give it, which I do in its English form only, the Latin being poor and inaccurate. It is inscribed "Ad D. Io. Davies, Milite Iudicem Itinerium" and thus runs:-- "If Plato lived and saw those heaven-breathed Lines Where thou the Essence of the Soule confines; Or merry Martiale read thy Epigrammes, Where sportingly, these looser times thou blames: Though both excel, yet (in their severall wayes) They both ore-come, would yeeld to thee the Prise."[51] [Footnote 51: Ashmore (J). Certain Selected Odes of Horace Englished, with Poems of divers Subiects translated. Whereunto are added, both in Latin and English, sundry new Epigrammes, Anagrammes, Epitaphes. 1621 sm. 4^{o}. As this Volume is seldom to be met with, I take the opportunity of adding here the Anagram to Bacon, which does not appear to have been known to his Editors or Biographers. To the Right Honourable, Sir Francis Bacone, Knight, Lord High Chancelor of England. Anagr { Bacone { Beacon Thy Vertuous Name and Office, joyne with Fate, To make thee the bright Beacon of the State. I just observe, as my book passes through the Press, that ANTHONY A-WOOD quotes (probably) above, without naming the author.] His name-sake, John Davies of Hereford similarly saluted him. His 'Lines' with others, will appear more fitly in the fuller 'Life.' Meanwhile, as carrying within it, perhaps the most memorable circumstance appertaining to these 'Epigrams,' I must ask attention here, to one of Wordsworth's finest minor poems--his "POWER OF MUSIC. An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old;-- Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same, In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. His station is there; and he works on the crowd, He sways them with harmony merry and loud; He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim-- Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him? What an eager assembly! what an empire is this! The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest; And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest. As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of the dusky-browed Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste-- What matter! he's caught--and his time runs to waste; The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret; And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter--he's in the net!