"But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure! Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair." In what an exalted light does the above stanza place this great master of poetical imagery and harmony! what varied sweetness of numbers! what delicacy of judgment and expression! how characteristically does Hope prolong her strain, repeat her soothing closes, call upon her associate Echo for the same purposes, and display every pleasing grace peculiar to her! "And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair." Legat, qui nunquam legit; Qui semel percurrit, relegat. The descriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge are excellent, though not equally so. Those of Melancholy and Cheerfulness are superior to every thing of the kind; and, upon the whole, there may be very little hazard in asserting, that this is the finest ode in the English language. AN EPISTLE TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. This poem was written by our author at the university, about the time when Sir Thomas Hanmer's pompous edition of Shakespeare was printed at Oxford. If it has not so much merit as the rest of his poems, it has still more than the subject deserves. The versification is easy and genteel, and the allusions always poetical. The character of the poet Fletcher in particular is very justly drawn in this epistle. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. Mr. Collins had skill to complain. Of that mournful melody, and those tender images, which are the distinguishing excellencies of such pieces as bewail departed friendship, or beauty, he was an almost unequaled master. He knew perfectly to exhibit such circumstances, peculiar to the objects, as awaken the influences of pity; and while, from his own great sensibility, he felt what he wrote, he naturally addressed himself to the feelings of others. To read such lines as the following, all-beautiful and tender as they are, without corresponding emotions of pity, is surely impossible: "The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead."