ressit,
X. Kal. Jun. A. C. MDCCLXXXXIV. Aet. XLVIII.
Ut quibus in aedibus
Ipse olim socius inclaruisset,
In iisdem memoria ejus potissimum conservaretur,
Honorarium hoc monumentum
Anna Maria filia Jonathan Shipley, Epis. Asaph.
Conjugi suo, B. M.
P. C.

To the name of poet, as it implies the possession of an inventive
faculty, Sir William Jones has but little pretension. He borrows much;
and what he takes he seldom makes hotter. Yet some portion of sweetness
and elegance must he allowed him.

In the hymns to the Hindu deities, the imagery, which is derived chiefly
from Eastern sources, is novel and attractive. That addressed to
Narayena is in a strain of singular magnificence. The description, in
the fourth stanza, of the creative power or intelligence, issuing from
the primal germ of being, and questioning itself as to its own
faculties, has something in it that fills the mind with wonder.

What four-form'd godhead came,
With graceful stole and beamy diadem,
Forth from thy verdant stem?
Full-gifted Brahma! Rapt in solemn thought
He stood, and round his eyes fire-darting threw
But whilst his viewless origin he sought,
One plain he saw of living waters blue,
Their spring nor saw nor knew.
Then in his parent stalk again retired,
With restless pain for ages he inquired
What were his powers, by whom, and why, conferr'd,
With doubts perplex'd, with keen impatience fired,
He rose, and rising heard
Th' unknown, all-knowing word,
Brahma! no more in vain research persist.
My veil thou canst not move.--Go, bid all worlds exist.

To the hymns he subjoins the first Nemean ode of Pindar, "not only," he
says, "in the same measure as nearly as possible, but almost word for
word with the original; those epithets and phrases only being
necessarily added which are printed in Italic letters." Whoever will be
at the trouble of comparing him with Pindar, will see how far he is from
fulfilling this promise.

Of the Palace of Fortune, an Indian tale, the conclusion is unexpected
and affecting.

The Persian song from Hafez, is one of those pieces that, by a nameless
charm, fasten themselves on the memory.

In the Caissa, or poem on Chess, he is not minute enough to gratify a
lover of the game, and too particular to please one who reads it for the
poetry. The former will prefer the Scacchia Ludus of Vida, of which it
is a professed imitation; and the latter will be s