excited Mr. Pope to give him a place in his
Dunciad. In his second book, l. 287, when he represents the dunces
diving in the mud of the Thames for the prize, he speaks thus of
Concanen;

True to the bottom see Concanen creep,
A cold, long winded, native of the deep!
If perseverance gain the diver's prize,
Not everlasting Blackmore this denies.

In the year 1725 Mr. Concanen published a volume of poems in 8vo.
consisting chiefly of compositions of his own, and some few of other
gentlemen; they are addressed to the lord Gage, whom he endeavours
artfully to flatter, without offending his modesty. 'I shall begin this
Address, says he, by declaring that the opinion I have of a great part
of the following verses, is the highest indication of the esteem in
which I hold the noble character I present them to. Several of them have
authors, whose names do honour to whatever patronage they receive. As to
my share of them, since it is too late, after what I have already
delivered, to give my opinion of them, I'll say as much as can be said
in their favour. I'll affirm that they have one mark of merit, which is
your lordship's approbation; and that they are indebted to fortune for
two other great advantages, a place in good company, and an honourable
protection.'

The gentlemen, who assisted Concanen in this collection, were Dean
Swift, Mr. Parnel, Dr. Delany, Mr. Brown, Mr. Ward, and Mr. Stirling. In
this collection there is a poem by Mr. Concanen, called A Match at
Football, in three Cantos; written, 'tis said, in imitation of The Rape
of the Lock. This performance is far from being despicable; the
verification is generally smooth; the design is not ill conceived, and
the characters not unnatural. It perhaps would be read with more
applause, if The Rape of the Lock did not occur to the mind, and, by
forcing a comparison, destroy all the satisfaction in perusing it; as
the disproportion is so very considerable. We shall quote a few lines
from the beginning of the third canto, by which it will appear that
Concanen was not a bad rhimer.

In days of yore a lovely country maid
Rang'd o'er these lands, and thro' these forests stray'd;
Modest her pleasures, matchless was her frame,
Peerless her face, and Sally was her name.
By no frail vows her young desires were bound,
No shepherd yet the way to please her found.
Thoughtless of love the beauteous nymph appear'd,
Nor hop'd its transports, nor its torments f