-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy favourite name."

Hammond, whose poems are bound up with Collins's, in Bell's pocket
edition, was a young gentleman, who appears to have fallen in love about
the year 1740, and who translated Tibullus into English verse, to let
his mistress and the public know of it.

I should conceive that Collins had a much greater poetical genius
than Gray: he had more of that fine madness which is inseparable from
it, of its turbid effervescence, of all that pushes it to the verge of
agony or rapture. Gray's Pindaric Odes are, I believe, generally given
up at present: they are stately and pedantic, a kind of methodical
borrowed phrenzy. But I cannot so easily give up, nor will the world be
in any haste to part with his Elegy in a Country Church-yard: it is one
of the most classical productions that ever was penned by a refined and
thoughtful mind, moralising on human life. Mr. Coleridge (in his
Literary Life) says, that his friend Mr. Wordsworth had undertaken to
shew that the language of the Elegy is unintelligible: it has, however,
been understood! The Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College is more
mechanical and common-place; but it touches on certain strings about the
heart, that vibrate in unison with it to our latest breath. No one ever
passes by Windsor's "stately heights," or sees the distant spires of
Eton College below, without thinking of Gray. He deserves that we should
think of him; for he thought of others, and turned a trembling,
ever-watchful ear to "the still sad music of humanity."--His Letters
are inimitably fine. If his poems are sometimes finical and pedantic,
his prose is quite free from affectation. He pours his thoughts out upon
paper as they arise in his mind; and they arise in his mind without
pretence, or constraint, from the pure impulse of learned leisure and
contemplative indolence. He is not here on stilts or in buckram; but
smiles in his easy chair, as he moralises through the loopholes of
retreat, on the bustle and raree-show of the world, or on "those
reverend bedlams, colleges and schools!" He had nothing to do but to
read and to think, and to tell his friends what he read and thought. His
life was a luxurious, thoughtful dream. "Be mine," he says in one of his
Letters, "to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon." And
in