den's vigour. Of his Account of the English Poets, he used to speak as a "poor thing[1];" but it is not worse than his usual strain. He has said, not very judiciously, in his character of Waller,
Thy verse could shew ev'n Cromwell's innocence;
And compliment the storms that bore him hence.
Oh! had thy Muse not come an age too soon,
But seen great Nassau on the British throne,
How had his triumph glitter'd in thy page!
What is this but to say, that he who could compliment Cromwell had been the proper poet for king William: Addison, however, never printed the piece.
The Letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labour, and more elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of his poems. There is, however, one broken metaphor, of which notice may properly be taken:
Fir'd with that name—
I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a nobler strain.
