Pheroras.  With reason quell
  That haughty passion; treat it as your slave: 
  Resume the monarch.

The observation, which Herod makes upon this, is very affecting.  The poet has drawn him so tortured with his passion, that he seems almost sufficiently punished, for the barbarity of cutting off the father and brother of Mariamne,

    Herod.  Where’s the monarch now? 
  The vulgar call us gods, and fondly think
  That kings are cast in more than mortal molds;
  Alas! they little know that when the mind
  Is cloy’d with pomp, our taste is pall’d to joy;
  But grows more sensible of grief or pain. 
  The stupid peasant with as quick a sense
  Enjoys the fragrance of a rose, as I;
  And his rough hand is proof against the thorn,
  Which rankling in my tender skin, would seem
  A viper’s tooth.  Oh blissful poverty! 
  Nature, too partial! to thy lot assigns
  Health, freedom, innocence, and downy peace,
  Her real goods; and only mocks the great
  With empty pageantries!  Had I been born
  A cottager, my homely bowl had flow’d
  Secure from pois’nous drugs; but not my wife! 
  Let me, good heav’n! forget that guilty name,
  Or madness will ensue.

Some critics have blamed Mariamne, for yielding her affections to Herod, who had embrued his hands in her father and brother’s blood; in this perhaps she cannot be easily defended, but the poet had a right to represent this as he literally found it in history; and being the circumstance upon which all the others depended.  Tho’ this play is one of the most beautiful in our language, yet it is in many places exposed to just criticism; but as it has more beauties than faults, it would be a kind of violence to candour to shew the blemishes.

The life of Fenton, like other poets who have never been engaged in public business, being barren of incidents, we have dwelt the longer on his works, a tribute which his genius naturally demanded from us.

Mr. Fenton’s other poetical works were published in one volume 1717, and consist chiefly of the following pieces.

An Ode to the Sun, for the new year 1707, as a specimen of which we shall quote the three following stanza’s.

  I.

  Begin celestial source of light,
  To gild the new revolving sphere;
  And from the pregnant womb of night;
  Urge on to birth the infant year. 
  Rich with auspicious lustre rife,
  Thou fairest regent of the skies,
  Conspicuous with thy silver bow! 
  To thee, a god, ’twas given by Jove
  To rule the radiant orbs above,
  To Gloriana this below.

  II.

  With joy renew thy destin’d race,
  And let the mighty months begin: 
  Let no ill omen cloud thy face,
  Thro’ all thy circle smile serene. 
  While the stern ministers of fate
  Watchful o’er the pale Lutetia wait. 
  To grieve the Gaul’s perfidious head;
  The hours, thy offspring heav’nly fair,
  Their whitest wings should ever wear,
  And gentle joys on Albion shed.