’The language of the Fair Circassian, says he, like yours, was natural poetry; her voice music, and the excellent colouring and formation of her features, painting; but still, like yours, drawn by the inimitable pencil of nature, life itself; a pattern for the greatest master, but copying after none; I will not say angels are not cast in the same mould.’  And again in another place, ’Pardon, O lovely deity, the presumption of this address, and favour my weak endeavours.  If my confession of your divine power is any where too faint, believe it not to proceed from a want of due respect, but of a capacity more than human.  Whoever thinks of you can no longer be himself; and if he could, ought to be something above man to celebrate the accomplishment of a goddess.  To you I owe my creation as a lover, and in the beams of your beauty only I live, move, and exist.  If there should be a suspension of your charms, I should fall to nothing.  But it seems to be out of your power to deprive us of their kind influence; wherever you shine they fill all our hearts, and you are charming out of necessity, as the author of nature is good.’  We have quoted enough to shew the enthusiasm, or rather phrenzy, of this address, which is written in such a manner as if it were intended for a burlesque on the False Sublime, as the speeches of James I. are upon pedantry.

Mr. Croxall, who was intended for holy orders, and, probably, when he published the Circassian, had really entered into them, was cautious lest he should be known to be the author of this piece, since many divines have esteemed the Song of Solomon, from which it is taken, as an inspired poem, emblematic of the Messiah and the Church.  Our author was of another opinion, and with him almost all sensible men join, in believing that it is no more than a beautiful poem, composed by that Eastern monarch, upon some favourite lady in his Seraglio.  He artfully introduces it with a preface, in which he informs us, that it was the composition of a young gentleman, his pupil, lately deceased, executed by him, while he was influenced by that violent passion with which Mrs. Mordaunt inspired him.  He then endeavours to ascertain who this Eastern beauty was, who had charms to enflame the heart of the royal poet.  He is of opinion it could not be Pharaoh’s daughter, as has been commonly conjectured, because the bride in the Canticles is characterised as a private person, a shepherdess, one that kept a vineyard, and was ill used by her mother’s children, all which will agree very well with somebody else, but cannot, without great straining, be drawn to fit the Egyptian Princess.  He then proceeds, ’seeing we have so good reason to conclude that it was not Pharaoh’s daughter, we will next endeavour to shew who she was:  and here we are destitute of all manner of light, but what is afforded us by that little Arabian manuscript, mentioned in the Philosophical Transactions of Amsterdam, 1558, said to be found in a marble chest among the