A kinsman[172] has sent me a letter, wherein he informs me, he had lately resolved to write an heroic poem, but by business had been interrupted, and has only made one similitude, which he should be afflicted to have wholly lost, and begs of me to apply it to something, being very desirous to see it well placed in the world.  I am so willing to help the distressed, that I have taken it in; but though his greater genius might very well distinguish his verses from mine, I have marked where his begin.  His lines are a description of the sun in eclipse, which I know nothing more like than a brave man in sorrow, who bears it as he should, without imploring the pity of his friends, or being dejected with the contempt of his enemies.  As in the case of Cato: 

    When all the globe to Caesar’s fortune bowed,
    Cato alone his empire disallowed;
    With inborn strength alone opposed mankind,
    With heaven in view, to all below it blind: 
    Regardless of his friend’s applause, or moan,
    Alone triumphant, since he falls alone.

    “Thus when the Ruler of the genial day,
    Behind some darkening planet forms his way,
    Desponding mortals, with officious care,
    The concave drum, and magic brass prepare;
    Implore him to sustain the important fight,
    And save depending worlds from endless night. 
    Fondly they hope their labour may avail,
    To ease his conflict, and assist his toil. 
    Whilst he in beams of native splendour bright, }
    (Though dark his orb appear to human sight) }
    Shines to the gods with more diffusive light. }
    To distant stars with equal glory burns,
    Inflames their lamps, and feeds their golden urns. 
    Sure to retain his known superior tract,
    And proves the more illustrious by defect.”

This is a very lively image; but I must take the liberty to say, my kinsman drives the sun a little like Phaeton:  he has all the warmth of Phoebus, but won’t stay for his direction of it.  Avail and toil, defect and tract, will never do for rhymes.  But, however, he has the true spirit in him; for which reason I was willing to entertain anything he pleased to send me.  The subject which he writes upon, naturally raises great reflections in the soul, and puts us in mind of the mixed condition which we mortals are to support; which, as it varies to good or bad, adorns or defaces our actions to the beholders:  All which glory and shame must end in what we so much repine at, death.  But doctrines on this occasion, any other than that of living well, are the most insignificant and most empty of all the labours of men.  None but a tragedian can die by rule, and wait till he discovers a plot, or says a fine thing upon his exit.  In real life, this is a chimera; and by noble spirits, it will be done decently, without the ostentation of it.  We see men of all conditions and characters go through it with equal resolution:  and if we