principle, of what otherwise would have remained concealed.

Some years after it was published, Mr. Cragg, one of the ministers of
the city of Edinburgh, gave the world a small volume of spiritual poems,
in one of which he takes occasion to complain of the prostitution of
genius, and that few poets have ever turned their thoughts towards
religious subjects; and mentions the author of the Circassian with great
indignation, for having prostituted his Muse to the purposes of
lewdness, in converting the Song of Solomon (a work, as he thought it,
of sacred inspiration) into an amorous dialogue between a King and his
mistress. His words are,

Curss'd be he that the Circassian wrote,
Perish his fame, contempt be all his lot,
Who basely durst in execrable strains,
Turn holy mysteries into impious scenes.

The revd. gentleman met with some remonstrances from his friends, for
indulging so splenetic a temper, when he was writing in the cause of
religion, as to wish any man accursed. Of this censure he was not
insensible; in the next edition of his poems, he softened the sarcasm,
by declaring, in a note, that he had no enmity to the author's person,
and that when he wished him accursed, be meant not the man, but the
author, which are two very distinct considerations; for an author may be
accursed, that is, damned to fame, while the man may be in as fair a way
to happiness as any body; but, continues he, I should not have expected
such prophanation from a clergyman.

The Circassian, however, is a beautiful poem, the numbers are generally
smooth, and there is a tender delicacy in the dialogue, though greatly