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Nothing better shews the Art of a Poet, than his Reader's forgetting himself while he peruses the Poem. ' That Man, says Horace,
- seems to me to be more than a Mortal,
' who can torture me without Cause ; who
- can enflame and sooth me by turns, fill my
- Soul with false Terrours, and like some pow' erful Magician hurry me to Thebes, set me
' down at Athens, and waft me whitherso' ever he wills.' In Homer, we are either viewing the Station of the Grecian Ships, or walking on the Banks of the Scamander, or surrounding Troy, or mounted on the airy Sum mits of Ida, as the Poet pleases to transport us. We fail and sacrifice with Ulysses ; we go upon the scout with him and Diomedes; or traverse the Camp, and visit the Watch with Agamemnon and Nejlor, as if present upon the place : Come—^to the Guards, let us step down and see, p 390 (f) heftspent with Toil, and overpower d with Sleep, 'jzo. They shoring ly, and disregard the Watch. Iliad. K,
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