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By those foreign accents dear,
Whose wild cadence on mine ear

Still in slumber lingers ;
By thine eyes of sapphire splendour,
By the thrilling pressure tender

Of thy trembling fingers;

By thy pouting, by thy smiles,
And by all the varied wiles

Which so sweetly won me,
Laughter, blushes, sighs, caresses,
By thy lips, and by thy tresses,

Sometimes think upon me.

Think upon the parting day,
And the tears I kissed away

From thy glowing cheek;
Think of many a dearer token,
Think of all that I have spoken,

All I may not speak.

May 8.-How does it happen, good Murray, that you have taken to imitations of the Excursion? When our honest friend, Davenant, has pestered me with the depths and doctrines of that redoubtable and inscrutable bard, for nine hours by Shrewsbury clock, it was to your support that I ever looked with confidence; by your authority every defence was maintained and every reproach rebutted. As for me, I am incorrigible. I wish well to my country and my friends,—but I never could get through the Excursion! I should like to be voted a genius,--but I never could get through the Excursion! I rather affect

singularity,but I never could get through the Excursion! I think on the whole that a daisy is rather a pretty thing,-but, lack-a-daisy, I never could get through the Excursion! Many of my idols eulogized it; but I could not believe! Many endeavoured to explain ; but I remembered “The Critic, and vowed the interpreter was the more unintelligible of the two. Well, my beloved apostate, here follows your imitation. I trust you will stop in time ; for if you ever arrive at a comfortable quarto, large text, smart title page, price two guineas, and Loogman, I must positively cut the connexion.


: : : : : :
Our pathway winded o'er a barren moor,
Barren of art's fecundity, but-rich
In natural beauties; for the matted heath
Had covered its dark stems with purple flowers,

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And delicate harebells trembled in the breath
Of breezes wandering from the distant hills.
The ever-blooming furze, then richly strown
With golden blossoms, hemmed our narrow path,
A path so narrow,

that at last we dropped
The converse which had led us side by side,
And the grey venerable man walked first,
With the firm step of native stateliness.
The birds were singing round us, to salute,
With their glad worship, the reviving day,
And springing upward from the heath or whin
Scattered the dew-drops ; and the startled hare
Just glanced across our pathway, and was gone.
The old man often stopped, and watched her track;
And then, although I could not see his face,
I knew that it was bright with many thoughts,
Thoughts of unutterable joy, and love
Of living things, and things inanimate;
And that his comprehensive soul embraced
The mingled beauty of the sky and earth.
The Universe to him was beautiful;
For he by meditation trained his mind
To feel no sense of individual pleasure,
But on the just proportions of the world,
Looking with reverent and submissive faith,
To trace its deep eternal harmony,
And listen, with calm contemplative ear,
To its mysterious music. For to him,
There came a voice among the lonely hills,
There breath'd a whisper from the silent stars :
To him the rivers and the breezes spoke
Intelligible language: the green earth,
The restless ocean, the still sky, sent forth
One hymn of gratulation: and his soul,
In undivided aspiration rapt,
Was blended with the goodly universe,
And he was blessed in its beauteousness.

Look you there now! if this atrocious narcotic have not dispatched half our readers. I must transcribe a few more of your verses, most rhyming and romantic Murray, by way of antidote. Here is your “Complaint of a Poet.” A poet has no right to complain. If the public buy him, he is the happiest of men, and if they do not, he is very happy notwithstanding. He has visitings, and dreaminess, and imaginings, and crusts of bread, and proof-sheets, and twenty comforts of which other people only know the name.


“Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus."
And will not listening ladies deign
To let me slumber o'er my strain,
Where story

ng of wrongs and woes
Had promised me a sweet repose?
The weary fiddlers at a ball,
Though proudly rings the vaulted hall,
And Youth and Mirth, impatient, beat
The bounding boards with airy teet,
And Age is whispering, long and loud,
Of belles that glitter through the crowd, -
The weary fiddlers sweetly doze;
Deep, and more deep, their slumber grows;
Faint, and more faint, their bows prolong
The strain that mocks the faltering throng:
Till, waking with a sudden start,
They ply their music's liveliest art;
More swiftly forms of beauty glance
Along the mazes of the dance,
And matrons praise, with accent bland,
“ The spirit of that charming band."
O! thus should minstrel rest awhile,
His sternest reprimand a smile;
Then, waking, burst at once away,
In native energy of lay,
Till glowing soul, and passion high,
And lifted brow, and glancing eye,
And flushing of the burning blood
In indignation's noblest flood,
And tears of feeling, deep and strong,
Confess the magic of his song.

Now thou may'st not fickle be;
Thou art sworn, my love, to me;
For thine eyes so sweetly shine,
I am sure they speak to mine ;
And thy cheeks so deeply glow,
Secret promise they must know;
And thy pouting lips reveal
Contracts, love along may seal ;
And the sigh, which scarce I hear,

Whispers all to lover's ear. May 10.— I received some stanzas from Davenant. faith they form a very pretty receipt for the cure of the vapours, of which I would the said Davenant would oftener avail himself. He is truly a happy man who, in the sullens, or in the King's

By my Bench, or in rainy weather, can coin cheerfulness from his mistress' glance, Bank-notes from his mistress' handwriting, or sunshine from his mistress' smile. Are these the Metamorphoses of which Davenant promiseth performance ?

When fortune forsakes me,

Sigh not for me!
When trouble o'ertakes me,

Sigh not for me!
In thee I shall find
My lost peace of mind;
There is hope in thy charms,
There is joy in thine arms;
I cannot despair,
While thou art so fair!

Should sickness come nigh me,

Sigh not for me!
Should riches still fly me,

Sigh not for me!
In thee I have health,
In thee I have wealth,
In thy beautiful face,
In thy gentle embrace;
I cannot despond,
While thou art so fond !

If honour should leave me,

Sigh not for me!
If friendships deceive me,

Sigh not for me!
I will think upon fame
As a troublesome name,
And friendships shall seem
The shade of a dream;
How can I repine
Whilst Anna is mine?

May 10.---Lady Mary, dear creature, has just sent me a sonnet, and a -, and some stanzas by Gerard. By the way her ladyship intended to have constituted herself" sole arbitress" of the fate of my pretty fugitives,--the world was to have been cloyed with the sweets of Lady Mary's Reticule.

Fickle creature ! If the First of June were not so nigh, I would abdi cate—if it were only for the charming motto that Ovid might have given her:

“ Gramina disponunt; sparsosque sine ordine flores

Secernunt calathis, variasque coloribus herbas.
Ipsa, quod hi faciunt, opus exigit : ipsa quid usus
Quoque sit in folio, quæ sit concordia mistis,



Wert thou an emanation from above,
Beautiful Dream? a ministring Mercy, sent
To win me from my sad bewilderment,
With thy sweet looks, and tones of heavenly love?
The weight of mortal sadness to remove;
To teach me that I was not quite forlorn;
That love, and peace, and joy, might yet return,
And high desires, that no one should reprove ?
Hail, and farewell! and when, beloved one,
Thou dost return unto the land of sleep,
Tell the glad tidings of thy good deed done
To one whose soul was plunged in sorrow deep;
And send thy sisters here, on silver feet,
That they may make thy blessed work complete.



Once more,

and yet once more, mine early love, Have I beheld thee; but thy face is wan, And time, and sorrow, and a law austere, Have done their work upon thee; yet thy hair Is golden still; and in thy voice I trace The tones that thrill'd my heart in other days; And in thy looks, and in thy smiles, what seems The ghost of that sweet playfulness, which made Thy infancy so exquisite, and hung Upon thee, like a garland of wild flowers. But care and inward strife bave temper'd down That gladness; and the heartless spirit and light, Gazing on thee, would, from that thoughtful eye, So fix'd and stedfast in its melancholy, Recoil self-humbled. Fancy might behold In thee, thus pale and solemn of attire, Some veiled votaress of the faith thou lov'st, O'er her deserted shrine in quiet woe Mourning; or partial love in thee might trace Some distant semblance of that maid divine, Young, playful, frank, high-minded; whom, to her queen Stedfast, and to her faith, in darkest hour, The mighty fabler of these latter times Iŋ song-like story hath immortalized.

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