BISHOP THOMAS PERCY.

From THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.
Cento Verses in Percy's Reliques.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain ;

For violets plucked, the sweetest showers
Will never make grow again.

O NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WITH ME?
O Nanny, wilt thou gang with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer dressed in silken sheen,
No longer decked with jewels rare-
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

RICHARD CUMBERLAND.

1732-1811]

["Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts."
GOLDSMITH'S Retaliation.]

Why affectation-why this mock grimace?
Go, silly thing, and hide that simpering face
Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait,
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate!
For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she
Who is right foolish, hath the better plea.

Mr., afterwards SIR GEORGE ROSE.

CHANCERY SUIT

In the time of Lord Eldon.

[In Twiss's "Life of Lord Eldon," a little different.]
Mr. Leach made a speech,

Impressive, clear, and strong;

Mr. Hart, on the other part,

Was tedious, dull, and long.
Mr. Parker made that darker,

Which was dark enough without;
Mr. Cook quoted his book,

And the Chancellor said, "I doubt!"

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

A PORTRAIT.

Addressed to Mrs. Crewe.

Prologue to "School for Scandal."

[1751-1816

Adorning fashion, unadorned by dress,
Simple from taste, and not from carelessness;
Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,
Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild,
No state has Amoret, no studied mien,

She frowns no goddess, and she moves no queen.
The softer grace that in her manner lies
Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise ;

It justly suits the expression of her face,

'Tis less than dignity, and more than grace!

And thou who seest her speak, and does not hear, Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine ear. Viewing those lips, thou still may'st make pretence To judge of what she says, and say 'tis sense.

Clothed with such grace, with such expression fraught,

They move in meaning, and they pause in thought!

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE.

From THE PANEL.

When first I attempted your pity to move,
You seemed deaf to my sighs and my prayers;
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love,
But why did you kick me down stairs?

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 1743-1825]

["In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope the dwarfie till him 'rives

Horatian fame;

In thy sweet song, Barbauld, survives
E'en Sappho's flame."

BURNS, On Pastoral Poetry.]

THE MOUSE'S PETITION.

Oh! hear a pensive prisoner's prayer,
For liberty that sighs;
And never let thine heart be shut
Against the wretch's cries.

For here forlorn and sad I sit
Within the wiry grate,

And tremble at the approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed,
And spurned a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong oppressive force
A free-born mouse detain !

Oh! do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth!

Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed
A prize so little worth.

R

The scattered gleanings of a feast
My frugal meals supply;
But if thine unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny,—

The cheerful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given;
Let Nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of heaven.

So, when Destruction lurks unseen,
Which men, like mice, may share,
May some kind angel clear thy path,
And break the hidden snare.

WORDS.

From rosy bowers we issue forth,
From east to west, from south to north,
Unseen, unfelt, by night, by day,
Abroad we take our airy way.

We foster love, and kindle strife,
The bitter-and the sweet of life;
Piercing and sharp, we wound like steel;
Now, smooth as oil, those wounds we heal.

Not strings of pearl are valued more,
Or gems enchased in golden ore;
Yet thousands of us every day,
Worthless and waste, are thrown away.

Ye Wise! secure with bars of brass
The double doors through which we pass,
For, once escaped, back to our cell
No human art can us compel.

From an EPITHALAMIUM.

Or Marriage Song.

See what a war of blushes breaks

O'er the pure whiteness of her cheeks! . .
Mind not what thy maidens say;
Though they chide the cruel day,

Though they weep and try to hold thee . .
They wish the chance to them befell.

From THE INVITATION.

The Snowdrop

The first pale blossom of the unripened year, As Flora's breath, by some transforming power, Had changed an icicle into a flower.

Mark where its simple front yon mansion rears, The nursery of men for future years!

Man is the nobler growth our realms supply,
And Souls are ripened in our northern sky.

From EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. And think'st thou, Britain, still to sit at ease, An island queen amidst thy subject seas, While the vext billows, in their distant roar, But soothe thy slumbers, and but kiss thy shore? To sport in wars, while danger keeps aloof, Thy grassy turf unbruised by hostile hoof? So sing thy flatterers,-but, Britain, know,

Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe.