Why, fair one, would you not rely On Reason's force with Beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired: But she, howe'er of victory sure, Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight; And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turned his steed, And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and as he fled, he slew. AN ODE. The merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: I sung and gazed: I played and trembled: Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. CUPID MISTAKEN. As after noon, one summer's day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart : I faint! I die! the goddess cried; Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. I took you for your likeness, Chloe. A BETTER ANSWER1. Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart. For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with Gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. EPIGRAM. To John I owed great obligation; Sure John and I are more than quit. ANOTHER. Yes, every poet is a fool : By demonstration Ned can show it: Happy, could Ned's inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet. FOR MY OWN TOMB-STONE. To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live alas! one moment sets us even. Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven! LADY WINCHILSEA. LANNE FINCH, Countess of Winchilsea, was born about 1660, at Sidmonton, Hants, the residence of her father, Sir William Kingsmill. She married Heneage Finch, fourth Earl of Winchilsea, who survived her six years. She died on the 5th of August, 1720, leaving no issue. Her works consist of The Spleen, a pindaric ode, 1701; The Prodigy, 1706; Miscellany Poems, 1713; and Aristomenes, a tragedy.] In that invaluable Essay which Wordsworth appended to his Lyrical Ballads in 1815, he says that 'excepting the Nocturnal Reverie of Lady Winchilsea, and a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons does not contain a single new image of external nature.' This remark, although rather acute than exact, since the poet forgets both Gay and Parnell, did eminent service in restoring to the list of English poets a name entirely and unworthily forgotten. Since Words, worth's mention of Lady Winchilsea, the one piece that he cites has been often reprinted in collections of verse, but it cannot be said that any further effort has been made to investigate the claims of the neglected authoress. Her poems have never been edited or described, and we believe that our present selection will reveal to almost all our readers a writer positively unknown to them. Yet she was a poetess of singular originality and excellence; her lines To the Nightingale have lyrical qualities which were scarcely approached in her own age, and would do credit to the best, while her odes and more weighty pieces have a strength and accomplishment of style which make the least interesting of them worth reading. Lady Winchilsea was one of the last pindaric writers of the school of Cowley. Her odes display that species of writing in the |