Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends,
O'er me wave the willow! and long may it flourish
Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and friends.

Let us drink-for my song, growing graver and graver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;

Let us drink-pledge me high-Love and Virtue shall flavour
The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends.

Honble. William R. Spencer.

CCCXV.

THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN.

WHEN I was a maid,

Nor of lovers afraid,

My mother cried, "Girl, never listen to men.”

Her lectures were long,

But I thought her quite wrong,

And said I, "Mother, whom should I listen to, then?"

Now teaching, in turn,

What I never could learn,

I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ;

Men ever deceive,

Silly maidens believe,

And still 'tis the old story over again.

So humbly they woo,

What can poor maidens do

But keep them alive when they swear they must die?

Ah! who can forbear,

As they weep in despair,

Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry?

Yet, wedded at last,

When the honeymoon's past,

The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain;

Our vanity's check'd,

And we ne'er can expect

They will tell us the old story over again.

James Kenny.

CCCXVI.

THE GIRL OF CADIZ.

O, NEVER talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies; It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. Altho' her eyes be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses!

Prometheus-like from Heaven she stole
The fire that thro' those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curl'd to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at Love's confession;
But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is,
And who, when fondly, fairly won-
Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ?

The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble;

And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble.

Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold-
Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely;

And, tho' it will not bend to gold,

'Twill love you long, and love you dearly,

The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial;

For every thought is bent to prove

Her passion in the hour of trial.

When thronging foemen menace Spain
She dares the deed and shares the danger;
And should her lover press the plain,

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.

And when beneath the evening star,
She mingles in the gay Bolero;
Or sings to her attuned guitar

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero;
Or counts her beads with fairy hand

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper; Or joins devotion's choral band

To chant the sweet and hallow'd vesper:

In each her charms the heart must move
Of all who venture to behold her:
Then let not maids less fair reprove,
Because her bosom is not colder;
Thro' many a clime 'tis mine to roam
Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,
May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz.
Lord Byrer.

CCCXVII.

THE time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the sprite
Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But when the spell was on me,
If once their ray
Was turned away,

O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No-vain, alas! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;-
Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

CCCXVIII.

Thomas Moore.

IF I freely may discover

What would please me in my lover,
I would have her faire and wittie,
Savouring more of court than cittie;
A little proud, but full of pittie :
Light and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soone destroying,
Long but sweet in the enjoying,
Neither too easie, nor too hard,
All extremes I would have barr'd.

She should be allow'd her passions,
So they were but used as fashions,
Sometimes froward and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish and then swooning,
Every fit with change still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,
Then onely constant when I crave her.
'Tis a virtue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

Ben Jonson.

CCCXIX.

TO MR. HODGSON.

From on board the Lisbon Packet.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Sailors swearing, women screaming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the Custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,

Cases cracking:

Not a corner for a mouse

'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient-push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor--
Stop the boat-I'm sick-O lord!"
Sick, ma'am, hang it, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax,

Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the Captain,
Gallant Kidd commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,

Some to grumble-some to spew.