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family is the present Earl of Blessington. Elizabeth pinched his cheek when he first came to court, and made him blush.

Lady Elizabeth Carew, who “ is understood to be the authoress of The Tragedy of Mariam the fair Queen of Jewry, written by that learned, virtuous, and truly noble lady E. C. 1613," was truly noble indeed, if she wrote the following stanzas in one of the chorusses of that work:

“ We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor ;
Great hearts are task'd beyond their pow'r but seld;

The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
Truth's school for certain doth this same allow;

High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bowo.
" A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn ;

To scorn to owe a duty overlong ;
To scorn to be for benefits forborne;

To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong ;
To scorn to bear an injury in mind,

To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.” Lady Mary Wroth, a Sidney, niece of Sir Philip, has the following beautiful passage, in a song with a pretty burden to it.

“ Love in chaos did appear ;

When nothing was, yet he seem'd clear ;
Nor when light could be descried,
To his crown a light was tied.

Who can blame me?
« Love is truth, &c.
“ Could I my past time begin

I would not commit such sin,
To live an hour, and not to love,
Since Love makes us perfect prove.

Who can blame me." If the reader wishes to know what sort of a thing the shadow of an angel is, he cannot learn it better than from the verses of an anonymous Authoress to her Husband, published in the year 1652. She bids him not to wear mourning for her, not even a black ring;

“But this bright diamond, let it be

Worn in rememberance of me,
And when it sparkles in your eye,
Think 'tis my shadow passeth by :
For why? More bright you shall me see,

Than that, or any gem can be.”
Some of the verses of Katharine Philips, who was praised by the

poets of her time under the title of “the matchless Orinda,” and who called her husband, a plain country gentleman, Antenor, have an easy though antithetical style, like the lighter ones of Cowley, or the verses of Sheffield and the Frenchmen. One might suppose the following to have been written in order to assist the addresses of some young

courtier.

TO LADY ELIZABETH BOYLE, SINGING A SONG OT WHICH ORINDA

WAS THE AUTHOR.
Subduing fair! what will you win,

To use a needless dart?
Why then so many to take in

One undefended heart?

2

“I came expos’d to all your

charms,
'Gainst which, the first half hour,
I had no will to take up arms,

And in the next, no power.
“ How can you choose but win the day?

Who can resist the siege?
Who in one action know the

way To vanquish and oblige?” And so on, for four more stanzas. “To vanquish and obleege" has a very dandy tone."

The following are in the same epigrammatical taste, and pleasing. They are part of a poem “On a Country Life.”

“ Then welcome, dearest solitude,

My great felicity;
Though some are pleas'd to call thee rude,

Thou art not so, but we.
Opinion is the rate of things;

From hence our peace doth flow;
I have a better fate than kings,

Because I think it so.
“ Silence and innocence are safe :

A heart that's nobly true
At all these little arts can laugh,

That do the world subdue."

7

66

* Chesterfield, in this word, is for using the English pronunciation of the letter i ; which we believe is now the general custom. The late Mr Kemble in the course of an affable conversation with which his present Majesty indulged him, when Prince of Wales, is said to have begged as a favour that his illustrious interlocutor would be pleased to extend his royal jaws, and say oblige, instead of obleege.Nevertheless all authority is in favour of the latter pronunciation - French, Italian, and Latin. But it is a pity to lose the noble sound of our i, the finest in the language, and peculiar to the Teutonic.

Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle, with all the fantastic state she took upon her, and the other absurdities arising from her want of judgment, was a woman of genius, and had a great deal of good sense, where others were concerned. The following apostrophe on " the Theme of Love" has something in it extremely pleasant, between gaiety and gravity.

O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!

Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb;
And from thy branches every one takes some

Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon."
Her Grace wrote an Allegro and Pensieroso, as well as Milton;
and very good lines they contain, and to the purpose. Her
Euphrosyne does not mince the matter. She talks like a Nell
Gwynn, and looks like her too, though all within bounds.

“ Mirth laughing came; and running to me, flung

Her fat white arms about my neck; there hung,
Embrac'd and kiss'd me oft, and stroked my cheek,
Saying, she would no other lover seek.
I'll sing you songs, and please you ev'ry day,
Invent new sports to pass the time away:
I'll keep your heart, and guard it from that thief
Dull Melancholy, Care, or sadder Grief,
And make your eyes with Mirth to overflow.
With springing blood your cheeks soon fat shall grow;
Your legs shall nimble be, your body light,
And all your spirits like to birds in flight.
Mirth shall digest your meat, and make you strong, &c.
But Melancholy! She will make you lean,
Your jaws shall hollow grow, your jaws be seen.
She'll make you start at ev'ry voice you hear,
And visions strange shall to your eyes appear.
Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound,
She hates the light, and is in darkness found;
Or sits with blinking lamps, or lapers small,

Which various shadows make against the wall.On the other hand, Melancholy says of Mirth that she is only happy “just at her birth;" and that she

« Like weeds doth grow,
Or such plants as cause madness, reason's foe.
Her face with laughter crumples on a heap,
Which makes great wrinkles, and ploughs furrows deep:

eyes do water, and her chin turns red,
Her mouth doth gape, teeth-bare, like one that's dead :
She fulsome is, and gluts the senses all,
Offers herself, and comes before a call :"

Her

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And then, in a finer strain

* Her house is built upon the golden sänds,

Yet no foundation has, whereon it stands
A palace 'tis, and of a great resort,
'It makes a noise, and gives a loud report,
Yet underneath the roof disasters lie,
Beat down the house, and many kill'd thereby :
I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun,
Sit on the banks by which clear waters run;
In summers hot down in a shade I lie,
My music is the buzzing of a fly;
I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass,
In fields, where corn is high, I often pass;
Walk up the hills, where round I prospects seen
Some brushy woods, and some all champains be;
Returning back, I in fresh pastures go,
To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low;
In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on,
Then I do live in a small house alone ;
Altho’’tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within,
Like to a soul that's pure and clean from sin;
And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, s.
Not fill’d with cares how riches to increase :
I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures,

No riches are, but what the mind intreasures." Dryden's young favourite, Anne Killegrew, who comes next in the list, has no verses so unequal as these, and perhaps none so strong as some of them; 'but she is very clever, and promised to do real honour to her master. We regret that we have not by us the volume of her poems, which Mr Dyce mentions, and which contains better things than he has extracted. - She was accused of being helped in her writing; probably in consequence of her intimacy with the poet; or perhaps from being one of a family of wits; though the latter consideration ought to have vindicated her. She repels the charge with spirit and sweetness. The lines “ Advanc'd her height,” and “Every laurel to her laurel bow'd,” will remind the reader of Dryden. The concluding couplet is excellent.

Anne, Marchioness of Wharton, who follows, has an agreeable song, worthy of repetition; but these lady writers will beguile us out of bounds. She was daughter of Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, ancestor of the present Dillon family. Should Mr Dyce come to a second edition, we recommend him to notice connexions of this kind with the living. It will give his book additional interest, and of a popular kind. Lady Wharton was a cousin of Lord Rochester, and has written an elegy on his death, in which she represents him as an angel. We have the pleasure of possessing a copy of Waller's Poems, in the blank leaf of which is written " Anne Wharton, given her by the Authore.” Her husband was at that time not possessed of his title.

A “Mrs Taylor," who appears to have been an acquaintance of Aphra Behn, has a song with the following beautiful termination. It is upon a rake whose person she admired, and whom, on account of his indiscriminate want of feeling, she is handsomely resolved not to love.

My wearied heart, like Noah's dove,

In vain may seek for rest,
Finding no hope to fix my love,

Returns into my breast.” Next comes Aphra herself; and, we must say, affects and makes us admire her, beyond what we looked for. Her verses are natural and cordial, written in a masculine style and yet womanly withal. If she had given us nothing but such poetry as this, she would have been as much admired, and known among us all, to this day, as she consented to be among the rakes of her time. Her comedies indeed are alarming, and justly incurred the censure of Pope: though it is probable, that a thoughtless good-humour made her pen run over, more than real licentiousness; and that although free enough in her life, she was not so “extravagant and erring" as persons with less mind. We have to thank Mr Dyce for the good taste with which he has made his selections from her.

SONG IN ABDELAZER, OR THE MOOR'S REVENGE.
“ Love in fantastic triumph sat,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic pow'r he shewd.
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,

Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desires,

Enough t undo the amorous world.
« From me he took his sighs and tears,

From thee his pride and cruelty ;
From me his languishment and fears,

And every killing dart from thee :
Thus thou, and I, the God have arm'd,

And set him up a deity;
But my poor heart alone is harm’d,

Whilst thine the victor is, and free."

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