Could magic verse recall the fleeted breath, The Lyre, sweet warbling, charm the ear of Death, Thy Husband, tuning his Orphean strain, Might lure thee to the bower of Love again. But thou, chaste Soul! for highest bliss design'd, He knows, art present with the' Eternal Mind! Hence, doom'd to silence, sleeps his harp unstrung, Control'd each thought sublime, and mute his tongue. Why join the sainted Spirit to it's clod?Why sever the pure Essence from it's God?

See, Laura, how cold are the tints

Of that snow-drop, afraid of the gale;
Though its delicate feebleness hints,
That spring shall soon colour the vale.
Thus sweetly, when Hymen appear'd,
Thy bashfulness sought to retire,
Yet, what it so tremblingly fear'd,
It could not but fondly desire:
And thus, though the lustre was cold
Which slept in thy languishing eye;
Thy virgin timidity told,

That the spring-time of pleasure was nigh!

TO LAURA, THEN MRS. POLWHELE.

FOR thee, whose love I value more than life,
Whose charms the balm of heartfelt bliss inspire-
For thee, I reassume my humble Lyre;
Here in this shade, far distant from the strife
Of scenes where Fashion's pamper'd votaries, rife
In Dissipation's revel, quench thy fire

O Muse! and blast the hallow'd name of WIFE,
Mid the dark Orgies of impure Desire :—

For thee, though ne'er my unambitious Strain
May soothe the' unfeeling World, I yet awhile
Tune the rude Shell! and haply, not in vain

If (sweet reward of every anxious toil!)
My simple Song have still the power to gain
From LAURA but a fond approving smile.

WRITTEN ON A VISIT TO POLWHELE, NEAR TRURO, WITH MY CHILDREN, A SHORT TIME AFTER HER DEATH; 1793.

AH! when so late I press'd this mossy sward,

In strains of Hope I breath'd the melting lay! For still the flatterer, Hope, vouchsaf'd a ray.— 'If but a few short years kind Heaven award, Here, here my Offspring may I duteous guard, And guide them in the dark and doubtful way; AS LAURA's heartfelt smile shall bid me brave

Each threatening ill, and every woe repay; Then, as these arching Shades around me wave, May I sink down, in quiet, to the grave !'—

Such was my Strain. But, ah! my Children, say Where, where is fled, where vanish'd LAURA's smile! Alas! devoid of sorrow, as of guile,

Ye little heed my tears, along the greensod gay.

JOHN WOLCOTT.

1785.

Extensively known by the literary appellation of PETER PINDAR, Doctor Wolcott is allied to a family long reputably esteemed in Devonshire, where he was born, at Dodbrook near Kingsbridge. After a course of general education, followed up by the medical instructions of his uncle, a surgeon at Fowey, who designed him his successor, Wolcott, in 1769, took the resolution of accompanying Sir William Trelawney to Jamaica. Disappointed in views he here conceived, of assuming clerical orders, he returned to England, in company with lady Trelawney, and, at Truro, resumed the profession to which he had been bred. On the public life of Dr. Wolcott, which opened shortly after this period, with his Epistle to the Reviewers, it were superfluous to enlarge: however discordantly appreciated, it is sufficiently understood. He is said latterly to have resumed the studies and pursuits that engaged his earlier years. The satirical fame of Dr. Wolcott has proved detrimental to the due estimation of powers of a very different description, which he possesses in an eminent degree. His songs will be admired, when the corruscations of wit have ceased to irradiate his memory.

TO A KISS.

SOFT child of Love-thou balmy bliss,
Inform me, O delicious Kiss!

Why thou so suddenly art gone,
Lost in the moment thou art won?
Yet, go for wherefore should I sigh?
On DELIA'S lip, with raptur'd eye,
On Delia's blushing lip I see
A thousand full as sweet as thee!

гHOU! whose love-inspiring air
Delights, yet gives a thousand woes;
My day declines in dark despair,
And night hath lost her sweet repose.

Yet who, alas! like me was blest,

To others ere thy charms were known; When Fancy told my raptur'd breast, That CYNTHIA smil'd on me alone?

Nymph of my soul! forgive my sighs:
Forgive the jealous fires I feel;
Nor blame the trembling wretch who dies,
When others to thy beauties kneel.

Lo! their's is every winning art,

With Fortune's gifts, unknown to me!

I only boast a simple heart,

In love with Innocence and Thee.

DOOM'D by Fortune's fickle star,

Dear Maid! I seek the dangerous wave; Condemn'd from thee to wander far, To Love and DELIA'S charms a slave.

Yet, ere thy balmy lips I leave,

And quit that bosom's snowy white,
Oh! Nymph, my tears my sighs receive;
And grant me thine, my last delight?

On each bright tear shall Fancy dwell,
And Memory each sigh restore:
Thus doat upon the sweet farewell,

Like misers on their golden store.

SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES.

1785.

Samuel Egerton Brydges, Esq. allied to the noble families of Chandos and Bridgewater, was born in November 1762. He entered himself of the Middle Temple in 1782; and entirely quitted Queen's College, Cambridge, at which he had been educated, early in the following year. In 1787 he was called to the bar. Favoured, however, with an independent fortune, and possessing a mind ill-constituted to endure the dull technicalities of legal plodding, Poetry withdrew his footsteps from the uncongenial paths of Jurisprudence, and toilsome Law' gave to the Muse a fitter votary. He retired into Kent, where he purchased the manor and seat of Denton, adjoining the place of his nativity, on which he continues to reside. His Poems appeared in 1785, and "Mary de Clifford" in 1792: of these publications there have been two editions. In 1798 he gave to the world his novel of "Arthur Fitz-Albini ;” in 1800, an improved edition of Phillips's "Theatrum Poetarum;" two years afterwards, the novel of "Le Forester;" and, in 1804, "Memoirs of the Peers of England:" he also engaged in editing the "Topographer." He is now the conductor of an interesting literary mélange, published periodically, entitled "Censura Literaria."

Mr. Brydges has been twice married. His first wife was the niece of Thomas Barrett, Esq. of Lee, near Canterbury, by whom he had a son, who promises to inherit the beautiful seat of Lee. In 1797 he married Miss Mary Robinson, niece of the late Lord Rokeby. Since the exquisite story of " Mary de Clifford" was written five years after his first marriage, and previously to the decease of his wife, conjecture in vain demands, who was the heroine of that work? Woodville, undoubtedly, is Brydges; but, who was his Mary? The enquiry cannot be uninteresting to those who have contemplated