that I cannot attend to anything else till they are finished. Pray read them, and in French, if you can meet with them.

Remember me very affectionately to my mother, and Caroline, and Mary. I suppose they begin to think by this time that I should be new if I came home again. But that will not be for these nine or ten weeks. Adieu.

Your affectionate Brother,

TO MISS SEWARD.

H. F. CARY.

DEAR MADAM,

Ch. Ch., Oxford, May 5, 1793.

I do not recollect whether I ever mentioned to you a versifying friend of mine, who professes himself an humble though a vehement admirer of your talents. If I have not, give me leave now to introduce to you Christopher Sherive, clergyman of Blandford, in Dorsetshire, who, approaching with due obeisance to the toilet of the Muse, deposits for her inspection the following copy of rhymes :

"THE COSMETIC."

TO LADY E. KERR.

Though Venus' handmaids three, adorning
Your lovely form, delight to stay;
Though softer than the bloom of morning
On

your fair cheek the blushes play;

Yet (pardon, pardon, lovely maid,

The rash presumption of your poet)

Take one cosmetic to your aid,

And tell the world they all may know it.
"Tis neither wash nor patch nor paint
That will our heedless hearts beguile;-
It is (and 't would become a saint)
The sweet cosmetic of a smile.
Nor use it only when you dress,

But on your mien for ever wear it ;

O! 'tis an amulet to bless

Both those that see and those that bear it.

Nought from your lips the smile should sever,
For life a tenant let it be ;

("Twill brighten all your charms for ever,)——
And bend, Oh! bend its beams on me.

Sherive is an acquaintance and neighbour of Mr. Crowe, who also expresses great admiration of your talents, as well as a grateful sense of your civility towards him. He is now in Oxford; and I shall not easily forget that I owe the pleasure of his acquaintance to you. A man who unites so much true genius and so much superior understanding, to such unassuming manners and such sincerity of heart is very seldom to be met with.

There is at present a poetical Professorship vacant in the University, for which the competitors are a Mr. Kett and a Mr. Hurdis. The choice is decided by a majority of votes among the Masters of Arts, with whom, if poetical merit has much weight, as I believe it has not, the latter of these gentlemen would probably be successful. He has published the "Village Curate," "Adriano," "Sir Thomas More," &c.

The former is at present only known by some sermons, though he is about to expose himself more by the publication of "Juvenile Poems." Keep yourself in good health and happiness. Adieu, adieu, dear madam.

Yours, sincerely and faithfully,

HENRY CARY.

TO MISS SEWARD.

MY DEAR MADAM,

Ch. Ch., Oxford, December 4, 1793.

I have this morning received a copy of verses which my friend Sherive, who is your very devoted and humble admirer, desires me to transmit to you. He will be highly flattered by your slightest approbation and notice of him.

ever

Can you inform me whether the Muses interfere in the election of fellows of Colleges, or whether they have any interest in that way? If they have I must solicit your assistance, as I am about to become a candidate for a fellowship of Oriel College. I send you a list of the names of the fellows, on whose votes the election depends.

The only one whom you are likely to know, is Mr. Richards, of whose poetical endowments you think me so great a blasphemer. There will be only one vacancy, and five or six candidates-the election in April next.

My indignation has been excited by Mr. Boswell's letter in the "Gentleman's Magazine" of last month. I hope you will teach him better manners in future.

I shall finish this scrawl with the simile you suggested to me for the King of Poland in my blank

verses:

As when dim twilight gathers round the sea,
If chance a parting gleam, shot from the west,
Light on the mast of vessel under sail,
The canvas, for a rising wind outspread,
Burns, and a sheet of fire glorious it seems

To those who wond'ring from the coast behold.

I am sensible that I have not come up to your idea, which deserved a better fate.

Yours very faithfully,

H. F. CARY.

The Long Vacation of this year had been spent in a tour through South Wales, along the banks of the Wye, in company, I believe, with his friend Price. During this excursion he wrote the following poem, which is worth preserving, as being the earliest attempt at blank verse that he has himself thought worthy of publication. It was printed in the "Gentleman's Magazine" for February, 1794; but since its publication some trifling corrections have been made in MS.

THE MOUNTAIN SEAT.

O insensata cura de' mortali,

Quanti son difettivi sillogismi

Quei, che ti fanno in basso batter l'ali.

DANTE, Par Canto xi.

Welcome, thou friendly seat, that, on the brow
Of this high ridge o'erlookst the nether vale,
Affording quiet rest to the tired limbs
Of such as wander with uneasy steps
Over the boundless waste, and to the mind
Grateful refreshment; with the view beneath,
Corn-field and pasture, pleasing interchange,
Forest and level down, and far beyond
The mountains melting in the azure sky.
Thee chief I miss, companion of my walks
These seven long years, and of my boyish days
Kind playfellow, thou faithful animal,
Late sever'd from my side by force or fraud,
As down the stream of wand'ring Wye I sail'd,
In search of pleasant landscape on his banks,
Grey rock, or woody hill, or valley green,
Tower or ruin❜d abbey ; Goodrich such,
Hiding his battlements amid the trees;
And Tintern, proud of Gothic ornament,
Arches with net of ivy-twine entrail'd,

And the tall shaft, that from the eastern front
Looks towards the river and the mount beyond :
Search well repaid, but for thy bitter loss,
Most bitter now, when most I hoped to soothe,
With act of grateful fondness and respect,
Thy hair, grown white with length of services.
How should I view thee with delighted eyes,
As I shall ne'er again, if fears prove true,
Bounding along in chace of leveret swift,
Or rousing from his lair the lordly stag,
That roves at will over this wide domain !
Fair is the robe of Autumn, fairer far
Than the gay livery of the fickle Spring,
Or Summer's flaunting pride; and fairest now