VULCAN, contrive me such a cup
As Nestor us'd of old;

Shew all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack
Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts on the delicious lake,
Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek;
With war I've nought to do;

I'm none of those that took Mæstrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars, or constellations:

For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine;
Then add two lovely boys;
Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign!
With wine I wash away my cares,
And then to love again.

A SONG.

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me,

When, with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me.

But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

CONSTANCY.

I CANNOT change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;

Since the poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try;

And, to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on and die. When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpity'd rise,

The tears that vainly fall:

That welcome hour that ends this smart,

Will then begin your pain;

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break, can never break in vain.

LOVE AND LIFE.

ALL my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone:
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows;

If I, by miracle, can be

This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that heaven allows.

A SONG.

Too late, alas! I must confess

You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess 'Twere madness not to love ye.

Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender story.

296

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

JOHN SHEFFIELD, Duke of Buckinghamshire, was born in 1649; and succeeded his father as Earl of Mulgrave in 1658. The natural strength of his character was manifested at a very early age by a resolution which he formed to educate himself:-and in which he persevered notwithstanding all the allurements to idleness he inherited with wealth and rank. In 1666, he entered the navy as a volunteer, and after serving against the Dutch, was during the following year appointed to command a troop of horse raised to defend the coast from incursions of the enemy; but subsequently he engaged "with too much eagerness" in affairs of love and gallantry-" employing his Muse to heighten the relish of his pleasures."

For several years afterwards, he was employed in the sea service of his country, and was from time to time promoted to the highest honours by his sovereigns Charles the Second and James the Second; although he acquiesced in the call of William and Mary to the Crown, he only "yielded to the exigency of the occasion," and was "never in the least taunted with being false or factious." By this monarch he was created first Marquis of Normandy, and by Queen Anne, in 1702, Duke of Buckinghamshire. He died on the 24th of February, 1721, and was buried in Westminster Abbey; having written his own epitaph, to which some objection was raised, and which was subjected to revision by the Dean and Chapter, on the ground that it contained an expression derogatory to Christianity. It is evident from his works that his religious sentiments were those of a Theist. "We see him," says one of his biographers, "rambling to overturn Revelation by the superior strength of Reason, and yet descrying this Reason as a narrow, misleading, uncertain guide, and so unworthy to give us dominion over our fellow-creatures who are also endowed with it." It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that his character is "unworthy of imitation,"-that "his morality was such as naturally proceeds from loose opinions," that his sentiments with respect to women were such as he "picked up in the Court of Charles," and that his "principles concerning property were such as a gambling table supplies." His personal appearance is described as unusally handsome; his countenance had an extraordinary sweetness joined with a lively and penetrating look, and "it was generally allowed that as nobody exceeded him in person when young, so few, if any, were ever so agreeable when old."

His works were first collected and published, by his widow, in 1723, with the following dedication: "To the memory of John Sheffield Duke of Buckinghamshire, these his more lasting remains, the monument of his mind and more perfect image of himself, are here collected by the direction of Katherine his Duchess; desiring that his ashes may be honoured and his fame and merit committed to the test of time, truth, and posterity."

The fame of Sheffield has not, however, stood the test of time, so as to be "a lasting monument." His principal prose composition is "the Character of a Tory," and although among his poems there are many smart and sparkling, there are none that bear the undoubted stamp of genius, and few that may be classed among the nobler productions of our British Bards; his Tragedies, "Julius Cæsar," and "the Death of Brutus," possess but little merit; and perhaps the world is more indebted to him for his patronage of Dryden than for his contributions to the national store of poetical wealth. It is said, indeed, that the obligation was amply repaid; that the lesser had the help of the greater poet in composing the Essay on Satire-the work to which Sheffield is mainly indebted for the limited portion of fame that posterity is satisfied to allow him.

If Sheffield enjoyed a high reputation, while alive, "favour and flattery are now at an end; criticism is no longer softened by his bounties or awed by his splendour, and, being able to take a more steady view, discovers him to be a writer that sometimes glimmers but rarely shines, feebly laborious, and at best but pretty." Dr. Johnson adds to this remark-" His songs are upon common topics; he hopes, and grieves, and repents, and despairs, and rejoices, like any other maker of little stanzas; to be great, he hardly tries; to be gay, is hardly in his power."

The Poets, contemporary with Sheffield, are ingenious and eloquent in his praise; but unhappily, in those days, wealth and rank were certain to attract the heirs of Parnassus. Independence-of mind at least-was rarely the high privilege of the Bard.

FROM wars and plagues come no such harms, As from a nymph so full of charms,

So much sweetness in her face,

In her motions such a grace,

In her kind inviting eyes

Such a soft enchantment lies;
That we please ourselves too soon,
And are with empty hopes undone.
After all her softness, we

Are but slaves, while she is free;
Free, alas! from all desire,
Except to set the world on fire.

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