Increase not thou the number! him the mouse, fence, May from his native tenement eject; Him may the nut-hatch, piercing with strong bill, Unwittingly destroy, or to his hoard The squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd. To be enkernelled thus: never to hear love. If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be dispos'd from your service to Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart, When the Deity bade his new planet descend, He saw the sole void in the mighty design, And in Woman's bright form deny dwells a Which throbs with delight to the first kiss By prejudice blinded, fair science ye vei!, of love. Your shepherds, your flocks-those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move, From minds that would soar where ye could But oft, like a meteor, the spirit bursts bright, Sheds a radiance that dazzles with awe and delight; Freed from trammels of ignorance, Woman ascends, And the sage to her lesson delighted attends. In the contest of wit-a sweet victor she shines, And from custom, not weakness, stern learning resigns. In Greece, when refinement first smil'd upon Man, When Art her new model and statue began; When Credulity gave each perfection a form, And bade them the fanes of her worship adorn: What symbols chose sages, whom still we admire, What emblems for virtues they wrote to in spire? Thy form, lovely Woman, embodied each thought, And sculptors ador'd the fair marble they wrought. Ev'n now, when religion has beam'd on the mind, And no longer we worship the fair-ones en shrin'd, What heart but yields homage to honour and truth, As they charm in the person of beauty and youth. That breast so repellent to reason's controul, In the test of her converse to mark not a soul; To him be the regions of dullness assign'd, Not thou, lovely Woman, but he wants a mind. TO LOVE. WHILE all to sing thee, gentle passion, The plodding cit whose vigils still At int'rest's shrine are paid, Through his dense soul feels passion thrill, To sooth the toils of trade. The Poet-wild enthusiast-tunes The player Romeo assumes Long, mighty Love, here smiling reign, Where Freedom's banners wave, Thy chaste delights shall ever claim The valour of the brave. While tyrants iron sceptres sway, While abject vassals groan, Long may thy pow'r, 'mid Time's decay, Beam on our happier throne. SONNET. COLD is the senseless heart that never strove With the wild tumults of a real flame, Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame, Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love. The pathless vale, the long forsaken grove, The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, With ivy mantled o'er. For empty fame Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove In search of plunder far to Western clime. Give me to waste the hours in amorous play With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme, Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms, And all the prodigality of charms, Form'd to enslave my heart, and grace my lay! ODE TO SOLITUDE. HAIL, pensive virgin! ever hail! Oft have I met thee in the vale, And oft inscribed a song to thee, When musing near you aged tree : Nor serious, silent Solitude, Did'st thou despise my numbers rude. Remote from man, in shady dell, Thou hearst the loud funereal bell, Or from the thronged city far, At evening counts each little star; Or by the pale moon's silver light, O'er hill and forest takes thy flight. Sweet nun, who haunts the lonely lane, Teach me that life is short and vain, That grandeur, pageantry, and pow'r,' Will vanish all at death's dread hour; That beauty's roses soon decay, Like oderiferous flow'rs in May; Teach me to weep for others woe, O cause the tender tear to flow! Fair woodland nymph! when all is still, Thou climb'st the high adjacent hill, And oft by Thames's rushy side, Delight'st to hear the smooth waves glide; Sister of Peace and Piety, Sweet nun, I long to visit thee, Now tell me the reason I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abus'd not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth conld not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason I pray. I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied, Let the cause thy attention engage;In the days of iny youth I remember'd my God ! And he hath not forgotten my age. PUBLIC AMUSEMENTS FOR DEĆEMBER. COVENT-GARDEN. ON Tuesday, November 17th, was produced at this theatre for the first time, a new Opera, from the pen of Mr. Dibdin, entitled Two Faces under a Hood. The public have been so much indebted to this gentleman for a pleasant laugh at the theatre, that it would be but justice to pardon him greater errors than he is called to plead guilty to in the present piece. at the theatre, viz.-"The Overture and New Music composed by Mr. Shield ;" and even if several of the melodies could not be traced to former tunes, the manner in which they have been adapted to the new words would shew that Mr. Shield cannot have originally composed them. In several of the songs the metre of the poetry does not naturally correspond with that of the music, and the aukward pronunciation of many words which arises from it cannot please a discerning hearer. However, in other points of consideration, this Opera is of a very respectable kind. For such well composed, and equally well executed It is perhaps not the best of his dramas, but it most certainly is not the worst. It has the raciness of its parcut soil, the smack of its original growth, in as strong a manner as any of the other productions of this gentleman; butsestets, chorusses, trios, and duets, are not it has not (we will be bold enough to say) that exaggerated caricature, and pleasing eccentricity which, with all their grotesque violations of nature, never failed to please us better than the studied attempts at seriousness and dramatic skill, which have of late been frequent with the writers of this school. Why will Mr. Dibdin relinquish his old habit of punning? It was extremely amusing, and made us laugh heartily. He has not the grace or dignity to be serious, and he fails when he ceases to be comical. The plot of this piece is nothing worth mentioning. It is a female disguise, which commences with a straw bonnet and a stuff gown, and is set to rights again by the assumption of a silk and musliu one. This is scarcely an incident, much less a plot; but this is all the plot which is shewn in the action. There was no character, properly so called, in which a general humour was exhibited in action. Liston was, as usual, a simpleton; Fawcett a droll; and Simmons a foolish town clerk. The great excellence of this Opera is its music, which is principally the composition of Shield. His part of it is at once scientific and simple, tender without weakness, and simple without monotony. generally to be met with in English Operas; and almost every song, from those in the bravura style, to the pretty ones in the style of a Vauxhall song, with the row dow dow is good in all its kind. Mrs. Dickons shews in this piece that she is not only a very respectable singer, but also a very elegant and judicious actress; but if she could hear the effect of her good and powerful voice at a distance, she would find that she has no occasion to aim at loudness, which sometimes takes away the higher finish of a passage, or overstrains a note-with the most natural flow of her voice she has power enough. Mr. Incledon has not so many opportunities of shewing his abilities to advantage in this Opera as Mrs. Dickons, but in the song, "The blast of war may loudly blow," with the finale after it, and in other difficult pieces, he maintains his usual respectability. Mr. Bellamy has a beautiful ballad which he sung delightfully, and was rewarded with an encore and great applause. The good ef fects however, of this song and several others, would have been much encreased if the bɛnd had been less fierce in their accompaniments. We were disappointed that Mr. Shield had not made more use of this performer's powers, as he possesses an extensive and melodious voice, with a full even tone, which enables him to give a new character to our bass songs, by adding to the strength and expression of the English school, the taste and elegance of the The fine solos on the bassoon, flute, and harp, were ably executed by the orchestra, and the accompaniments on the harpsichord and organ were performed, for the most part, with judgment and precision; but we were disap-Italian. pointed in not finding the whole of the music to be new, and originally composed for the Opera. This may be concluded from an ambiguous line in the title-page of the book sold with Mrs. C. Kemble performed as well as her part would admit; and Miss Bolton sweetness and taste. sung Countess Orsini...Mrs. POWELL. This play is ascribed to Mr. Godwin; but, we are persuaded, without reason. Mr. Godwin is a gentleman of au eccentric but vigorous mind; a writer perhaps not very conversant with the Muse of Tragedy, but who has never been suspected of failing in his intimacy with Common Sense. If Mr. Godwin, however, be the author of the present piece, he must be an alien to the society of both,-an outcast both of Poetry and Prose,―a wanderer on the wide wastes of folly,-not indeed without a home,for he found one at that welcome Hospital of Fools, that long established eleemosynary Board of Dullness,-'yclept Drury-Lane. been happy to see her any where but in this tragedy. It seems that this worthy matron had a son by an English gentleman of the name of Faulkener, previous to her becoming the mistress of Charles, and wife of Count Orsini.-This son (from whom she conceals herself as a parent) she protects in the character of a benefactress; and the piece is set in motion by the auxiety of Faulkner to discover his mother, and the eagerness of his mother to conceal herself. After going over the old ground of intrigue, and a course of much common-place plotting, Faulkener is seized in his mother's bed-chamber, and taken to trial for the murder of Benedetto, a fellow who seems introduced for little purpose, but who, as being the first of them dispatched out of the way, is to be ranked as the most pleasing character in the play. Faulkener is tried in a manner more ridiculous than solemn-in a scene in which the majesty of justice is sullied by ribaldry and nonsense. He is acquitted of course. Now enters his mother, and discovers herself, much in the same manner in which the Justice's wife, in the Critic, developes the mystery of his birth to her son Tom. In the name of wonder, what do the managers Whilst Faulkener is in an agony of filial afmean by this rank fraud upon the public? fection, and the dullness and dialogue are hasHave they no name in their liveried tribe of tening to an equal crisis, Mr. Stanley walks in, fools, no worn out stump of authorship,-in an erect posture, and an easy tone. This -no tacker of terce pantomimic prose,-no|| gentleman has not much to say for himself; miserable compiler of old rhimes for old music, a larcener without the merit of that brave theft which compensates for its disgrace in its dexterity;-have they none of these (or have their slaves rebelled against them) that they should attempt to sink down a popular and splendid name, by so heavy a charge as making him the Author of this Tragedy. We have no patience with this trick. he mentions however, with much nonchalance, a trifling circumstance-" that he has cut the throat of Orsini, and that his relict may now again take to her weeds." One word more.-The language of this play is the flattest prose we ever remember in a picce styling itself tragedy. THE STAGE. THE knowledge of human nature has been retarded by the difficulty of making just The principal figurante in the tragedy is Arabella, Countess of Orsini; a lady to whom England had the honour of giving birth, and Italy a husband. It appears, by her own confession, that she had been guilty of some gal-experiments.-The materials of this study are lantries in her youth; that she had some share in the private history of Charles II. a monarch who seems to have possessed as many mistresses as King Priam, and who, from his fame in secret amours, has the honour of being imputed father to most of the illustrious families of European bastards. The Countess, however, seems fairly entitled to have her portrait suspended in the "Gallery of Beauties at Hampton-Court," and to rank with Polly Horton, Nell Gwynne, and the Duchess of Portsmouth. We should have commonly gathered from reflection on our own feelings, or from observations on the conduct of others. Each of these methods is exposed to difficulty, and consequently to error. Natural philosophers possess great advautages over moralists and metaphysicians, in so far as the subjects of their inquiries belong to the senses, are external, material, and often permanent. Hence they can retain them in their presence till they have examined their motion, parts, or composition: they can have recourse to them for a renewal of their im |