Whence springs the wood bind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip shelter'd grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes;
When scattered glowworms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry* stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odours which declin'd repelling day,
Thro' temperate air uninterrupted stray;

When darken'd groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear ;

When thro' the gloom more venerable shows

Some ancient fabric, awful in repose;

While sun-burnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,

And swelling hay-cocks thicken up the vale :
When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing thro' the adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthen'd shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear;

When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;

When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their short-liv'd jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charm'd,
Finding the elements of rage disarm'd,

* Frances Bennett, daughter of a gentleman in Buckinghamshire, and wife to James, fourth Earl of Salisbury.

O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,

Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own;
In such a night let me abroad remain,

Till morning breaks, and all's confus'd again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew'd,
Or pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursu’d."

Mr. Dyce has not omitted the celebrated poem of the "Spleen," which attracted considerable attention in its day. It still deserves a place on every toilet,

male and female.

"What art thou, Spleen, which everything dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd mankind,

Who never yet thy real cause could find,

Or fix them to remain in one continued shape.

Through the o'er-cast and showering eyes
Upon her husband's softened heart,
He the disputed point must yield,—
Something resign of the contested field,-
Till lordly man, born to imperial sway,
Compounds for peace to make that right away,
And woman, arm'd with spleen, does servilely obey.

"Patron thou art to every gross abuse,

The sullen husband's feign'd excuse,

* At present called "nerves," or "headache."

When the ill-humour with his wife he spends,

And bears recruited wit and spirits to his friends.
The son of Bacchus pleads thy pow'r,

As to the glass he still repairs;

Pretends but to remove thy cares,

Snatch from thy shade one gay and smiling hour,
And drown thy kingdom in a purple shower."

That is a fine couplet. Dryden, whom it is very like, would not have wished it better.

"When the coquette, whom every fool admires,
Would in variety be fair,

And changing hastily the scene
From light, impertinent, and vain,
Assumes a soft and melancholy air,

And of her eyes rebates the wandering fires:
The careless posture and the head reclin'd,
The thoughtful and composèd face,
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent mind,
Allows the fop more liberty to gaze,

Who gently for the tender cause inquires:-
The cause indeed is a defect of sense,

Yet is the spleen alleged, and still the dull pretence."

Lady Winchelsea is mentioned by Gay as one of the congratulators of Pope, when his Homer was finished :

"And Winchelsea, still meditating song."

SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETESSES.

No. II.

Miss Vanhomrigh, Lady Russell, Mrs. Manly, Mrs. Brereton, Mrs. Greville, Lady Henrietta O'Neil, Duchess of Devonshire, Miss Carter, Charlotte Smith, Miss Seward, and Mrs. Tighe.

THE verses of poor Miss VANHOMRIGH, who was in love with Swift, are not very good; but they serve to show the truth of her passion, which was that of an inexperienced girl of eighteen for a wit of fortyfour. Swift had conversation enough to make a dozen sprightly young gentlemen; and, besides his wit and his admiration of her, she loved him for what she thought his love of truth. In her favour, also, he appears to have laid aside his brusquerie and fits of ill temper, till he found the matter too serious for his convenience.

"Still listening to his tuneful tongue,

VOL. II.

The truths which angels might have sung
Divine imprest their gentle sway,

And sweetly stole my soul away.

K

My guide, instructor, lover, friend,
Dear names, in one idea blend;
Oh! still conjoin'd your incense rise,
And waft sweet odours to the skies."

Swift, who was already engaged, and with a woman too whom he loved, should have told her so. She discovered it, and died in a fit of indignation and despair. The volume, a little farther, contains some verses of the other lady (Miss JOHNSON) On Jealousy,-probably occasioned by the rival who was jealous of her. Poor Stella! She died also, after a longer, a closer, and more awful experience of Swift's extraordinary conduct; which, to this day, remains a mystery.

The LADY RUSSELL, who wrote the verses at p. 149, to the memory of her husband, was most probably Elizabeth, one of the learned daughters of Sir Anthony Cook, and widow of John, Lord Russell, who was called up to the House of Lords in the lifetime of his father, Francis, Earl of Bedford, who died in 1585. The singular applicability of the last line to the mourning widowhood of a subsequent and more famous Lady Russell, has led commentators to mistake one husband for another. The concluding couplet is remarkable for shewing the effect to which real feeling turns the baldest common-places. Not that the words just alluded to are a common-place. They are the quintessence of pathos