SWEET CHLOE. LYSAGHT, SWEET Chloe advised me, in accents divine, To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry, MARKED YOU HER CHEEK? SHERIDAN. MARK'D you her cheek of rosy hue? These lines are generally supposed to have been written upon Miss Linley; but Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, tells us Lady Margaret Fordyce was the object of this sparkling eulogy. They are part of a long poem in which, to use Moore's words, "they shine out so conspicuously, that we cannot wonder at their having been so soon detached, like ill-set gems, from the loose and clumsy workmanship around them." In the same poem, says Moore, we find "one of those familiar lines which so many quote without knowing whence they come;-one of those stray fragments whose parentage is doubtful, but to which (aş the law says of illegitimate children), 'pater est populus," "You write with ease to show your breeding; But easy writing's curst hard reading." PETRARCH'S INKSTAND. Miss EDGEWORTH. Born, 1767. Died, 1849. When the inkstand of Petrarch was presented to Miss Edgeworth, the gift was made to one by whose refinement and sensitiveness it could be most highly appreciated. It may be supposed she was more than ordinarily touched by it, when it hurried her into verse; for the "even tenor" of her thoughts accorded best with prose. She so seldom indulged in the sportive grace of metrical composition, that the following lines derive an additional value from their rarity, superadded to their intrinsic merit of sweet sentiment, gracefully expressed. But not for the mere recording of these lines are they introduced in this volume: they afford the proud opportunity of gracing our pages with the name of Maria Edgeworth, whose numerous works are so honourable to Ireland;-works bright with genius, and rich in usefulness. To her the highest place must be assigned among our lady writers; for her novels and tales are vivid not only with national character, but with the more genera forms of universal life; and while they captivate by their entertaining qualities, inculcate the purest lessons of morality. By beauty won from soft Italia's land, Here Cupid, Petrarch's Cupid, takes his stand. But if the perjured knight approach this font, And send the false one baffled from thy sight. In the three first lines Miss Edgeworth pays a graceful compliment at once to her countrywomen and her countrymen :-to the beauty of the former, and the devotion which it commands from the latter. YOUNG TYRANT OF THE BOW. Rev. GEORGE CROLY, D.D. YOUNG tyrant of the bow and wings, Yes! love must have them all, or none, But all his raptures, tender, true, sublime, EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* GOLDSMITH. HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, He lived such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. * This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade. DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER Air, "Huish the cat from under the table." JOHN F. WALLER, LL.D. The editor would not do justice to his own feelings or the author's merits did he fail to notice this song as one of the most charming of its class: full of truth-admirably graphic-and thoroughly national in its sportive tenderness. "Aн, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel- The sun is gone down, but the full harvest moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley; With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads our sweet Kitty NeilSomehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing. Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the groundThe maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose- -feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing Search the world all round, from the sky to the ground, No SUCH SIGHT CAN BE FOUND AS AN IRISH LASS DANCING! Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!" THE WIND AND THE WEATHERCOCK. SAMUEL LOver. THE summer wind lightly was playing To peep round the corner the sly wind would try; The summer wind said, "She's coquetting: She will not then go but come round!" So he tried from the east, and he tried from the west, At evening, her hard heart to soften, No lover you'll ever secure.' "Sweet sir," said the vane, "it is you who begin; When you change so often, in me 'tis no sin; If you cease to flutter, and steadily sigh, EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732. DEAN SWIFT. LEWIS the living learned fed, Our frugal Queen,* to save her meat, * Queen Anne. |