So foul Canidia, with malignant joy,

Watch'd the slow progress of the buried boy;
So dire Erichtho, fraught with spells accurs'd,
Feign'd pious cares, and murdered while she nurs'd!
So fierce Medea, with relentless eye,

And soul unmov'd, beheld her children die;
And ruthless plung'd, by demon rage possess'd,
The fatal dagger in each infant breast!

THE RURAL OFFERING.

FROM THE GREEK OF LEONIDAS.

To Pan, the guardian of the woodland plain,
To young Lyæus and the azure train

Of nymphs that make the pastoral life their care,
With offerings due old Areas breathes his prayer.
To Pan a playful kid, in wars untried,
He vows, yet sporting by the mother's side;
Luxuriant on the green entangled vine,
This blushing cluster to the god of wine;
And to the gentler deities who guide

Their winding streamlets by the mountain's side,
Each fruit that swells in Autumn's sunny bowers,
Deck'd with the purple fragrance of its flowers—
Therefore, ye nymphs, enrich my narrow field
With the full stores your bounteous fountains yield !
Pan, bid my luscious pails with milk o'erflow!
And, Bacchus, teach my mellow vines to glow!

DIRECTIONS FOR A TEA-VASE*,
Addressed to Mr. Bolton, of Birminghum.

BY DR. DARWIN.

FRIEND Bolton, take these ingots fine
From rich Potosi's sparkling mine;
With your nice art a Tea-vase mould,
Your art, more valued than the gold.
With orient pearl, in letters white,
Around it, To the Fairest," write;
And, where proud Radburn's turrets rise,
To bright Eliza send the prize.

I'll have no bending serpents kiss
The foaming wave, and seem to hiss;
No sprawling dragons gape with ire,
And snort out steam, and vomit fire;
No Najads weep; no sphinxes stare;
No tail-hung dolphins swim in air.
Let leaves of myrtle round the rim,
With rose-buds twisting, shade the brim;
Each side let woodbine stalks descend,
And form the branches as they bend;
While on the foot a Cupid stands,
And twines the wreath with both his hands.
Perch'd on the rising lid above,

O place a love-lorn, turtle-dove,
With hanging wing, and ruffled plume,
With gasping beak, and eye of gloom.

* In the Poetical Register, Vol. II. p. 238, this poem was printed from an incorrect copy.

Last, let the swelling bosses shine
With silver, white, and burnish'd fine,
Bright as the fount, whose banks beside
Narcissus gazed, and loved, and died.
Vase, when Eliza deigns to pour;
With snowy hand, thy boiling shower;
And sweetly talks, and smiles, and sips
The fragrant steam with ruby lips;
More charms thy polish'd orb shall shew
Than Titian's glowing pencil drew;

More than his chisel soft unfurl'd,

Whose heaven-wrought statue charms the world.

VERSES

Sent to a Lady, with Dr. Darwin's "Botanic Garden."

WHEN Eve walk'd forth at early hour,

Her only care was fruit or flower;
Vacant of science was her mind,
To all the world of wisdom blind;
From idleness, her heart she set
On the first prating brute* she met.-
Do thou, whom early sense supplies
With all that's good, and fair, and wise,
Not like unbidden Eve of yore,

With furtive hand, these sweets explore;

Pluck knowledge with each flower and fruit,
Nor fear a tempter in a brute.

Milton, B. ix. 1. 354.

R. L. E.

EXTEMPORE STANZAS

On Miss Charlotte Lynes.

BY ARCHDEACON VYSE, OF LICHFIELD.

SHALL Pope sing his flames

With quality dames,

And duchesses toast when he dines

Shall Swift verses compose

On the Girl at the Rose,

While unsung is my fair Charlotte Lynes?

O! were Phoebus my friend,

Or would Bacchus but lend

The spirit that flows from his vines,

The Lass of the Mill,

Molly Mogg, and Lepell,

Should be dowdies to fair Charlotte Lynes.

Any porter may serve

For a copy, to curve

An Alcides, with muscular chines;

But a Venus to draw,

Bright as sun ever saw,

Let him copy my fair Charlotte Lynes.

In the midst of gay sights,
And foreign delights,

For his country the banish'd man pines;
Thus from her when away,

Though my glances may stray,

Yet my heart is with fair Charlotte Lynes!

It is Atropos' sport,

With her sheers to cut short

The thread, which dame Lachesis twines;
But forbear, you curst jade,

Or cut mine, not the thread

That was spun for my fair Charlotte Lynes!

For quadrille when the fair

Cards and counters prepare,
They cast out the tens, eights, and nines,
And in love 'tis my fear

The like fate I shall share,
Discarded by fair Charlotte Lynes.

With hearts full of rapture,
Our good dean and chapter,
Count over, and finger their fines;
But I'd give their estate,

Were it ten times as great,

For one kiss of my fair Charlotte Lynes.

The young pair, for a crown, On the book laid him down, The sacrist obsequiously joins, Were I bishop I swear,

I'd resign him my chair,

To unite me with fair Charlotte Lynes.

For my first night I'd go

To those regions of snow,

Where the sun, for six months, never shines, And O! there should complain

He too soon came again,

To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynes!