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Did she live yesterday or ages back ?

What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,

It

Poor little head! that long has done with aching.

may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry, or Baron Byron's,
The wit of Nelly Gwynne or Doctor Watts,
Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens !

CCCCIII. JOHN ASKHAM.

SELF-SOUGHT SORROW.

We lay up for ourselves life-long regrets,
And careless woes,

O'er which the troubled spirit broods and frets
Without repose.

We turn away good angels from the door,
And welcome in

With smiles, to be our guests for evermore,
The fiends of sin.

We chase vain shadows, which our grasp elude
And mock our care;

And find too late the phantoms we pursued
Were empty air.

We make unto ourselves a thousand foes
To trip our feet;

We pluck the briar, when we might pull the rose,
And smell its sweet.

We read true wisdom at life's closing page
With fading look;

Ana while we ponder oe'r the lesson sage,
Death shuts the book!

ADDITIONAL.

I.-W. BROWN.
Undressing.

A lovely maiden, pure and chaste,
With naked ivory neck and gown unlaced,
Within her chamber when the day is fled,
Makes poor her garments to enrich her bed:
First puts she off her lily silken gown,
That shrieks for sorrow as she lays it down;
And with her arms graceth a waistcoat fine,
Embracing her as it would ne'er untwine.
Her flaxen hair, ensnaring all beholders,
She next permits to wave about her shoulders;
And, though she cast it back, the silken slips
Still forward steal, and hang upon her lips;
Whereat she, sweetly angry, with her laces
Binds up the wanton locks in curious traces,
Whilst twisting with her joints each hair long lingers,
As loath to be enchained but with her fingers.
Then on her head a dressing like a crown;
Her breasts all bare, her kirtle slipping down,
And all things off (which rightly ever be
Called the foul-fair marks of our misery)
Except her last which enviously doth seize her,
Lest any eye partake with it in pleasure,

Prepares for sweetest rest, while sylvans greet her,
And longingly the down bed swells to meet her.

II.-COLLEY CIBBER.

The Blind Boy.

O say, what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright:
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play,
And could I always keep awake
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

III. JACOB JONES.

Sonnets to the Nightingale.

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet A nightingale, by any other name,

His ear-entrancing love-notes would repeat,

Notes that no charm but love fulfill'd could tame, When, o'er his nested mate and chirping young, His silence watches of his instinct sprung. Thy ev'ry name is, like thyself, a spell; A keynote typing how thy tunes prevail; Sweet Bulbul-once, Aëdon-PhilomelLuscinia-Rossignol-our, Nightingale. Sing on, rare bird! at ev'ning's fragrant hour, Till all the echoes all thy strains prolong; Thy magic modulations have the power To recreate my soul as with a bath of song. They call thee sad,—but sadness such as thine To Sorrow's self were exquisite relief: They say thou griev'st,--then grief is half divine Warbled by thee-the very joy of grief.

What time thy plainings melt upon

mine ear,

And, on night's solitude, their changes po, My own past griefs in Men'ry's glass appear, And my lost lov'd ones live-to die once more,—

Once more my utter anguish to renew,

My desolation, and my blank dismay,

So deeply lov'd, so loveable were they, So truly portions of ourselves they grow; But, as I writhe in earth-regarding woe,

[flow.

Thy tones, no more depress'd, now high and teav'nward

At once I mount on faith's sustaining wing,
My thoughts expanding, and my soul elate;
Fond visions, now, their consolation bring,
And give me glimpses of the golden gate
Thro' which those lov'd ones, rob'd in white appear,
And look so happy in the perfect ranks,
My grief is turn'd to gladness, in the tear,

Which, for their early bliss, gives God my thanks.
Thus, thus, Enchanter! from thy loftier strains,
I draw a solace nothing can dispel ;

Forget my losses in my lov'd ones' gains,

And taste a peace surpassing words to tell; Night, and the stars, responsive, as mine ears, Thy melodies entwine with music of the spheres.

IV.-AMBROSE PHILIPS.

Never Despair.

Though plunged in ille and exercis'd in care,
Yet never let the noble mind despair:
When prest by dangers, and beset with foes,
The gods their timely succour interpose;

And when our virtue sinks, o'erwhelm'd with grief,
By unforeseen expedients bring relief.

INDEX.

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BAILLIE, JOANNA, 444, 446.
Baldwin, Sir C., The death of, 407.
BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA, 395.
BARBOUR, JOHN, 1.

BARNARD, LADY ANN, 403.
Barnfield, 66.

BARTAM, RICHARD H., 533.
BARTON, BERNARD, 507.
Baucis and Philemon, 205.
BAYLY, THOMAS, 560-563.
Beacon, The, 68.
BEATTIE, JAMES, 386.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, 103, 105.

Beauty, 185, 191, 554.

Beauty, Unfading, 116.

Beaux and Belles, 305.

Bee, The, 359.

Beggar's Petition, The, 283.

BEHN, APHRA, 196.

BELL, H. G. 628.

Bellona, 190.

BENTHAM, JEREMY, 401.

BERKELEY, BISHOP, 260
BICKERSTAFF, ISAAC, 294.
BIDLAKE, DR. JOHN, 427.
Bird, The Little, 536.
Birds, Instinct of, 446.

Birds, To the, 546.

BISHOP, SAMUEL, 361.
BLACKLOCK, THOMAS, 340.

BLACKMORE SIR RICHARD, 188-190.

BLAIR, ROBERT, 272.

Blame not my lute, 8.

Blind Boy, The, 633.

BLIND HARRY, 5.

Blindness, 194.

BLOOMFIELD, Robert, 448-450.

Blossom, Lines to, 121.

Boadicea, 368.

Boar, The Wild, 187.

BOLINGBROKE, VISCOUNT, 222.

BONAR, HORATIUS, 622.

Books, 110, 616.

BOSWELL, SIR A., 480.

Bosworth Field, 99.

BOURD, ANDREW, 9.

Bowl, The, 195.

BOWLES, W. LISLE, 239.

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