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crepancy, all the more for the impressive plainness and simplicity of the Presbyterian mode of worship, and the earnest eloquence of the white-haired preacher. The sermon was half over before I had recovered the tone of feeling proper to the place and the occasion.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Must surely be divine;
But might I of Love's nectar sup

I would not change for wine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sent'st it back to me.
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.




Egla. Here she was wont to go! and here ! and here !

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow :
The world may find the spring by following her,
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blowball from his stalk !
But like the soft west wind she shot along,
And where she went the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.

This delightful pastoral on the story of Robin Hood and Maid Marian is unhappily unfinished. Scarcely balf is written, and even that wants the author's last touches.



If every pleasure were distilled
Of every flower in every field,
And all that Hybla’s hives do yield,
Were into one broad mazer filled ;
If thereto added all the gums
And spice that from Panchaia comes,
The odour that Hydasper lends,
Or Phænix proves before she ends;
If all the air my Flora drew,
Or spirit that Zephyr ever blew,
Were put therein; and all the dew
That every rosy morning knew;
Yet all diffused upon this bower,
To make one sweet detaining hour,
Were much too little for the grace
And honour you vouchsafe the place.
But if you please to come again,
We vow we will not then with vain
And empty pastimes entertain
Your so desired, though grieved, pain.

For we will have the wanton Fawns,
That frisking skip about the lawns,
The Panisks, and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that multitude,
To dance their wilder rounds about,
And cleave the air with many a shout,
As they would hunt poor Echo out
Of yonder valley, who doth flout
Their rustic noise. To visit whom
You shall behold whole bevies come
Of gaudy nymphs, whose tender calls
Well tuned unto the


Of sweet and several sliding rills,
That stream from tops of those less hills,
Sound like so many silver quills,
When Zephyr them with music fills,
For them Favorius here shall blow
New flowers, that


shall see to grow, Of which each hand a part shall take, And, for your heads, fresh garlands make Wherewith, whilst they your temples round, An air of several birds shall sound An Io Pæan, that shall drown

The acclamations at your crown. All this, and more than I have gift of saying, May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.


Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Learn’d and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

After all we take leave of him, transcribing yet another exquisite song, and echoing our first words, “O rare Ben Jonson !”

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GRANDSON of two dukes, nursed in the very lap of fashion, and coming into life at the time of all others when wit and fancy, and the lighter graces of poetry, were most cordially welcomed by the higher circles—at a time when the star of Sheridan was still in the ascendant, and that of Moore just appearing on the horizon - William Spencer may be regarded as much the representative of a class, as John Clare, or Robert Burns. The style of his verse eminently airy, polished, and graceful, as well as his personal qualities, combined to render him the idol of that society which, by common consent, we are content to call the best. His varied accomplishments enlivened a country-house, his brilliant wit formed the delight of a dinner table; while his

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