Beauty lift up, and music fanned the flame,
And Love's unbounded empire all proclaim.
The monarch melted by the strain,

Felt in his breast the pleasing pain,

And hence convinced that love possessed a throne,
Of power superior to his own,
Gaz'd on the fair

With tenderest care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd and sigh'd again,
At length with love and wine oppressed,
'The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again,
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain:
Break his bonds of sleep asunder,
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,

As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz'd he stares around.

Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,

How they hiss on their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand.

These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unburied remain,

Inglorious on the plain;

Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
Where frantic they espy

The glittering temples of their hostile Gods!
Ere well the master's voice the lay could close,
Shouts of vengeance arose;

Thro' the host all around,
Shouts of vengeance resound,

And the princes applaud with a furious joy;
But before all the rest,

With new frenzy possessed.

The King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy, Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

7. Rev. B. N. TURNER to Mr. J. B. NICHOLS. "DEAR SIR, May 8, 1826. "As I had but little opportunity of speaking to you when here, I sit down to make a few hasty observations on the too daring liberty I have taken with Dryden, while thinking to do him honour.

"You know, perhaps, the line ending, sovereign of the world,' was carelessly left by the author without a corresponding rhime; I supplied the defect, though the critics, unknown to me, had done so in another way before. I mentioned the liberty I had taken of omitting the march of Bacchus, because it excites to no passion, as it rather should have done, and brings in unnecessarily drums, trumpets, and hautboys, which too much remind one of, Enter Prince Demetrius with a brace of pistols.'

"However, I cannot explain every thing thoroughly, as I thought to do when I begun. But, as I am in no hurry for its return, I should wish it to be shown to a few good judges before it comes back, though it must not I fear be openly acknowledged.

"It might be added that the Poem has nothing to do with sing-song; but seems meant purely for recitation, to which it appears excellently adapted.

"I find I am not like to leave this place at soonest before this day month; so, if in the little leisure after next publication you should go to Hampstead again, I shall be very glad if you will take your tea with me as before, and bring your son, or any friend with you; we can then sit any where without a fire, and have a little conversation.

"I am, dear Sir, very truly yours, B. N. TURNER. "P. S. I only meant that this would be time enough for return of papers, and I should be glad to see you; not that I would encroach on your valuable time, or well-applied abilities; and then I could show you a few scraps that I have now and then thought of sending to you, and perhaps with the signature Strephon,' which word in English will produce my own name."

8. Extracts from a Manuscript volume, intended for publication*, intituled, "Nugæ Canoræ, or amusements of Scribblethorpehall; a Miscellany of Metrical Effusions, the produce of upwards of Half a Century. With an adventurous attempt to elevate, if possible, into its own proper sphere of nearly unrivalled excellence, Dryden's Alexander's Feast. By an Octogenarian."

* See before, pp. 167, 170.

A PARODY.

Καλεπον το μη φιλησαι,
Καλεπον και το φιλησαι
Καλεπώτερον δε παντων
Αποτυγχάνειν φιλούντα.

Hard, ye critics, 'tis to print,
Hard one's hope of praise to stint ;
But to print and lie on stall,
Critics, this is worst of all!

To Mrs. PENNE *, Bloomsbury-square.

Yes, I scribble, 'tis true-if I'm tempted sometimes,
To set up for a small haberdasher of rhymes;

Have not you, my dear Mistress, yourself been the cause,
Since whatever I've scribbled you crown with applause;
So that hence I might haply be led to conceive,
That a pittance of fame I could this way achieve;
And so fortunate prove (tho' you'd think it in me droll)
To string up a new sort of "Poetical Bead-roll !"

Yet what claims on the Muse can that scribbler advance,
Who, no Poet by birth, proves a rhymer by chance?
He might serve, thro' good humour or innocent frolic,
To dispel the blue vapours, or mists melancholic;
But whatever, if tried, his exertions might end in,
Rest assur'd to the bays he'd be far from pretending.

* This beautiful and accomplished lady was of Welsh extraction, the daughter of a clergyman of the name of Hughes. By her first husband, Captain Christian, R. N. she had one son, the late Admiral Sir Hugh Clobery Christian, K. B. Her second husband, Mr. Peter Pennè, or Penny, a gentleman of the Custom-house, was said by his extreme goodnature, for which he was ever remarkable, to bave overcome her strong resolutions against a second marriage. Being by descent a Frenchman, his real name was Pennè; but, be having been left an orphan, a stupid schoolmaster forced him to spell it Penny. The above lady, who was the admiration and delight of all who knew her, published in 1771 an elegant volume of Poems, dedicated to her intimate friend Jonas Hanway, Esq. whom she aptly intituled, "A Second Man of Ross," in a neat dedication. The frontispiece represented her offering her book at the shrine of Virtue, with this inscription:

O Nymph divine! wilt thou one smile diffuse?

One smile from thee will cheer the trembling Muse,
Who at thy sacred shrine submissive pays

The truest homage in the humblest days.

ANTI-PASTORAL.

To the same.

In a rural retreat,

Tho' in truth very neat,

With a garden, and paddock, and serpentine river ;
With a bank in full sight,

That with shrubs is bedight,

Whose names, if I knew them, would sound very clever. O Muse, or O Goddess, or O Common Sense!

O tell a poor Bard what 's the reason or whence,
That in these rural scenes he can find no delight,
But droops all the day and is vapour'd at night?
Can it be that the plains have no charms for a mind,
To the Muses attuned, and by letters refined?
We were made to believe, mighty maidens, that ye
Of the lawns and the meads were as fond as could be;
That your groves were all music, your vallies all sweet,
And that flowers sprung at once beneath Phillis's feet.
Not a tree nor a bush,

But it harbours a thrush,

And he warbles no doubt o'er the lass and her swain;
And the nightingale's note,

When he stretches his throat,

Oh it's oft thrown away on the sons of the plain! But if these be your choice, oh! why are they not mine? Much I fear 'tis a sign,

Ye most tunable Nine,

That a brain so indocile ye ne'er could refine.

Then resound, hills and vallies, and thou cooling breeze, Take my murmurs, and bear—to themselves, if you please, My complaints that the Muses so long could surround me, And yet leave me at last just as dense as they found me. Yet why should I say,

That the Muses here stray, Enchanting each rural retreat with her lays? I was born a poor swain,

And was nurs'd on the plain,

Yet I never once saw them in all my born days.
Nor at last should have known how engaging they are,
But that lately I found one in Bloomsbury-square.

THE BODY POLITIC.

When rightly scann'd, each human frame,

Of wondrous conformation;

Appears to differ but in name

From each well-order'd nation.

Ο γαρ Κρονος μ' εχαμψε τεκτων ου σοφος
Απαντα δ' εργαζόμενος ασθενεστερα. WINTERTON
Time in our youth we fail to prize,

Ah fools so lightly to esteem it!

Since, when at length we grow more wise,
The task how arduous to redeem it.

Time all agree that we should seize,
For he's a runaway confest ;

Or you may call him, if you please,

A thief that all men should arrest.

But of all thoughts on Gaffer Time,

Inscribed on monument or grotto,
In prose, or verse, or blank, or rhyme,

I like th' old Grecian's in my motto:-
"How Time unmakes us all at will!

We bend beneath his stern command,
Who, like a vile mechanic still,

Spoils every work he takes in hand."