Oh! be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me.
Oh! do not steep them in thy tears,
Far so will sorrow slay me;

Nor spread them, as distract with fears,
Mine own enough betray me.

SONG TO CELIA.

I should hardly perhaps have thought of inserting a song so familiar to every ear as the following, had I not, in turning over Jonson's huge volume, been reminded of a circumstance connected with it which greatly startled me at the moment. Milton talks of airs "married to immortal verse;" but it should seem that there is no marriage without an occasional divorce; for the last time I heard the well-known melody which belongs to this fine Anacreontic, as indissolubly as its own peculiar perfume to a flower, was in an Independent chapel, where widely different words-the words of a hymn-were adapted to the air. It was John Wesley, I believe, who said that he saw no reason why Satan should have all the best tunes; and I should not lightly impugn the wisdom of any axiom of John Wesley, who understood human nature as well as most men. But in this instance, such is the force of association, that I can scarcely say how strongly I felt the discrepancy, 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 honoring 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.

FIRST SPEECH IN "THE SAD SHEPHERD."

Enter EGLAMONE.

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 half is written, and even that wants the author's last touches.

SPEECH OF MAIA, IN "THE PENATES."

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 odor that Hydasper lends,
Or Phoenix 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 honor 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 many falls
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 you shall see to grow,
Of which each hand a part shall take,
And, for your heads, fresh garlands make
Wherewith, while 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.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

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!

FROM THE MASQUE OF "THE GIPSYS METAMORPHOSED."

XX.

FASHIONABLE POETS.

WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.

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 singular charm of manner, and perhaps of character, gave a permanency to his social success by converting the admirers of an evening into friends for life. With all these genial triumphs, however, we can not look over the little volume of graceful verse which is all that now remains of so splendid a reputation, without feeling that the author was born for better, higher, more enduring purposes; that the charming trifler, whose verses forty years ago every lady knew by heart, and which are now well nigh forgotten, ought not to have wasted his high endowments in wreathing garlands for festivals—ought not, above all, to have gone on from youth to age, leading the melancholy life which is all holyday.

Nevertheless we must accept these verses for such as they are, just as we admire unquestioning the wing of a butterfly, or the petal of a flower; and in their kind they are exquisite. Look at the fancy and the finish of these stanzas !

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.*

Too late I stayed, forgive the crime,
Unheeded flew the hours;

How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks
That dazzle as they pass?

Ah! who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent

Their plumage for his wings?

In the next extract there is an unexpected touch of sentiment mixed with its playfulness, that is singularly captivating.

GOOD-BYE AND HOW-D'-YE-DO.

One day Good-bye met How-d'-ye-do,

Too close to shun saluting,

But soon the rival sisters flew

From kissing to disputing.

"Away" says How-d'-ye-do; "your mien

Appalls my cheerful nature,
No name so sad as yours is seen
In sorrow's nomenclature.

"Whene'er I give one sunshine hour,

Your cloud comes o'er to shade it:
Where'er I plant one bosom flower,
Your mildew drops to fade it.

"Ere How-d'-ye-do has tuned each tongue
To Hope's delightful measure,
Good-bye in Friendship's ear has rung
The knell of parting pleasure!

"From sorrows past my chemic skill
Draws smiles of consolation,

While you from present joys distill
The tears of separation."

* Very sweetly mated with one of the sweetest old Irish airs, "The Yellow Horse."