TO LAURA. NEAR Avon's ridgy bank there grows That tree first heard poor Silvio's woes, And heard how bright were Laura's eyes, Silvio, beneath this willow's sober shade Did mock the meadow's flowery pride,- And said, It was not Spring. He scorn'd the sky of azure blue, He scorn'd whate'er could mirth bespeak; He chid the beam that drank the dew, And chid the gale that fann'd his glowing cheek, Unpaid the season's wonted lay, For still he sigh'd, and said it was not May. Sweet bird, if 'tis thee that I hear, "Yet the lily has drank of the show'r, And the rose 'gins to peep on the day; In vain, thou senseless flutt'ring thing, May pois'd her roseate wings, for she had heard She thus reprov'd poor Silvio's song. And Philomel sings on the spray; And the bee is assur'd it is May." 'Tis Spring, sweet nymph, but Laura is not here." In sending these verses to Mrs. Sheridan, who was on a visit to her father and mother at Bath, Sheridan had also written her a description of some splendid party, at which he had lately been present, where all the finest women of the world of fashion were assembled. His praises of their beauty, as well as his account of their flattering attentions to himself, awakened a feeling of, at least, poetical jealousy in Mrs. Sheridan, which she expressed in the following answer to his verses-taking occasion, at the same time, to pay some generous compliments to the most brilliant among his new fashionable friends. Though her verses are of that kind which we read more with interest than admiration, they have quite enough of talent for the gentle themes to which she aspired; and there is, besides, a charm about them, as coming from Mrs. Sheridan, to which far better poetry could not pretend. TO SILVIO. SOFT flow'd the lay by Avon's sedgy side, To check the opening roses as they sprung. In vain he bade them cease to court the gale, He chid her song, and said, “It was not Spring." For still they bloom'd, though Silvio's heart was sad, The zephyrs scorn'd them not, though Silvio had, To other scenes doth Silvio now repair, To nobler themes his daring Muse aspires; What various charms the admiring youth surround, Behold with graceful step and smile serene, Majestic Stella* moves to claim the prize, ""Tis thine," he cries, "for thou art Beauty's queen." Mistaken youth! and see'st thou Myra'st eyes? With beaming lustre see they dart at thee; Ah! dread their vengeance-yet withhold thy handThat deep'ning blush upbraids thy rash decree; Hers is the wreath-obey the just demand. Mr. Moore says, according to the Key which had been given him, the name of Stella was meant to designate the Duchess of Rutland. The Duchess of Devonshire. "Pardon, bright nymph," (the wond'ring Silvio cries,) "And oh, receive the wreath, thy beauty's due"His voice awards what still his hand denies, For beauteous Amoret* now his eyes pursue. With gentle step and hesitating grace, Unconscious of her power, the fair one carne; If, while he view'd the glories of that face, Poor Sylvio doubted,-who shall dare to blame? A rosy blush his ardent gaze reprov'd, The offer'd wreath she modestly declined;-"If sprightly wit and dimpled smiles are lov'd, My brow," said Flavia,† “shall that garland bind." With wanton gaiety the prize she seizedSylvio in vain her snowy hand repell'd; The fickle youth unwillingly was pleas'd, Reluctantly the wreath he yet withheld. But Jessie's all-seducing form appears, Nor more the playful Flavia could delight: Lovely in smiles, more lovely still in tears, Her every glance shone eloquently bright. "On Myra's breast the opening rose shall blow, On gentle Amoret's placid brow I'll place— Mrs. (afterwards Lady) Crewe. Lady Craven, afterwards Margravine of Anspach. In gardens oft a beauteous flow'r there grows, In sweet security it humbly blows, And rears its purple head to deck the green. This flow'r, as nature's poet sweetly sings, Was once milk-white, and heart's ease was it's name; Till wanton Cupid pois'd his roseate wings, A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame. With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew, Heart's ease no more the wandering shepherds found, “This fow'r, with sweet-briar join'd, shall thee adorn, And not Love, though idle, in thy breast, right its hues, it boasts no other charm- endship's calmer joys thy bosom warm !" But we Soes Laura pass her lonely hours? ste still haunt the grot and willow-tree? So from his wreath of various flow'rs Neglect to cull one simple sweet for thee? no," the constant Silvio cries, love, the myrtle, ever-green, |