lesser one does, that of his mother's; I make no doubt, but your lordship has sagacity enough to put them together;" which so pleased the minister, that he shook him heartily by the hand, and vowed, "He was the best scholar he had ever met with; for he had proposed the same query to many learned men, divines especially, whe were unanimous, that he never had a father or mother-but you, learned sir, have convinced me, and shall have immediate admission." On this account, during the remainder of that administration, on every promotion, it became proverbial, and common to say "We suppose, he has had the recommendation of Melchizedeck's father and mother."

Anecdote of Milton, not generally
known.

The freedom and asperity of his various attacks on the character and prerogative of the late King, rendered him peculiarly obnoxious, when the restoration was ac

complished. To save himself therefore, from the fury of the court, which he had so highly incensed, and the vigilance' of which, from the emissaries employed, it became so difficult to elude, he connived with his friends, in effecting the following innocent inposture: The report of his death, was so industriously circulated, that the credulity of the public swallowed the bait prepared for them. The coffin, the mourners, and other apparatus of his fu neral were exhibited at his house, with the same formality as if he had been really dead. A figure of him, as large and heavy as life was actually formed, laid out, and put into a lead coffin, and the whole solemnity acted in all its parts. It is said, when the truth was known, and he was found to be alive; notwithstanding, the most incontestible evidence, that he had been thus openly interred, the wits about the court of King Charles II. made themselves exceedingly merry with the stratagem, by which the poet had preserved his

life. That lively and good-natured mo narch, discovered to himself not a little satisfaction in finding, that by this ingenious expedient, his reign had not been tarnished with the blood of a man, already blind, by application, infirmity, and age; and who, under all his dreadful misfortunes, had writ ten Paradise Lost.

LINES ON A

MELANCHOLY CATA

STROPHE.

Oh! sleep, soft soother of terrestrial woes,
Thou sweetest blessing to the breast of care;
What thoughts are these, which baffle my repose:
What mournful sounds which vibrate on mine ear.

Dark was the night, and harsh the sounding wind,
No twink'ling star illum'd the dismal sky;
As weary on my couch, I lay reclin'd,

And sought the pleasure of a slumb'ring eye.

Sudden the wind grew calm, pale Cynthia's light,
Stole by degrees, and shed a silver gleam;
A form appear'd to my astonish'd sight-

A form more lovely, e'en than Cynthia's beam,

Hear me, dear youth, the shadowy phantom said,
If e'er to pity's pangs thou wert a slave :
Oh! listen to a lost, unhappy maid,

Who, seeking pleasure, found a wat❜ry grave.

Oh! teach the fair of Albion's happy isle,
By my example, to avoid my fate;
Nor leave that country, where benignly smile
All Nature's beauties-for ideal state.

Nor mine alone-we left our native land,
To seek for riches on a distant shore,
Of lovely maidens-an unhappy band;
But, ah! we saw our native land no more.

Scarce were the sails unfurl'd to meet the breeze,
To waft our bark to a more wealthy clime,
When fierce the storm, and boist'rous rag'd the seas;
A storm, too fatal, to our youthful prime.

'Twas then, forlorn, we cast a longing eye, T'wards the blest shores, where peace and you re

main!

Alas! how dreadful, to be doom'd to die,

And never tread our native land again!

Who can describe the horrors of the scene!

When dashing billows seiz'd our frighted ears!

And cruel winds around us, whistl'ing keen,

Proclaim'd our fate, and realis'd our fears.

Why should a maiden trust the boist'rous seas,
And tempt her fortune on a distant coast?
Is not fair Albion better form'd to please,
Than all that sultry India's clime can boast ?

Are there not swains-but, ah! be theirs the crime,
Who suffer beauty to desert their shore?
Why drive your maidens to an alien clime?
Why, let soft Hymen, his lost state deplore ?

Oh! yet, recal him, and restore his throne,
Let not the God of virtuous love despair!
Beauty and virtue still shall be your own,
And ev'ry blessing fall to Albion's share.

CURIOUS LEGACY.

Instead of the fables and fictions, commonly retailed, hear the history of a parson, in the vicarage of Antwerp :

With a spirit of œconomy, that would not suffer him to squander away his substance, as many do in luxurious, or idle expences, he was enabled, in time, to amass a good fortune. But neither his prudence, nor his riches, could avert the stroke of death. He became dropsical, and having no hopes of recovery from the physicians, whom he consulted, he made up his mind;