The faithful dove where'er, by day,

Through fields of air her pinions rove,
Still seeks, when daylight dies away,
The shelter of her native grove.

So at this calm, this silent hour,
Whate'er the daily scenes I see,

My heart, its joyless wanderings o'er,
Returns unsullied still to thee.

LINES

Composed and sung, à l'improviste, upon hearing a Lady sing an
Ode of Anacreon, in the Original.

I would the Teian bard were here,
To taste of bliss, indeed divine;
Well might he quit the starry sphere,
To hear those liquid notes of thine.

What though to Pleasure's wildest dream
His festive harp was often strung,
"Twas wine inspir'd the maddening theme,
And Frenzy mark'd the strains he sung.

And if, perchance, to wake the lyre
To gentler themes, his fancy strove,
What could the Dames of Greece inspire
Of soft or passionate in love?

Oh! could he hear those notes so gay,
And gaze on that enchanting form,
A sweeter strain would grace his lay,
A brighter flame his bosom warm.

The warmth that Beauty's glance inspires, Would breathe through each impassion'd line, And, taught by Love's resistless fires,

His song would catch a grace from thine.

Sweet Songstress! strike the lyre again,
While captive hearts the strain approve;
'Tis sweet to hear-but oh! 'tis vain
To see thee, and forbear to love.

TO ELIZA,

With a Bird.

Accept, dear maid, the most delightful bird, 'That ever Venus to her chariot bound; By Love adopted, and by Peace preferr'd,

For meekness valued, and for faith renown'd.

A bird in which such rare perfections meet,
Alone is worthy to be counted thine :
His beauty, fair one, is, like yours, complete,
And his fidelity resembles mine.

NONE BUT THE BRAVE DESERVE THE FAIR.

Many persons first gained arms, and became possessors of the inheritances which have since descended to their offspring, at justs and tournaments, their prowess winning them the hand of the lady who was to be the prize: for, in the ages of chivalry, it was no uncommon event for a prince or a noble to proclaim a tournament, and to declare, that a daughter, or some other female relative, should be the reward of the victor.

Ladies, when they were free to do so, sometimes offered their hands as the price of courage. In the year 1083, Millet, the Lord of Whittington, made a declaration, that she would give her hand to no one but to the knight of most distinguished prowess. Guarine de Metz, a noble of Lorraine, Lord of Adderbury, and Sheriff of the County, being informed of this challenge, joined the other youths who wished to contend for the prize. The combatants assembled at Peveril's Place, or the Castle in the Park. Guarine vanquished all who opposed themselves, and gained the fair, with the lordship of Whittington as her dower. The name of Fitzwarine was assumed by his posterity, and, for a period of nearly four hundred years, they continued the Lords of Whittington.

THE PICTURE OF MY QUEEN.

From Chatelar to Mary, Queen of Scots.

Ah! would'st thou view the azure sky,
And feast upon the blooming rose,—
Ethereal blue is Mary's eye;

The damask tinge her cheeks disclose.

Would'st thou behold the lily dress'd,
And view each graceful wave display'd,—
Gaze on her gently heaving breast,

And see her locks in gold array'd.

Or would'st thou hear the bird of night,
Whose notes melodious fill the grove,-

'Tis Mary's song that yields delight,
So peerless is the Queen of Love.

TO BELINDA, AT THE BATH.

BY BROOME.

While in their fountains bright Belinda laves,
She sheds new virtues on the healing waves;
Thus, in Bethesda's pool, an angel stood,
Bade the soft waters heal, and bless'd the flood;
But from her eye such bright destruction flies,
In vain they flow,-for her the lover dies.

No more let Tagus boast, whose beds unfold
A shining treasure of all-conquering gold;

No more the Po, whose wandering waters stray,
In mazy errors, through the starry way;
Henceforth, these springs superior honours share ;-
There, Venus laves,-but my Belinda here.

CUPID MISTAKEN.

As, after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river,
Cupid, out shooting, went that way,

New strung his bow,-new fill'd his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart;
With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too-well guided arrow flew.

"I faint! I die!" the goddess cried;

"O cruel! could'st thou find none other
Parricide!

To wreck thy spleen on?

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother."

Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak;
"Indeed, Mama, I did not know ye;

Alas! how easy my mistake!

I took you for your likeness, Chloe."