Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring,
When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.

For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners mark the promis?d fruit,
Console them for the vineyards of the south,
Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash, and beech,

And partial copses, fringe the green-hill foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream,

That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course,
The cottage garden; most for use design'd,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;

And panzies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinks
Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue:

There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow

Almost uncultur'd: some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others, like velvet robes of regal state,
Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd.

An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,
I lov'd her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes
Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine,
Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch
With bitter-sweet, and bryony inweave,
And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups-
I lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks
Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil;
And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech,
Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon,
A whispering shade; while haply there reclines
Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers,

Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad,
Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves,
Heart-shaped, and triply folded: and its root
Creeping like beaded coral; or who there
Gathers, the copse's pride, Anemones,
With rays like golden studs on ivory laid
Most delicate; but touch'd with purple clouds,
Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow.

Ah! hills so early lov'd! in fancy still
I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold
Those widely spreading views, mocking alike
The poet and the painter's utmost art.
And still, observing objects more minute,
Wondering remark the strange and foreign forms
Of sea-shells; with the pale calcareous soil
Mingled, and seeming of resembling substance;
Tho' surely the blue ocean (from the heights
Where the downs westward trend, but dimly seen).
Here never roll'd its surge."

The

The public will look with impatience to the memoirs of her, and a collection of her letters, which are now preparing for the press by her family. In the variety of her talents it seems difficult to decide what she could do best; but those talents appear to have been peculiarly fitted for excellence in epistolary composition. I am informed that the fertility of her mind, and the rapidity with which she wrote, astonished even men of the most quick and copious powers, who had opportunities of observing her, when thus occupied.

I will transcribe, from these posthumous poems, one entire little piece, in that style of exquisite delicacy and pathos, in which Mrs. Smith stands unrivalled.

EVENING.

"Oh soothing hour, when glowing day

Low in the western wave declines,
And village murmurs die away,

And bright the vesper planet shines!

I love to hear the gale of Even

Breathing along the dew-leaf'd copse,
And feel the freshening dew of heaven,
Fall silently in limpid drops.

For like a friend's consoling sighs,

That breeze of night to me appears;

And, as soft dew from Pity's eyes,
Descend those pure celestial tears.

Alas! for those, who long have borne,
Like me, a heart by sorrow riven,

Who, but the plaintive winds will mourn?

What tears will fall, but those of heaven?"

ART.

ART. XVI. SIR WILLIAM JONES.

[CONTINUED FROM P. 178.]

During his voyage to India, Sir William Jones sketched out a plan of studies and productions, recorded by Lord Teignmouth, which must appear extravagant even for his stupendous talents and industry.

In his Letter to Lord Ashburton, dated on board the Crocodile, 27 April, 1783, he says, "It is possible that by incessant labour and irksome attendance at the bar, I might in due time have attained all that my very limited ambition could aspire to; but in no other station than that which I owe to your friendship could I have gratified my boundless curiosity concerning the people of the East, continued the exercise of my profession, in which I sincerely delight, and enjoyed at the same time the comforts of domestic life."

He landed at Calcutta in Sept. 1783, where his fame had preceded him, and he was received with general satisfaction. In December following he entered upon his judicial functions. Finding that the field of scientific research in India was too extensive for any individual, he immediately devised the plan of the Asiatic Literary Institution, in imitation of the Royal Society of London, which first assembled in January, 1804.

He now divided the whole of his time between the laborious duties of his office, and the extension of his oriental knowledge, which he pursued with such unabated zeal and application as continually to injure his health, but with a progress so rapid and wonderful, as nothing but the most decisive proofs of it could ren der credible.

VOL. IV.

"Various

"Various causes," he says in a letter, 1786, "contribute to render me a bad correspondent, particularly the discharge of my public duty, and the studies, which are connected with that duty, such as the Indian and Arabic laws in their several difficult languages, one of which has occupied most of my leisure for this last twelvemonth, excepting when I travelled to Islamabad, for the benefit of the sea air and verdant hillocks during the hot season. It is only in such a retirement as the cottage, where I am passing a short vacation, that I can write to literary friends, or even think much on literary subjects."

Again he says, Oct. 5, 1786. "Various are the causes, which oblige me to be an indifferent and slow correspondent; first, illness, which had confined me three months to my couch; next, the discharge of an important duty, which falls peculiarly heavy on the Indian judges, who are forced to act as justices of the peace in a populous country, where the police is deplorably bad; then the difficult study of Hindu and Mohammedan laws, in two copious languages, Sanscrit and Arabic, which studies are inseparably connected with my public duty, and may tend to establish by degrees, among ten millions of our black subjects, that security of descendable property, a want of which has prevented the people of Asia from improving their agriculture and improvable arts; lastly, I may add, though rather an amusement than a duty, my pursuit of general literature, which I have here an opportunity of doing from the fountain-head; an opportunity which, if once lost, may never be recovered."

Lord Teignmouth observes, that "the uniformity which marked the remaining period of his allotted existence,