WHILST on thy dear bosom toying,
Cœlia! who can speak my bliss!
Who the raptures I'm enjoying,
When thy balmy lips I kiss?
Every look with love inspires me,
Every touch my bosom warms,
Every melting murmur fires me,
Every joy is in thy arms.

Those dear eyes, how soft they languish!
Feel my heart with rapture beat!
Pleasure turns almost to anguish,
When the transport is so sweet.
Look not so divinely on me,

Cœlia! I shall die with bliss:-
Yet, yet turn those eyes upon me!
Who'd not die a death like this?

GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON.

1740.

Son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton of Hagley in Worcestershire, George, created afterwards Baron Lyttelton, of Frankley in the same county, was born January 17, 1708-9. Having proceeded from Eton to Christ Church, in 1728 he commenced his travels, during which he honourably displayed a talent for poetry, in several epistles to his friends. On his return home, being elected for Oakhampton, he declared in opposition to Walpole, though that minister was then actively supported by Sir Thomas Lyttelton. In 1735 appeared his "Persian Letters." From this time, conformably with what he conceived to be the duty of patriotism, he entirely attached himself to Frederic Prince of Wales, of whom he obtained pensions for Mallet and Thomson, having earnestly recommended to that prince the general patronage of literature, as a subject worthy of royal protection. After the compulsory retreat of Walpole from power, Lyttelton was appointed one of the Lords of the Treasury; and though his abilities were not exactly calculated for effective situations in the state, he continued some time high in estimation with his political confederates. January 1746-7 was rendered for ever mournful to Lyttelton, by the loss of his lady, Lucy, daughter of Hugh Fortescue (of Filleigh in Devonshire), to whom he had been married in 1741, and who died at the early period of twenty-nine years. She was buried at Over-Harley, Staffordshire, but the monument raised to her memory is in Hagley Church. How tenderly he appreciated her life, and how deeply he regretted her death, is evinced by the poems that he inscribed to her while living, and by the affecting "Monody," in which he has perpetuated the remembrance of her worth! By this Lady, he had one son, and two daughters. The celebrated " Dissertation on the Conversion of Saint Paul," published

in 1747, was probably completed, if not principally written, during the illness that terminated the life of his accomplished and amiable bride.

His Lordship's literary exertions afterwards extended to a work entitled "Dialogues of the Dead," and concluded with his "History of Henry the Seventh." He died at Hagley Park, August 22, 1773, after a lingering and painful indisposition; which he sustained with the equanimity of a philosopher, and the resignation of a christian. His remains were deposited at Hagley.

Of this nobleman, it is no extravagance to assert that he appears to have attained as much of perfection as the condition of human nature will admit. With no attractions of person, he had the felicity to secure, in his Lucy, the heart of one of the most interesting and excellent women of the age in which he lived:-such was the known benevolence of his feelings, the liberality of his views, the elegance and force of his genius, the variety and fascination of his accomplishments. Nobility is ennobled by conferring lustre on such a character. Lord Lyttelton married a second time, in 1749, to Elizabeth, daughter of Field-Marshal Sir Robert Rich. Though the confidential friend of his first wife, and on that account selected by his Lordship, she was found utterly incapable of supplying her loss. Only one poem seems to have been addressed to this Lady, and that one on her wedding-day!

THE

HE heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me:

My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.

But how, my Delia, will you meet
The man you've lost so long?
Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue?

Will you in every look declare
Your heart is still the same;
And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?

Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,
When shortly we shall meet;
And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat.

But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove;
If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love:

All I of Venus ask, is this;
No more to let us join :

But grant me here the flattering bliss,
To die, and think you mine.

TO LUCY FORTESCUE.

To ease my troubled mind of anxious care,
Last night the secret casket I explored;
Where all the letters of my absent Fair,

His richest treasure, careful Love had stored.

In every word a magic spell I found,

Of power to charm each busy thought to rest; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond desire still throbbing in my breast.

So to his hoarded gold the miser steals,
And loses every sorrow at the sight!
Yet wishes still for more; nor ever feels
Entire contentment, or secure delight.

Ah! should I lose thee, my too lovely Maid,
Couldst thou forget thy heart was ever mine,
Fear not thy letters should the charge upbraid;
My hand each dear memorial shall resign :

Not one kind word shall in my power remain,
A painful witness of reproach to thee;

And lest my heart should still their sense retain, My heart shall break-to leave thee wholly free.

TO LUCY.

WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more, I blame all the fears I gave way to before :

I

say

to my heart, "be at rest, and believe That whom once she has chosen she never will leave."

But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace
That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face,
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.

These painful suspicions you cannot remove;
Since you neither can lessen your charms, nor my love:
But doubts caus'd by passion you never can blame;
For they are not ill-founded, or you feel the same,