had given her: he even fued her to oblige her to reftore them; but had the mortification of lofing his fuit; which circumftance depriving him of all patience and temper, he threatened perfon al vengeance against the object of his former attachment; who, to avoid it, was driven to quit the kingdom.

Being then without any purfuit, and his capricious and violent temper making it impoffible for him to remain long quiet, he failed on another expedition to Naples, which did not anfwer his expectation; and, on his return, a new paffion, more violent than any he had yet felt, attached him to Mademoiselle de Gorce

In 1664 he died, leaving no pofterity. All his brothers died before him; as did his fifters afterwards, unmarried. Thus ended the illustrious houfe of Guife; the

enterprifing ambition of which had fo long difturbed the tranquillity of France. Madame de Boffu, ruined by the very means which the hoped would have made. her the happieft woman in Europe, endeavoured to recover, from the heirs of the Duke of Guife, a jointure, as his wife. The procefs lafted many years, and fhe died before its termination, lea ving her neareft relation, the Prince of Berghes, her heirs who endeavoured to recover, from the fucceffors of the Duke of Guife, fome part of the money that had been paid for the Duke. At the court of Rome, the department called the Rote*, allowed the validity of her marriage; but the courts of law in France, through all of which the caufe was carried, decided, that, as the marriage was celebrated without the ufual forms, it was abfolutely null, and of no effect.

VERSES,

Occafioned by hearing Dr Moyfe's Ledures.
By a Lady.

O! fire,
Which high-exalted numbers might infpire,
And tune to facred harmony my lays,
Whilft God's diftinguifh'd chofen work I
praife!

Cou'd I fnatch from heav'n feraphic

Yet I the lofty theme with fear furvey,
As human eyes avoid the fervent ray

Of the meridian fun's refplendent light, Whofe radiant beams obfcure the dazzled fight.

Wou'd infpiration once my breast inflame, I'dreach the tow'ring height of envy'd fame: Sublimeft lays fhould tell the wond'ring throng,

What praife, what admiration must belong To him whofe foaring, comprehensive: mind,

From ev'ry science knowledge has combin'd,

Retain'd by mem'ry to inftruct mankind!

Balfe error flies his penetrating glance, As vapours, when the morning rays advance; Or, on fome tow'ring mountain'sairy height, Where Phoebus' beams emit a radiant light; Shadows and mifts no more obfcure the air, But to their murky cave with speed repair.

Say, wondrous Mortal, whence haft thou been fir'd?

Are thofe furprising pow'rs by Heav'n inSpir'd?.

Display

EPISTLE,

If thanks be the reward you chufe,
Afk all you will; I won't refufe:
If cash with you has greater charms,
Set narrow limits to your terms;
The mufes, thofe capricious b=3,
Don't blefs their votaries with riches.

You may advife (I may fuppofe)
A purging, or emetic dole,
Or bleeding, blift'ring; or, far rather,
For more effect, these all together.
But what you think beft to prefcribe,
Do foon. For God's fake do not gibe;
When fuch my cafe in winter's age is,
What won't it be when dog-ftar rages!

I'm glad to hear your health's restor'd,
Which fhews what med cine can afford.
But, now your health is out of danger,
To C-d why such a stranger!
You'll fay, your mind from journey flinches,
When days are short, and sharp froft pinches t
And truly, for the self-fame reason,
I lay at home in Winter feafon;
My head would be as light's a feather,
To vifit Bfs in fuch weather,

I have no more to say herewith,

DEAR SIR,

in the Country.

Surprife m

may make you whistle,
To fee this rhyming, strange epiftle,
And make you fwear, with deadly might,
My brain must be in no good plight:
And justly; for, a dang'rous badnefs,
I know, you'll call poetic madness,
Attack'd me, Monday laft; fo strong
The paroxyfm, it lafted long, i wrong

The fit returns, with equal rage,
At various times: a bad prefage!
All night, I dream of buxom laffes,
Of Pegafus, and mount Parnaffus,
Caftalian fprings, Arcadian plains,
Horatian odes, Pindaric ftrains;
Of Dryden, Popé, Arbuthnot, Gay,
Swift, Addifon, et cætera,

Now, judge how dang rous is my
No learned doctor in this place,
P—, c'er fhall fee my face:
For, quack no more we call phyfician
Than fiddle-fcraper base—musician ;
Or him who only tags a rhyme,
Vile poctaster-bard fublime.

And now, dear Sir, believe me, really, Yours always→→→→

A. R. B. E.

On the Affertion of a POET, That it is a Point of Duty, and the Will of Providence, to cultivate Poetry, Painting,

ROUD artist, fay! by what commend

PROD

Does Heaven awake the Poets lyre?

Or bid the canvas'd form expand,
With touch of Promethean fire?

Did Heav'n ordain each lofty dome?
* Those monuments of Art's display,
That fwell'd with pride imperial Rome,
That totter now in sad decay.

Or fay, by what divine command, ..
Has Mufic all her charms combin'd?
Since David took the harp in hand,

That drove the Demon from his mind. From Sinai's top the facred code,

Points out unerring rules to man, Directs him to the blefs'd abode,

And fhort and fimple is the plan.

The bright Exemplar, he that deign'd
Immortal tenets to disclose ;
The voice of reafon still mainein'd,
In humbleft ftile of pureft profe.
David, who Pfalms of fittest praife..
Devoutly ardent as St Peter,

Could

Could fing his matchlefs fong to raise, Not Heav'n, but Sternhold lent the metre. Pope, who thy genius far excells,

With views of loftier flight elate, Confess'd his rhimes were gingling bells, And gave to Virtue only weight, The female boast is modest worth :The rifing blush of diffidence Shall call more sterling merit forth, Than volumes fraught with rhiming fenfe.

Soft manners that endear the foul,

The neat attire, the artlefs grace, Heav'n has ordain'd with fit controul,

To keep sweet woman in her place. Should Science force the facred bound,

Or Art, proud Art, the charm diffever; Both Art and Science may be found,

But lovely woman's gone for ever, Perhaps King Solomon, who knew The dangers that from knowledge rife;" The distaff, and the fpindle too,

To prudent housewives did advise.

And hence the man of prudence, who Much fcience finds there's little good in ; Tormented by fome learned fhrew,

Sighs for a wife that makes a pudding. For know, proud Dames, of learning know, 'Tho' what I ftate may feem a riddle;

SIR,

To the Publisher.

The Verfes afcribed to Mary Queen of Scots, p. 147. do not appear to have been written in pure French, even if proper allowance be made for the lapse of time, and the errors of printing. Yet, in fpite of all grammatical deficiencies, they seem to exprefs the ideas of forrow in so natu ral a language, that they gave birth to the following stanzas, which may, pers haps, be allowed the merit of a paraphrafe, if they cannot claim the praise of a tranflation. Yours, &c. R. B. C.

SONNET, MARY Queen of Scots, on the Death of her Husband Francis I. From the French.

"HAT was once a fource of pleasure

Now becomes the cause of pain;
Day no more difplays its treasure,

Endless night o'erfpreads the plain;
Powers of nature, powers of art,
Ceafe to charm a wounded heart.
Though by Fate compell'd to range,

Oft from place to place I roam,
Vain, alas! the promis'd change:

Grief is still my dreary home-
Much of evil, nought of good,
Springs from pining folitude.
If in fome retreat I ftray,

Through the grove, or near the ftream Whether at the dawn of day,

Or when Ev'ning flopes his beam;
There my heart inceffant finds
All the pain of abfent minds.

If perchance I turn my fight

There, in mild reflected light,
Toward the cloudy mantled sky,

Still I view his radiant eye-
Fleeting glance! the watery gloom
Seems his emblematic tomb.
Should I court delufive eafe

On the dreaming couch of wo,
Then his form my fancy fees,
Then it hears his accents flow?***
Rack'd

Rack'd with business, funk in reft,
He's my ever constant guest.

Ceafe, my lyre, thy plaintive meafure!

Why in varied rhymes complain? Nought can tune thy chords to pleasure, Still recurs the forrowing strain.— Fate may rob the foul of peace, Love will mourn, but ne'er decrease.

Ode to MELANCHOLY,

ISTER of foft-cy'd Pity, hail! Say, in what deep-fequefter'd vale, Thy head upon thy hand réclin'd, Sitt'it thou to watch the laft faint gleams of light;

To mark the grey mifts fail along the wind, And fhadows dim that veil the brow of night!

Or 'neath fome rock abrupt and steep,
Hear'ft thou the hoarfc-refounding deep,
While from many a murky cloud,
Blue light'nings flash by fits, and pealing loud

The folemn thunder fhakes th' aerial hall?
Or, lonely loit'ring o'er the plain,
See'ft thou the glimm'ring landfcape fade,
And bidd'it the foul-commanding lyre
Some fuch magic numbers chufe
As love and tenderness infpire,
"And Heav'n's own calm around diffuse,
Till the forrow-foothing strain

On the rapt ear with nectar'd fweetness fall, Lift'ning; and held in mute Attention's chain,

And all the foul diffolv'd and fainting lie InRapture'sholytrance,and heav'nlyccítacy?

Come then, with Fancy by thy fide, In all thy robes of flowing state, To Genius evermore ally'd,

On whom the penfive Pleasures wait; Teach me to build the lofty rhime, And lift my daring fong fublime To that unequall'd pitch of thought, Which once the feraph, Milton, caught, He mus'd, by Siloa's hallow'd stream; When rapt in his immortal theme, But fince this boon must be deny'd,

Be mine that folemn dirge of woe Breath'd from the tender lyre of Gray,

Who oft' at 'ev'ning's fall would go Το pour 'midft rustic tombs his polish'd lay; Th' hiftoric draught fhall never fade,

And many a youth, to fame unknown, Shall bend beneath the yew tree's fhade, To trace the line that marks his stone; There fhall the village maids be fecn

Where the forefathers of the hamlet fleep;

And while the muse records the scene, Hang o'er their turf-clad graves ald weep;

Oblivion's rude and waststi hand

Shall ne'er this little group efface; For 'Time fhall bid the colours ftand, And lend their charms a finish'd grace.

IV.

Nor yet where Auburn crowns the fil ing vale,.

Pafs, thou 'lorn maid, unheeding by; Where yon poor matron teils her tale,

1

And points to the inquiring eye, Where once her little mansion stood, Shelter'd by a neighb'ring wood; Recording in her homely phrase The fimple joys of former days: Thus then, O Melancholy! o'er my lays Thy faintly veil of fadness throw; And give my numbers, void of aft, To touch the thought, to reach the heart. And bid the tear of Pity flow; For if the muse may é'er unblam'd defign, Or if her hand can colour ought; "Tis when thy fpirit prompts the line, Gives manlinefs to verfe, and energy to thought.