(And sculptors first their faces frame, And after pitch upon a name,

Nor think it aught of a misnomer

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,

[know,

Because they both have beards, which, you

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)

For some great man, I could not tell
But Neck might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around, in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground.
For though confined, 't will well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined
Can cramp the energies of mind!

Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 't will contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,

No more may Heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE

Down the sultry are of day

The burning wheels have urged their way;
And eve along the western skies
Sheds her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits:
And oft, with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.

The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thresher puts his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penned the sheepcote fast,
For 't was but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheeled,
And both the colts are drove a-field;

The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup.
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slinked away to talk
With Roger in the holly walk.

Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrained for rent.
Thus do they talk, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Had reel'd-then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid-

while master goes throughout,

Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,

The candles safe, the hearths all clear,

And nought from thieves or fire to fear;

Then both to bed together creep,

And join the general troop of sleep.

LINES,

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathar iel Bloomfield's Poems, just published:—“It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."

Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!" Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will; Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, And every year with new delight hast told, Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquered barge, Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea,

The storms of misery never burst on thee.

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines; Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;

Mark his dewed temples, and his half shut eye,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh,
His muttering mouth contorted with despair,
And ask if Genius could inhabit there.

Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleamed,
And rays of light from its full circlet streamed:
But now Neglect has stung him to the core,
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,
And added Grief compels him to the ground.
Lo! o'er his manly form, decayed and wan,
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on ;
And the pale mother, pining to decay,

Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.

Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,

Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head

On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,

And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!

Yet, Lofft, on thee, whose hand is still streched forth,

To encourage genius, and to foster worth;

On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 'Tis just that every blessing should descend, 'Tis just that life to thee should only show Her fairer side but little mixed with woe.