Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose;
To love the tender heart hath ever fled,

As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes.

Oh! fondly cherish, then, the lovely plant,
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease;
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant,
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze;
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize,

When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain,
This still with undeciduous charms shall please,
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain,
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.

Through the hard season love, with plaintive note,
Like the kind redbreast tenderly shall sing,
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat,
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing,
With cheerful promise of returning spring
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove.
Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting
Of baneful peevishness; oh! never prove

How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle love!

Repentance may the storms of passion chase,
And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast,
May hush his just complaints in soft embrace,
And, smiling, wipe his tearful eye at last :
Yet when the wind's rude violence is past,
Look what a wreck the scattered fields display!

See on the ground the withering blossoms cast!
And hear sad Philomel, with piteous lay,

Deplore the tempest's rage that swept her young away.

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed,

The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,

May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong.
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long

Will not endure the frown of angry strife;
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,

And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife.

Oh! he will tell you that these quarrels bring
The ruin, not renewal of his flame:

If oft repeated, lo! on rapid wing

He flies to hide his fair but tender frame;
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain!

Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim,
Asserts for ever her repulsive reign,

Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train.

Indifference, dreaded power! what art shall save The good so cherished from thy grasping hand? How shall young Love escape the untimely grave Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand The insidious foe, who, with her leaden band, Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity? Ah, never more to wake! or e'er expand His golden pinions to the breezy sky, Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye.

Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang,
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway?
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang
Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey,
Sees rapture's brilliant colours fade away;
And all the glow of beaming sympathy;
Anxious to watch the cold averted ray
That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy.

Too faithful heart! thou never canst retrieve
Thy withered hopes: conceal the cruel pain!
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve;
But never to the unfeeling ear complain :
From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain!
Submit at once,-the bitter task resign,
Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain ;
Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine,
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine!

But lo! the joyous sun, the soft-breathed gales
By zephyrs sent to kiss the placid seas,
Curl the green wave, and fill the swelling sails;
The seamen's shouts, which jocund hail the breeze,
Call the glad knight the favouring hour to seize.

Her gentle hostess, Psyche, oft embraced,
Who still solicitous her guest to please,

On her fair breast a talisman had placed,
And with the valued gem her parting blessing graced.

How gaily now the bark pursues its way,
Urged by the steady gale! while round the keel
The bubbling currents in sweet whispers play,
Their force repulsive now no more they feel;
No clouds the unsullied face of heaven conceal,
But the clear azure one pure dome displays,
Whether it bids the star of day reveal
His potent beams, or Cynthia's milder rays
On deep cerulean skies invite the eye to gaze.

*

*

*

ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON,

WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK, DECEMBER, 1809.

ODOURS of spring, my sense ye charm
With fragrance premature;
And, mid these days of dark alarm,
Almost to hope allure.

Methinks with purpose soft

To tell of brighter hours,

ye come

Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom,
Her sunny gales and showers.

Alas! for me shall May in vain

The powers of life restore;

These eyes that weep and watch in pain
Shall see her charms no more.

No, no, this anguish cannot last!
Beloved friends, adieu!

The bitterness of death were past,
Could I resign but you.

But oh! in every mortal pang

That rends my soul from life,-
That soul, which seems on you to hang
Through cach convulsive strife,

Even now, with agonizing grasp
Of terror and regret,

To all in life its love would clasp,
Clings close and closer yet.

Yet why, immortal, vital spark!
Thus mortally opprest?

Look up, my soul, through prospects dark
And bid thy terrors rest;
Forget, forego thy earthly part,

Thine heavenly being trust:
Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart
Still shuddering clings to dust.

Oh ye! who soothe the pangs of death
With love's own patient care,
Still, still retain this fleeting breath,
Still pour the fervent prayer.
And ye, whose smile must greet my eye
No more, nor voice my ear,

Who breathe for me the tender sigh,
And shed the pitying tear;

Whose kindness (though far, far removed)
My grateful thoughts perceive,

Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved,
My last sad claim receive!

Oh! do not quite your friend forget,
Forget alone her faults;

And speak of her with fond regret
Who asks your lingering thoughts.

JOHN WOLCOT, who achieved so much popularity, or rather, notoriety, under the assumed name of " PETER PINDAR," was born at Dodbrock, in the county of Devon, in 1738. He was educated at the free-school of Kingsbridge, and was articled to his uncle, an apothecary, at Fowey. In 1767, he accompanied Sir William Trelawney to Jamaica, as a physician, having previously procured his degree from Edinburgh; but finding his profession unprofitable, he was induced to take holy orders, and obtained a living in the island. The mind of his patron, under whose advice he acted, in thus changing the avowed object of his life, appears to have been as gross as that of the patronized; it was understood between them that the one was "to get himself japanned," as an easy mode of obtaining "loaves and fishes" from the other. On the death of Trelawney, Wolcot returned to England, and, considering his former calling more likely to be profitable than his later, settled as a medical practitioner at Truro, in Cornwall. In 1780, he accompanied to London the painter, Opie, whose genius he had the merit of discovering, and whom he rescued from obscurity. In London he commenced his literary career, by a series of attacks on the Royal Academy. His skill as an artist was considerable; and he was, therefore, enabled to mingle so much truth and judgment with his criticisms, as to give point and effect to his coarse and bitter sarcasms. He was not, however, long satisfied to hunt such "small game;" but began a series of disgusting attacks upon the person and family of the king. The wit and humour which abounded in these compositions procured them to be relished; and the writer rapidly attained to an extent of popularity unparalleled in his age. He died at Somers-town, on the 14th of January, 1819, in the eighty-first year of his age;-for a long period he received an annuity from his publishers; and had contrived to amass a property by no means inconsiderable. It is said, that at one period his poems were so galling to the highest powers in the realm, that an attempt was made to purchase his silence by a government annuity. It was, however, unsuccessful; and " Peter Pindar" continued to the last his system of ridicule and slander.

If we may judge the personal character of Dr. Wolcot from his writings, and the anecdotes that are told of him, his mind and his habits must have been gross and sensual to a degree. He felt no remorse at wounding-either to procure money, or to gratify uncalled-for spleen-the feelings of the highest and the most virtuous persons in the realm. He speaks in one of his satires of his "lean heart;" it was evidently incapable of sympathy with the better sensations of humanity. In all his writings he appears to have been actuated by that sentiment which a later wit describes as "the malice in a good thing,-being the barb that makes it stick." The satirist, in his old age, was afflicted with blindness; his winter was the opposite of that which has been described as "frosty but kindly:" still he continued to send forth his squibs; and grieved only that he had lost the power of making them hurt. The objects of his enmity had been gradually removed out of his reach. One of his friends visited him on his death-bed; and, asking the worn-out sinner if he could do aught to gratify him, received this memorable reply, "Yes; give me back my youth!"

We owe some apology for introducing him into this volume It would, perhaps, be wrong to omit a writer who obtained so large a share of public attention, and whose works were, at one period, circulated to an almost incredible extent. The subjects of which he treated were for the most part of temporary interest; and he is, consequently, even now very nearly forgotten. It is impossible to deny, that his poems abound in wit and humour, and occasionally exhibit proofs of a genius, which, if the man's mind had not been naturally gangrened, might have placed him high among the satirical Poets of his country. In selecting our specimens, we have thought it desirable to pass over the grosser productions of his pen, and to extract a few of his lyrics,-some of which are animated, elegant, and tender. Still his exceeding popularity will amaze modern readers; and is to be accounted for only by believing that which is humbling to humanity, those who pander to our vices are more eagerly accepted than those who inculcate virtue; and there, unhappily, prevails a disposition to encourage unprincipled persons who strive to render rank powerless, by making it contemptible. There are, however, few evils which time does not remove. The name of Peter Pindar is now seldom or never heard of; and if we find ourselves compelled to drag it from the obscurity to which it has been consigned, we trust that with the bane we have given the antidote.