MIRANDA sees her morning levee fill'd With men, in every art and science skill'dMen who have gain'd a name, whom she invites,

Because in men of genius she delights.
To these she puts her questions, that produce
Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse:
She no opinion for its boldness spares,
But loves to show her audience what she dares;
The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift,
And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift.

Her noble mind, with independent force, Her Rector questions on his late discourse; Perplex'd and pain'd, he wishes to retire From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, admire

Not so MIRANDA! She is ever prest To give opinions, and she gives her best. To these with gentle smile her guests incline, Who come to hear, improve, applaud,—and dine.

Her hungry mind on every subject feeds; She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads; Locke entertains her, and she wonders why His famous Essay is consider'd dry. For her amusement in her vacant hours Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers: She could the farmer at his work assist, A systematic agriculturist.

Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind,

allow,

gleans;

Who for herself will judge, debate, decide,
And be her own 'philosopher and guide.'

Why call a lady Blue? It is because
She reads, converses, studies for applause;
And therefore all that she desires to know
Is just as much as she can fairly show.
The real knowledge we in secret hide,
It is the counterfeit that makes our pride.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing!'-
So sings the Poet, and so let him sing:
But if from little learning danger rose,
I know not who in safety could repose.
The evil rises from our own mistake,
When we our ignorance for knowledge take;
Or when the little that we have, through
pride,

And vain poor self-love view'd, is magnified.
Nor is your deepest Azure always free
From these same dangerous calls of vanity.

Yet of the sex are those who never show, By way of exhibition, what they know. Their books are read and praised, and so are they,

But all without design, without display.
Is there not One who reads the hearts of men,
And paints them strongly with unrivall❜d pen?
All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear,
Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear;
Looks in the close recesses of the mind,
And gives the finish'd portraits to mankind,
By skill conducted, and to Nature true,-
And yet no man on earth would call JOANNA
Blue!

now.

Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain'd

'But she is idle, nor has much attain'd;
Men are in her deceived; she knows at
most

A few light matters, for she scorns to boast.
Her mathematic studies she resign'd-
They did not suit the genius of her mind.
She thought indeed the higher parts sublime,
But then they took a monstrous deal of time!'

Frequent and full the letters she delights To read in part; she names not him who writes

But here and there a precious sentence shows, Telling what literary debts she owes. Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come, 'Alas!' she cries, and I must seal their doom.

6

Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain

Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain ? '

Much she has written, and still deigns to

write,

But not an effort yet must see the light. 'Cruel!' her friends exclaim; 'unkind, unjust ! '

But, no! the envious mass she will not trust; Content to hear that fame is due to her, Which on her works the world might not confer

Content with loud applauses while she lives; Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives.

II

she live,

Her dinners yet and sentiments to giveThe Dean's wise consort, with the many friends,

From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends

Her precious maxims ?

F. Yes, she lives to shed Her light around her, but her Dean is dead. Seen her I have, but seldom could I see: Borrow she could not, could not lend to me. Yet, I attended, and beheld the tribe Attending too, whom I will not describe-Miranda Thomson! Yes, I sometimes found A seat among a circle so profound; When all the science of the age combined Was in that room, and hers the master-mind. Well I remember the admiring crowd, Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud; They strove who highest should her glory raise,

And cramm'd the hungry mind with honied praise

She asks no more her auditors to dine.
Once from her lips came wisdom; when

she spoke,

Her friends in transport or amazement broke.
Now to her dictates there attend but few,
And they expect to meet attention too;
Respect she finds is purchased at some cost,
And deference is withheld, when dinner's lost.
She, once the guide and glory of the place,
Exists between oblivion and disgrace;
Praise once afforded, now,-they say not
why,

They dare not say it-fickle men deny ;
That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers,
Which our deserted queen no longer hears.
Old, but not wise, forsaken, not resign'd,
She gives to honours past her feeble mind,
Back to her former state her fancy moves,
And lives on past applause, that still she
loves;

Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view,
And flies the glory that would not pursue
To yon small cot, a poorly jointured Blue.

I

I LEAVE SOPHIA; it would please me well, Before we part, on so much worth to dwell: "Tis said of one who lived in times of strife, There was no boyhood in his busy life; Born to do all that mortal being can, The thinking child became at once the man ; So this fair girl in early youth was led, By reasons strong in early youth, to wed.

In her new state her prudence was her guide,

And of experience well the place supplied; With life's important business full in view, She had no time for its amusements too; She had no practised look man's heart t' allure,

No frown to kill him, and no smile to cure; No art coquettish, nothing of the prude; She was with strong yet simple sense endued, Intent on duties, and resolved to shun Nothing that ought to be, and could be, done.

A Captain's wife, with him she long sustain'd

The toil of war, and in a camp remain'd;
Her husband wounded, with a child in arms,
She nurst them both, unheeded all alarms :
All useless terror in her soul supprest-
None could discern in hers a troubled breast.
Her wounded soldier is a prisoner made,
She hears, prepares, and is at once convey'd
Through hostile ranks :-with air sedate she
goes,

And makes admiring friends of wondering

foes.

Her dying husband to her care confides Affairs perplex'd; she reasons, she decides; If intricate her way, her walk discretion guides.

Home to her country she returns alone, Her health decay'd, her child, her husband,

gone;

There she in peace reposes, there resumes Her female duties, and in rest re-blooms;

She is not one at common ills to droop,
Nor to vain murmuring will her spirit stoop.
I leave her thus: her fortieth year is nigh,
She will not for another captain sigh;
Will not a young and gay lieutenant take,
Because 'tis pretty to reform a rake;
Yet she again may plight her widow'd hand,
Should love invite, or charity demand;
And make her days, although for duty's sake,
As sad as folly and mischance can make.

II

P. LIVES yet the WIDOW, whose firm spirit bore

Ills unrepining?—

F. Here she lives no more, But where I speak with some good people's leave

Where all good works their due reward receive;

Though what reward to our best works is due I leave to them,-and will my tale pursue.

He on his throne the lawful monarch sate, And she was by-the minister of state: He gave assent, and he required no more, But sign'd the act that she decreed before.

Again, her fates in other work decree A mind so active should experienced be.

One of the name, who roved the world around,

At length had something of its treasures found,
And childless died, amid his goods and gain,
In far Barbadoes on the western main.
His kinsman heard, and wish'd the wealth to
share,

But had no mind to be transported there :His Wife could sail-her courage who could doubt ?

And she was not tormented with the gout.' She liked it not; but for his children's

sake,

And for their father's, would the duty take.

Storms she encounter'd, ere she reach'd the shore,

more,

As thine, and find a mother's love in thee!' 'And must I woo their father ? '—' Nay, indeed;

He no encouragement but hope will need ; In hope too let me die, and think my wish decreed.'

The wife expires; the widow'd pair unite; Their love was sober, and their prospect bright.

She train❜d the children with a studious love,
That knew full well t' encourage and reprove;
Nicely she dealt her praise and her disgrace,
Not harsh and not indulgent out of place,
Not to the forward partial—to the slow
All patient, waiting for the time to sow
The seeds that, suited to the soil, would grow.
Nor watch'd she less the Husband's weaker
soul,

But learn'd to lead him who abhorr'd control,
Who thought a nursery, next a kitchen, best
To women suited, and she acquiesced;
She only begg'd to rule in small affairs,
And ease her wedded lord of common cares,
Till he at length thought every care was small,
Beneath his notice, and she had them all.

The rage of lawyers forced to drop their prey,

And once again to England made her way. She found her Husband with his gout

removed,

And a young nurse, most skilful and approved;

Whom-for he yet was weak-he urged to stay,

And nurse him while his consort was away :'She was so handy, so discreet, so nice, As kind as comfort, though as cold as ice! Else,' he assured his lady, 'in no case, So young a creature should have fill'd the place.'

It has been held-indeed, the point is clear, 'None are so deaf as those who will not hear:' And, by the same good logic, we shall find,

As those who will not see, are none so blind.' The thankful Wife repaid th' attention shown, But now would make the duty all her own.

Again the gout return'd; but seizing now A vital part, would no relief allow,

The Husband died, but left a will that

proved

He much respected whom he coolly loved. All power was hers; nor yet was such her age, But rivals strove her favour to engage:

They talk'd of love with so much warmth and zeal,

That they believed the woman's heart must feel;

Adding such praises of her worth beside, As vanquish prudence oft by help of pride.

In vain! her heart was by discretion ledShe to the children of her Friend was wed; These she establish'd in the world, and died, In ease and hope, serene and satisfied.

And loves not man that woman who can charm

Life's grievous ills, and grief itself disarm ?Who in his fears and troubles brings him aid, And seldom is, and never seems, afraid?

No! ask of man the fair one whom he loves, You'll find her one of the desponding doves, Who tender troubles as her portion brings, And with them fondly to a husband clingsWho never moves abroad, nor sits at home, Without distress, past, present, or to comeWho never walks the unfrequented street, Without a dread that death and she shall meet:

On land, on water, she must guarded be,
Who sees the danger none besides her see,
And is determined by her cries to call
All men around her she will have them all.
Man loves to think the tender being lives
But by the power that his protection gives:

He loves the feeble step, the plaintive tone, And flies to help who cannot stand alone: He thinks of propping elms, and clasping vines,

And in her weakness thinks her virtue shines; On him not one of her desires is lost,

And he admires her for this care and cost. But when afflictions come, when beauty

dies,

Or sorrows vex the heart, or danger tries-
When time of trouble brings the daily care,
And gives of pain as much as he can bear-
'Tis then he wants, if not the helping hand,
At least a soothing temper, meek and bland—
He wants the heart that shares in his distress,
At least the kindness that would make it less;
And when instead he hears th' eternal grief
For some light want, and not for his relief-
And when he hears the tender trembler sigh,
For some indulgence he can not supply-
When, in the midst of many a care, his ' dear,'
Would like a duchess at a ball appear-
And, while he feels a weight that wears him
down,

Would see the prettiest sight in all the town,→
Love then departs, and if some Pity lives,
That Pity half despises, half forgives,
'Tis join'd with grief, is not from shame
exempt,

And has a plenteous mixture of contempt.

I

Of all the beauties in our favour'd place, BELINDA WATERS was the pride and grace. Say ye who sagely can our fortunes read, Shall this fair damsel in the world succeed? A rosy beauty she, and fresh and fair, Who never felt a caution or a care; Gentle by nature, ever fond of ease, And more consenting than inclined to please. A tame good nature in her spirit livesShe hates refusal for the pain it gives: From opposition arguments arise, And to prevent the trouble, she complies. She, if in Scotland, would be fash'd all day, If call'd to any work or any play; She lets no busy, idle wish intrude, But is by nature negatively good.

In marriage hers will be a dubious fate:
She is not fitted for a high estate ;-
There wants the grace, the polish, and the
pride;

Less is she fitted for a humble bride:
Whom fair Belinda weds-let chance decide!
She sees her father oft engross'd by

cares,

And therefore hates to hear of men's affairs:
An active mother in the household reigns,
And spares Belinda all domestic pains.
Of food she knows but this, that we are fed :-
Though, duly taught, she prays for daily

bread,

Yet whence it comes, of hers is no concernIt comes and more she never wants to learn. She on the table sees the common fare, But how provided is beneath her care.