oppresses them-to forget what they hear every day-and to shut their eyes to every thing that is passing around them-and, in despite of their contracted and desolate view of human nature and the external world, form a bower of happiness for themselves, in the paradise of imagination ?*

ADDISON'S OPINION OF BLANK VERSE.

"MR. ADDISON was not a good-natured man, and very jealous of rivals. Being one evening in company with Philips, and the poems of Blenheim and The Campaign being talked of, he made it his whole business to run down blank verse. Philips never spoke till between eleven and twelve o'clock, nor even then could do it in his defence. It was at Jacob Tonson's; and a gentleman in the company ended the dispute by asking Jacob what poem he ever got the most by? Jacob immediately named Milton's Paradise Lost."

SPENCE.

We are indebted for this able article to "Blackwood's Magazine."

VOL. III.

C

DRYDEN AND DR. LOCKIER.

"I WAS about seven years old, when I first came up to town, an odd looking boy, with short rough hair, and that sort of awkwardness which one always brings up at first out of the country with one. However, in spite of my bashfulness and appearance, I used, now and then, to thrust myself into Wills's, to have the pleasure of seeing the most celebrated wits of that time, who then resorted thither. The second time that I was ever there, Mr. Dryden was speaking of his own things, as he frequently did, especially of such as had lately been published. If any thing of mine is good,' says he, "'tis 'Mac Flecno;' and I value myself the more upon it, because it is the first piece of ridicule written in heroics.' On hearing this I plucked up my spirit so far as to say, in a voice just loud enough to be heard, that 'Mac Flecno' was a very fine poem, but that I had not imagined it to be the first that was ever writ that way.' On this, Dryden turned short upon me, as surprised at my interposing; asked me how long I had been a dealer in poetry; and added, with a smile, Pray, Sir, what is it that you did imagine to

have been writ so before?' I named Boileau's 'Lutrin,' and Tassoni's 'Secchia Rapita;' which I had read, and knew Dryden had borrowed some strokes from each.-'Tis true,' said Dryden, 'I had forgot them.'-A little after, Dryden went out; and, in going, spoke to me again, and desired me to come and see him the next day. I was highly delighted with the invitation; went to see him accordingly: and was well acquainted with him after as long as he lived."

DR. LOCKIER, from SPENCE'S

MRS. MARY TIGHE.

ANECDOTES.'

THIS very superior female, both in mind and acquirements, was a native of the Sister Isle. Her beautiful poem of "Psyche" will be remembered as long as elegance and classical taste can excite admiration, nor will her minor poems be soon forgotten. With the profits arising from the publication of these effusions of genius, a Hospital Ward has been endowed and attached to the House of Refuge, (a charitable institution formed by her mother, in the county of Wicklow,) which is called The Psyche Ward.'

The following verses were the last production of this highly gifted and amiable being, penned

only three months before her death, and under the pressure of an illness plainly prophetic of a fatal termination.

ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZERON, WHICH FLOWERED
AT WOODSTOCK, IN DECEMBER, 1809.

Odours of Spring! my sense ye charm
With fragrance premature,

And since these days of dark alarm,
Almost to hope allure.

Methinks, with purpose soft you come
To tell of brighter hours,

Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom,
The 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 each convulsive strife ;-

Even now with agonizing grasp

Of sorrow 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 sorrows 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.

WYCHERLEY'S MARRIAGE.

WYCHERLEY'S nephew, on whom his estate was entailed (but with power to settle a widow's jointure,) would not consent to his selling any part of it; which he wanted much to do, to pay his debts, about a thousand pounds. He had, therefore, long resolved to marry; in order to make a settlement from the estate, to pay off his debts with his wife's fortune: and to plague his damned nephew,' as he used to express it.