EPIGRAM,

On seeing the Pictures of Lady Townshend and her Sister, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

I thought the Graces were but three,
To wit-Montgom❜ry, Gardner, Townshend ;*
But, Reynolds, thy bright art, I see,
To these three beauties gives a thousand.

GALLANTRY OF KING JAMES THE FIRST.

The following novel and interesting anecdote of this monarch, is related by D'Israeli :—

"The King and Queen, being at Theobald's, her Majesty, shooting at a deer, mistook her mark, and killed Jewel, the King's favourite hound, at which he stormed exceedingly awhile; but after he knew who did it, he was soon pacified, and, with much kindness, wished her not to be troubled with it, for he should love her never the worse; and the next day he sent her a diamond, worth two thousand pounds, as a legacy from his dead dog.""

* The Graces, was an appellation by which these three ladies were universally toasted in Dublin.

LINES,

Copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging, in Islington.

What though to deck this roof no arts combine,
Such forms as rival every fair but mine;
No nodding plumes, our humble couch above,
Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love;
No silver lamp, with sculptured Cupids gay,
O'er yielding beauty, pours its midnight ray.
Yet fancy's charms could time's slow flight beguile,
Soothe every care, and make this dungeon smile.
In her what kings, what saints, have wish'd, is given;
Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven.

DREAMS.

I dreamt that at eve a white mist arose,
Where the hedge-row brambles twist;

I thought that my love was a sweet wild rose,
And I the silvery mist.

How sweetly I beaded her pale-red charms,
With many a diamond speck;

How softly I bent up my watery arms,
And clung round her beautiful neck.

Oh, me! what a heavenly birth!

I revell'd all night,

Till the morn came bright,

Then sunk at her feet down again on the earth.

I dreamt that my love was that wild-rose tree,
All cover'd with purple bloom;

And I, methought, was an enormous bee,
That lov'd the rich perfume.

Large draughts of nectar I sat to sip,

In a bud that hung below;

And I breath'd her breath, and I kiss'd her lip,
And her bosom, as chaste as snow.
Oh, me! what a heavenly task!

For there I lay,

Till eve grew grey,

While she in the sun's bright beams did bask.

Again :-'Twas when the pale moon did line
The forest, with silver light;

And I thought my love was a wild woodbine,
And I a zephyr bright.

"Welcome," said I, "where brambles weave,
Around us, a guard of thorns ;"

And sweetly I tangl'd myself in her leaves,
And blew on her red-streaked horns.

To the music of which we led

A gay dance about,

Till old night came out,

To rock us to sleep in his dusky bed.

GALLANTRY OF SIR F. CAREW.

Sir Hugh Platt informs us, that "the delicate knight, Sir Francis Carew, once making a splendid

entertainment for Queen Elizabeth, at Beddington, led her Majesty, after dinner, to a cherry-tree in his garden, which had, on it, fruit in its prime, then above a month after all cherries had taken their farewell of England. This retardation he performed by straining a tent, or canvas, over the whole tree, wetting it as the weather required, with a scoop; so, by obstructing the sunbeams, they grew both great, and were very long before they gained their perfect cherry colour; and when he was apprised of the time her Majesty would come, he removed the tent,

and a few sunny days brought them to their perfect maturity."

TO ENONE.

BY HERRICK.

What conscience, say, is it in thee,
When I a heart had one,

To take away that heart from me,
And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline

To play a lover's part;

Either to send me, kindly, thine,

Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both: but, if thou dost
Resolve to part with neither,
Why, yet to show that thou art just,
Take me and mine together.

CLARINDA.

BY BURNS.

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch, beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part-but by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!

No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day:
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?