The faithful dove where'er, by day, Through fields of air her pinions rove, So at this calm, this silent hour, My heart, its joyless wanderings o'er, LINES Composed and sung, à l'improviste, upon hearing a Lady sing an I would the Teian bard were here, What though to Pleasure's wildest dream And if, perchance, to wake the lyre Oh! could he hear those notes so gay, The warmth that Beauty's glance inspires, Would breathe through each impassion'd line, And, taught by Love's resistless fires, His song would catch a grace from thine. Sweet Songstress! strike the lyre again, TO ELIZA, With a Bird. Accept, dear maid, the most delightful bird, 'That ever Venus to her chariot bound; By Love adopted, and by Peace preferr'd, For meekness valued, and for faith renown'd. A bird in which such rare perfections meet, NONE BUT THE BRAVE DESERVE THE FAIR. Many persons first gained arms, and became possessors of the inheritances which have since descended to their offspring, at justs and tournaments, their prowess winning them the hand of the lady who was to be the prize: for, in the ages of chivalry, it was no uncommon event for a prince or a noble to proclaim a tournament, and to declare, that a daughter, or some other female relative, should be the reward of the victor. Ladies, when they were free to do so, sometimes offered their hands as the price of courage. In the year 1083, Millet, the Lord of Whittington, made a declaration, that she would give her hand to no one but to the knight of most distinguished prowess. Guarine de Metz, a noble of Lorraine, Lord of Adderbury, and Sheriff of the County, being informed of this challenge, joined the other youths who wished to contend for the prize. The combatants assembled at Peveril's Place, or the Castle in the Park. Guarine vanquished all who opposed themselves, and gained the fair, with the lordship of Whittington as her dower. The name of Fitzwarine was assumed by his posterity, and, for a period of nearly four hundred years, they continued the Lords of Whittington. THE PICTURE OF MY QUEEN. From Chatelar to Mary, Queen of Scots. Ah! would'st thou view the azure sky, The damask tinge her cheeks disclose. Would'st thou behold the lily dress'd, And see her locks in gold array'd. Or would'st thou hear the bird of night, 'Tis Mary's song that yields delight, TO BELINDA, AT THE BATH. BY BROOME. While in their fountains bright Belinda laves, No more let Tagus boast, whose beds unfold No more the Po, whose wandering waters stray, CUPID MISTAKEN. As, after noon, one summer's day, New strung his bow,-new fill'd his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart; "I faint! I die!" the goddess cried; "O cruel! could'st thou find none other To wreck thy spleen on? Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother." Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; Alas! how easy my mistake! I took you for your likeness, Chloe." |