And choked up valleys from our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken,
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire,
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

George Colman.

Born 1762.

Died 1836.

AN able and successful English dramatic author, who also published a few humorous pieces under the title of "Broad Grins."

LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.

WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face;
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a ton,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the next;
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed;
Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ;
For his skin "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him;
He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny:

"I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea."

The doctor looked wise: "A slow fever," he said:
Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.

"Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs!
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!"

Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said: "Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago?
"Look'e, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin,
"That with honest intentions you first took me in:
But from the first night--and to say it I'm bold—
I've been so hanged hot, that I'm sure I caught cold."
Quoth the landlord: "Till now I had ne'er a dispute ;
I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately over my oven."

"The oven!" says Will. Says the host: "Why this passion? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir?" "Zounds!" cries Will, in a taking, "Who would'nt be crusty with half a year's baking? Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been going away half a year." Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will said; "But I'd rather not perish while you bread."

66

make your

William Lisle Bowles.

Born 1762.
Died 1850.

He

Or a respectable family in Northamptonshire, was born in 1762. was educated at Winchester School, and from thence he was sent to Oxford, where he gained the friendship of Thomas Warton. It was not till his twenty-seventh year that he published his first poems, under the title of "Fourteen Sonnets." Coleridge expresses his great admiration of them, and they appear to have been of material service in the development of that great poet's powers. Bowles, after leaving college, took holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wilts. After some other changes, he ultimately obtained the rectory of Bremhill, in the same county, where he died 7th April 1850.

TO TIME.

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence-
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense-
The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile—
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:
Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

SOUTH AMERICAN SCENERY.

BENEATH aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain tribes; high overhead,
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,
And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires.
A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.
Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks
Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,

Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the flowers;
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing, drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews,
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

Checkering with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
Here, its gay network and fantastic twine,
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.
There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white
The sunshine darts its interrupted light,
And, 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes,
With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes,

Helen Maria Williams.

{

Born 1762.
Died 1815.

AN English lady who, imbibing republican opinions, settled in France, where she vigorously supported the Girondists with her pen. She published also a volume of poems of which Wordsworth took some notice.

SONNET TO HOPE.

O EVER skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear:

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,

Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye,
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way

The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

Samuel Rogers.

Born 1763.

Died 1855.

ROGERS was born at Stoke-Newington, on 30th July 1763. His father was a wealthy London banker, and the poet's life therefore opened under the most advantageous circumstances. He was, after receiving a liberal education, introduced into the banking firm, of which he remained a partner till his death. Few literary men have been so moderate under prosperity, or have used their wealth so ungrudgingly, and yet unostentatiously for the good of their fellow poets. "Genius languishing for want of patronage was sure to find in him a generous patron." He first appeared before the public in 1786, as the author of an "Ode to Superstition." In 1792 he published "Pleasures of Memory," the piece by which he is best known. In 1814 appeared 66 Jacqueline;" and in 1819 the first part of "Italy," his last poem, completed in 1828. Rogers, during his long career, had the opportunity of becoming acquainted with nearly all the eminent men of his time, and his wealth enabled him to enrich his house in St James Place with some of the rarest and finest busts, pictures, and gems, and to exercise, to his friends, unbounded hospitality. He died 18th December 1855.

FROM "PLEASURES OF MEMORY." CHILDHOOD's loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke! to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What softened views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned, Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn: Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams.

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening blazed The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade,
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed:

And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,