And with superior sweetness gave

The gale, the sunshine, and the flow'r.

ON A LADY, BATHING.

From Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia."

"Philoclea, blushing, and withal smiling, makeing shamefastnesse pleasant, and pleasure shamefast, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the ground, until the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed stars."

TO DORINDA, ON VALENTINE'S DAY.
Look how, my dear, the feather'd kind,
By mutual caresses join'd,

Bill, and seem to teach us two,

What we to love and custom owe.

Shall only you and I forbear

To meet, and make a happy pair?
Shall we alone delay to live?
This day an age of bliss may give.

But, ah! when I the proffer make,
Still coyly you refuse to take.
My heart I dedicate in vain ;

The too-mean present you disdain.

Yet since the solemn time allows
To choose the subject of our vows,
Boldly I dare profess my flame,
Proud to be yours by any name..

THE PAINTER.

Miranda's face I strove to hit,

My art her graces foil;

Short of success, yet loth to quit,
My hand renews the toil.

Love's laughing god the sketches spied,
And, with his sharpest dart,
My inexpressive skill supplied,
And grav'd her on my heart.

LINES.

he following was addressed by Voltaire to Lady Hervey during his stay in England, about the Year 1726.

Hervey, would you know the passion
You have kindled in my breast?
Trifling is the inclination,

Which by words can be express'd.

ON A YOUNG LADY,

Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon When green-spreading bushes, and flow'rs blooming

fair;

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew!
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew !

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

UPON JULIA'S VOICE.

BY HERRICK.

When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear,

To drink in notes, and numbers such
As blessed souls can't hear too much :
Then, melted down, there let me lie
Entranc'd, and lost confusedly:
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a lute.

FONTENELLE AND MADAME DE BOCAGE.

This brace of wits being one evening at question and answer, the gentleman was asked by the lady the difference between the table-clock and herself? "It is this," replied the Academician; "the clock makes us remark the hours, and you compel us to forget them."

LINES,

Written under Lady Harper's name on a drinking glass.

BY LORD LANSDOWNE.

To Harper, sprightly, young, and gay,
Sweet as the rosy morn in May,

Fill to the brim, I'll drink it up

To the last drop, were poison in the cup.

GALLANTRY OF GARRICK.

This celebrated tragedian, who was very short, was once addressed by a lady thus :-" What a

pity it is," said she, smiling, "that you are not taller."—" I should be happy, indeed, madam,” replied the polite actor, "to be higher in your estimation."

The following sprightly verses are from a quarto volume, published in 1728, entitled, " Julia, or last Follies."

TO A LADY WHO THREATENED TO MAKE THE AUTHOR AN APRIL FOOL.

Why strive, dear girl, to make a fool

Of one not wise before,

Yet having scap'd from Folly's school,
Would fain go there no more.

Ah, if I must to school again,
Wilt thou my teacher be?
I'm sure, no lesson will be vain,
Which thou canst give to me.

One of thy kind and gentle looks,
Thy smiles devoid of art,
Avails beyond all crabbed looks

To regulate the heart.

Thou would'st not call some fairy elf

On any April day,

To make thy bard forget himself,
Or wander from his way.

One thing he never can forget,
Whatever change may be,