Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally and combat the ruiner :
Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

1 Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,

Your bumble Servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

MIDST the clamour of e Which triumph forces f ef dares to mingle her And quells the rapture

start.

STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

IDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart;
ief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasures

start.

Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; uebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

live the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: et they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle1 Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.2

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,—

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

1 "

With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd.'
Pope on Parnell.

2 This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier: growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE.

AN ELEGY ON THE

MRS. MA

GooD people all, w

Lament for mada
Who never wanted
From those who

The needy seldom
And always fou
She freely lent to
Who left a pled

She strove the ne
With manners
And never follow

Unless when s

At church, in sil
With hoop of
She never slumb
But when she

Her love was so
By twenty be

The king himse
When she h

1

AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.1

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her—
When she has walk'd before.

1 See The Bee, p. 128.

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.2

2 This poem is an imitation of the chanson, called 'Le fameux la Galisse, homme imaginaire,' in fifty stanzas, printed in the Menagiana, iv. 191.

'Messieurs, vous plait-il d'ouir
L'air du fameux la Galisse,
Il pourra vous réjouir,

Pourvu qu'il vous divertisse.