Secreted from the vulgar eye,

And baffle all the powers of song?—

A brazen throat, an iron tongue,

(Which poets wish for, when at length
Their subject soars above their strength,)
Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse,
Who only reads the public news
And idly utters what she gleans
From chronicles and magazines,
Recoiling feels her feeble fires,
And blushing to her shades retires,
Alas! she knows not how to treat
The finer follies of the great,

Where even, Democritus, thy sneer
Were vain as Heraclitus' tear.

Suffice it that by just degrees

They reached all heights, and rose with ease; (For beauty wins its way, uncalled,

And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.)
Each gambling dame she knew, and he
Knew every shark of quality;

From the grave cautious few who live
On thoughtless youth, and living thrive,
To the light train who mimic France,
And the soft sons of nonchalance.
While Jenny, now no more of use,
Excuse succeeding to excuse,
Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew
To shilling whist, and chicken loo.

Advanced to fashion's wavering head,
They now, where once they followed, led.
Devised new systems of delight,

A-bed all day, and up all night,
In different circles reigned supreme.

Wives copied her, and husbands him;
Till so divinely life ran on,

So separate, so quite bon-ton,
That meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tête-à-tête across the fire;
Looked in each other's face awhile,
With half a tear, and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face,
Now scarce retained its faintest streak;
So sallow was his leathern cheek.
She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.
Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.

Both wished to speak, both hung the head. At length it burst.- "Tis time,' he cries, "When tired of folly, to be wise.

Are you too tired?'-then checked a groan. She wept consent, and he went on:

'How delicate the married life! You love your husband, I my wife ! Not even satiety could tame, Nor dissipation quench the flame. 'True to the bias of our kind, "Tis happiness we wish to find. In rural scenes retired we sought In vain the dear, delicious draught, Though blest with love's indulgent store, We found we wanted something more. 'Twas company, 'twas friends to share

The bliss we languished to declare.
"Twas social converse, change of scene,
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen;
Short absences to wake desire,
And sweet regrets to fan the fire.

We left the lonesome place; and found, In dissipation's giddy round,

A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life and not to break.
As, from the nest not wandering far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feathered tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move,

Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow,
Or taste the blossom on the bough.
We sported freely with the rest;
And still, returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.

'Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight;
In pleasures every hour employ,
Immersed in all the world calls joy;
Our affluence easing the expense
Of splendour and magnificence;
Our company, the exalted set

Of all that's gay, and all that's great:
Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-
We live, my dear, too much asunder.'
The moral of my tale is this,

Variety's the soul of bless;

But such variety alone

As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power

The life-blood pours its genial store;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there:
So real happiness below

Must from the heart sincerely flow;
Nor, listening to the syren's song,
Must stray too far, or rest too long.
All human pleasures thither tend;
Must there begin, and there must end;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

THIS poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his Pollio,' his 'Concubine,'-a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, which became popular,-and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near

Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788.

His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to Homer. Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, as Burns says, of 'the first poet.'

CUMNOR HALL.

1 The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.

2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile.

3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

4 No more thou com'st, with lover's speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.