Nicholas Amhurst was probably one of those

"Broken tools that tyrants cast away;"

but it is simply justice to mention every circumstance that may be advanced in mitigation of the seeming neglect of his patrons. These men were advanced to power in January 1742, and Amhurst died so early afterwards as the succeding month of April, so that it may be inferred that whatever may have been intended for his reward, time was perhaps wanting to carry. it into effect; and one biographer asserts that he died not of a broken heart, but of a fever, when residing at Twickenham.

The following is one of the most spirited, and least exceptionable specimen of his poetical talents, and is all that the limits of our work will admit.

THE TEST OF LOVE.

To a Friend, who fancied himself in Love.
Oft hast thou told me, Dick, in friendly part,
That the usurper LOVE, has seiz'd thy heart:
But thou art young, and like our sanguine race,
In thy full health may'st well mistake thy case;
For, trust me, Love, that inmate of the mind,
Is
very much mistaken by mankind;
And, for his flame, is oft misunderstood,
The sudden rage and madness of the blood:-
But I, who in that study am grown old,
Will to my friend the certain marks unfold,
By which a real passion he may prove,
And without which he cannot truly love.

How does this tyrant lord it in thy mind?

What symptoms of his empire dost thou find?

Dost thou within perceive the growing wound?
Does thy soul sicken, while thy body's sound?
Does in thy thought some blooming beauty reign,
Whose strong idea mingles joy with pain!
When she appears before thee, does she spread
O'er thy pale, fading cheeks, a sudden red?
Press her soft lips, or touch her lily hand,
Does thy heart flutter, does thy breast expand?
If but her name is mention'd, does it fire
Thy pulses with a quick and fierce desire?
Does ev'ry glance, like Jove's vindictive flame,
Shoot thro' thy veins, and kindle all thy frame?
From hence a real passion you may prove,
For he who wants these symptoms does not love.

Is to one woman all your heart inclin'd?
And can she only charm your constant mind?
For her do all your morning wishes rise?
Does she at night of slumber rob your eyes?
Musing on her, does she alone excite

Your thoughts by day, and all your dreams by night?
Or does your heart, for every nymph you meet,
Own a new passion, and as strongly beat?
Do in your eyes all women seem the same;
And each new face expel the former flame?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
If you love more than one, you do not love.

Does Love, and only Love, invade your heart,
Or is it stricken with a golden dart?
Does the keen arrow from her beauty fly,
Or does her fortune glitter in your eye?
For, in this age, how seldom is it found
That Love alone inflicts the secret wound!

Silver and gold are Cupid's surest arms,

One thousand pounds out-weighs ten thousand charms.
But art thou sure that, in thy tender heart,
These worldly baubles bear no sordid part?
And can'st thou say, sincerely can'st thou say,
Should adverse fortune on thy charmer prey,
That still unchang'd thy passion would remain?
That still thou would'st abide a faithful swain?
If, in the cus'd South-sea, her all were lost,
Still would her eyes their former conquests boast?
And would she, dost thou think, in ev'ry state,
The same emotions in thy soul create ?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For if you sigh for wealth, you do not love.

Again, my friend, incline thy patient ear,--
For thou hast many questions still to hear,-
This chosen damsel, this triumphant she,
Canst thou no blemish in her person see ?
Her temper, shape, her features, and her air,
Though never yet was born a faultless fair,
Do they all please? In body or in mind,
Canst thou no blot nor imperfection find?
Does o'er her skin no mole or pimple rise?
Or do e'en these seem beauties in thy eyes?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For if you spy one fault, you do not love.

Do you within a sudden impulse feel,
To dress, look florid, and appear genteel?
Do you affect to strike the gazing maid

With glittering gems, with velvet, and brocade?
Your snowy wrists do Mecklin pendants grace,..
And do the smartest wigs adorn thy face?

Do you correct your gait, adjust your air,
And bid your tailor take uncommon care?
Before your glass each morning do you stand,
And tie your neckcloth with a critic's hand?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For dressing ever was a mark of love.

Do books and worldly cares no longer please?
Can no diversions give your heart-pains ease?
Have wealth and honours lost their wonted charms?
And does ambition yield to Cupid's arms?

Is your whole frame dissolv'd, by love engross'd,
To study, interest, and preferment lost?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For if aught else prevails, you do not love.

Do all your thoughts, your wishes, and desires,
Comply with her's, and burn with mutual fires?
If she loves balls, assemblies, operas, plays,
Do they in you the same amusement raise ?
If she at Ombre loves to waste the night,
Do you in Ombre take the same delight?
If to the ring her graceful horses prance,
Does your new chariot to the ring advance?
If in the Mall she chuses to appear,
Or if at court, do you attend her there?
What she commends, does your officious tongue
Approve, and censure what she judges wrong?
Are all her loves and her aversions thine?
In all her joys and sorrows dost thou join?
Art thou, my friend, united to her frame,
Thy heart, thy passions, and thy soul the same?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For without sympathy you cannot love,

Didst thou e'er strive, once more sincerely say,
With friends and wine to drive thy cares away?
And have e'en these endeavours prov'd in vain,
Will neither friends nor wine remove thy pain?
Dost thou sit pensive, full of thought, repine,
And in thy turn forget the circling wine?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For if wine drowns your flame you do not love.

Art thou a tame, resign'd, submissive swain?
Canst thou bear scorn, repulses, and disdain?
Can no ill-treatment nor unkind returns,

Quench the strong flame that in thy marrow burns?
But do they rather aggravate thy smart,
And give a quicker edge to every dart?
Does not each scornful look or angry jest,
Drive the keen passion deeper in thy breast?
Do not her poignant questions and replies,
Thy partial ears agreeably surprize?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For if you can resent, you do not love.

Whole live-long days you have enjoy'd her sight; Say, were your eyes e'er sated with delight? Did not you wish each moment to return? Did not your breast with stronger ardours burn? Did not each view another view provoke?

And every meeting give a deeper stroke?

From hence a real passion you may prove,
For there is no satiety in love.

Perhaps you judge it an imprudent flame, And therefore live at distance from the dame:

But what is the effect? does absence heal

Those wounds, which smarting in her sight you feel?