And choked up valleys from our mansion bar 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, Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated, Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the next; In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ; "I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea." The doctor looked wise: "A slow fever," he said: "Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs! Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed, "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. 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 And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear I may look back on every sorrow past, SOUTH AMERICAN SCENERY. BENEATH aërial cliffs and glittering snows, Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by; Checkering with partial shade, the beams of noon, Helen Maria Williams. { Born 1762. 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! Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye, The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; 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, And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call, |