And as the best way to divert their abuse (If we use them at all) is to give them right use, I hereby ordain, that in future the word

Be confined to the masculine, vain, and absurd, And that all real women, ev'n though they may speak Not with Sappho's eyes only, but even her Greek, All the flow'rs of the flock, the true breathers of sweets,

Take their name from the queen of the sylvan retreats ;

From the hue which but now had your eyes fix'd upon The Violet, charmer of all that light on it. [it,"No Blue," twill be said, "is the she who so bears her; She's VIOLET:-happy the bosom that wears her.'

Here somebody happening to cough where we sat, Phoebus threw up a frown at us none could look at,An eye of so sudden a flame, and tremendous, I thought he was going to "flare up" and end us; But seeing us all look submissive, he shone

With the former mild beams in his hair, and went

on:

"And in truth it depends on yourselves, darling creatures,

Which shade of the hue shall illustrate your natures; For though ye set out with the right one, nay, though I myself, as I now do, the blessing bestow,

Yet the stockings themselves, I must tell you, are fated,

And just as they're worn, will be lov'd or get hated;

Remaining true violet,-glimpses of heaven,-
As long as you're wise, and your tempers are even
But if you grow formal, or fierce, or untrue,
Alas, gentle colour! sweet ankle, adieu !
Thou art chang'd; and Love's self at the changing
looks blue.

Seize the golden occasion then.-You, who already
Are gentle,* remain so; and you, who would steady
Your natures, and mend them, and make out your
call

To be men's best companions, be such, once for all.
And remember, that nobody, woman or man,
Ever charm'd the next ages, since writing began,
Who thought by shrewd dealing sound fame to
arrive at,

Had one face in print, and another in private.

Be

"UNAFFECTEDNESS, GENTLENESS, LOVINGNESS.This

your motto. And now give your teacher a kiss."

He said and the whole house appearing to rise, Rooms and all, in a rapture of love, tow'rds the skies,

He did really, by some divine privilege of his,
Give and take of the dames an ubiquitous kiss ;
Which exalted us all so, and rapt us so far,
We undoubtedly touch'd at some exquisite star;
Very likely the morning-star, Venus's own,
For the odour proclaim'd it some violet zone :
And to prove 'twas no dream, any more than the
bedding

Which Prince Camaralzaman had, or Bedreddin,
I woke, just as they did, at home, about seven,
The moment Miss Landon was saying, "Good
Heaven !"

*The word "gentle" is here to be understood in its fine old sense as implying, in the inner nature, all which gentle manners ought to imply, and which, when really gentle, they do. Such is the meaning of the word in Chaucer, Spenser and Shakspeare; in Mr. Wordsworth's

"Gentle lady married to the Moor;"

and in the "cor gentile " and "Donna gentil" of the Italians.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THOUGHTS OF THE AVON,

ON THE 28TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1817.

Ir is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.

The banks of Avon must look well to-day;
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure ;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards in their sunniest robes
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the houses' side?
As if I could not in a minute rest

In leafy fields, quiet, and self-possest,

Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London with its wealth of books?

It is not that I envy autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,

That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one-
Shakspeare; nor yet, oh no-that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.

*

No; but it is, that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,*
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore

Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore;
Marian, who makes my heart and very rhymes
run o'er.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

* Pershore, or Pearshore, on the Avon; so named probably from its abundance of pears.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Öf fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;
My light, where'er Í go,
My bird, when prison-bound,
My hand in hand companion,-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say

"He has departed"

"His voice"-"his face"-is gone ;

To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on;

Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!
This silence too the while-