a letter for the chevalier. By this Francis invited him to return to court that he might acknowledge his wife in public; and in confideration of his marriage, the king conferred on him the government of Burgundy. "Ah! my moft gracious liege, cried Bayard; how well do you de ferve the love I ever had for you! I would now die content but for the thought of leaving a widow in defpair." Pescaire, the greatest enemy of the French, but full of admiration for Bayard, had no fooner learned that he was wounded than he ran to him and, cried, "Ah! chevalier, would to God I had kept you fafe and found as my prifoner, that you might have experienced by the civilities I would have fhewn you, how much I efteem your valour and high prowefe; but fince there is no remedy for death, I pray God to receive your great foul into his hands, as I am fure he will." He then fet a guard over the chevalier, with, order, on pain of death, to defend him and not to quit him as long as he had life. Bayard foon ofter expired.

Madame de Randan, in her retirement at Ferte was wholly employed in think ing on her honoured Lord, whofe return

fhe was always fondly anticipating, without dreaming of the fad tidings that were about to be announced to her.

Francis had been informed by a page of the death of the chevalier. This con fiderate prince took measures for preventing the fatal news from reaching ber by furprife, and went to pay her a vifit that he might weep with her and endeavour to comfort her when it should arrive.

In a fhort time Palice fuddenly entered the caftle: the widow met him with looks of joy which fhe faw were not returned:

Alas! faid he, I know it, my husband is dead." He is, faid Palice: he has fallen in the field of glory; the pride of his friends, the admiration of his enemies. He recommended you to heaven with his lateft breath, and his laft requeft was that you would live for the fake of his child."

The widow made a fign to Palice to leave her alone for a few moments; after which the fent for her child, took her in her arms and killed her; then recommending her to the care of the king and of Palice, the fell back in her chair and expired.◄

And every body knows he wants a hire,
And every living mortal fcorns a liar.
SIR ROB his bounty for his pimp referves,
The lacquey fattens-but the Laureat
ftarves.

Add-that the dull, the bufy, and the great,

With boundless ridicule your labours treat;
For almost nobody has tafte, or time,
To feel and cultivate the fweets of rhyme.
The doctor must trepan, and purge, and
bleed,

The priest has work enough to prop his creed;

And while our reafon and our faith debate
To paint a heretic's tremendous fate,
The lawyer wrangles in defence of knaves;
For ftallions, whores, and port, the GAME
LAW Juftice raves;

Merchants, if men of fenfe, mind only trade;

Enfigns would always ftrut on the paradeAnd which of these d'ye think will condefceud

To hear the finest verse that e'er was penn'd?

Such grofs ftupidity we fcarce would

While fome with air baloons amufe the mob,

Some fail in fearch of rushes round the globe t,

Defcribe the age and tonnage of the earth, What maggot or what egg-fhell gives us birth;

Teach cannoneers to level and to load,
Obferve a planet, or diffect a toad!
Tell the velocities of found and light,
Or preach that fractur'd limbs are firm
and right;

Or, straining mental and material light, Defcry a fhip five hundred leagues from land,

And prove the Day of Judgment just at hand ¶.

Bards, in all ages, have been very poor, "And fome now living-beg from door to door;

"The jingling tribe are justly rank'd as ́ fools,

"Who never will abide by Reason's ruleg

" And

taire.

man.

Why screams the death-bird from the tree?

Why bring the winds the voice of mourn ing?

The scream, the winds, proclaim to me, That Athol fees no more the morning.

Why finks fo low my heart with fear, And why fo chill my blood with hor ror?

Again the fhadowy forms are near,

In all the eloquence of forrow.

Is it? It is my Mary's fhade,

And near her flits her hapless lover; How fhall I meet the injur'd maid,

Or how my contrite heart difcover?

No found that fenfelefs ear can reach,
Nor fees that eye my fotrows dowing?

To Athol all her woes are owing.

Thofe lips are now in filence closed,

And cold and pale that lovely bofom; That form is to the worm expofed,

Who feeds him on the fallen bloffom.

'Twas Athol's tongue convey'd the tale, Which broke that heart with love and Sorrow,

Which bid the blooming check be pale,
And cold upon the banks of Yairow.

Twas Athol, urged by jealous fear,
Who feigned too well the guiltlefs ftory,
Which fill'd that eye with many a tear,
And ftain'd thy faithful Connal's glory.
Little did wretched Athol think

That Mary was fo true a lover,
And little knew on Yarrow brink
How foon her fenfelefs fhade would ho

ver.

The murmuring wave, the whipering air,

That fmites my guilty foul with horror, The winds to Athol howl despair,

And bid him never fee to-morrow.

Pale phantoms of the injur'd dead,

And reckless winds that hear my anguilh,

'Twas here by love and forrow led,

'Twas here that Mary ceafed to' languish:

Ye know that from this bleeding heart,

Her loved idea cannot part,
Which mourns the maiden loft for ever;

Nor long fhall death our fortune fever.
My tears have fell on Mary's grave,
My hands have deck'd the fod with
willow;

Then hafte thee Athol to the wave,

And reft thee on the watery pillow.

The wandering fream thy form fhall hide,
Let fome fod tell the palling over
Where once the wretched Athol died,
A faithful, though a guilty lover.

One look he caft on Mary's grave,

High rofe his heart with inward for

row,"

His hafty foot fteps fought the wave,
Low funk the hapless youth in Yarrow.
In the fair bloffom of his age,

He fell bereft of life and glory;
O may his woe his crimes affwage,
And guiltless tears bedew his flory.