Heroes at least of gentler kind are they,

Against whose swords no weeping widows pray,

No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their way.
Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress'd,
Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest;
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,
Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain;
Whom justice pitying, chides from place to place,
A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race,
Who cheerful looks assume, and play the parts
Of happy rovers with repining hearts;
Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain
Of tragic woe, feel spirits light and vain,
Distress and hope-the mind's, the body's wear,
The man's affliction, and the actor's tear:
Alternate times of fasting and excess

Are yours, ye smiling children of distress.

Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems,
And with your varying views and restless schemes,
Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams.
Yet keen those griefs-ah! what avail thy charms,
Fair Juliet! what that infant in thine arms;
What those heroic lines thy patience learns,
What all the aid thy present Romeo earns,
Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain,
With all thy plaintive sisters to complain?

Nor is there lack of labour-To rehearse,
Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse;
To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite;
To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night;
To dress in gaudy patchwork, and to force
The mind to think on the appointed course;—
This is laborious, and may be defined
The bootless labour of the thriftless mind.

There is a veteran dame; I see her stand
Intent and pensive with her book in hand;
Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part,
Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart;
Across the room she paces, gets her tone,
And fits her features for the Danish throne;
To-night a queen-I mark her motion slow,
I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know.
Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try

For strength of arms and energy of eye;
With vigour lost, and spirits worn away,
Her pomp and pride she labours to display;

And when awhile she's tried her part to act,
To find her thoughts arrested by some fact;
When struggles more and more severe are seen
In the plain actress than the Danish queen-
At length she feels her part, she finds delight,
And fancies all the plaudits of the night:
Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,
And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach;
But as the mist of vanity again

Is blown away, by press of present pain,
Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies
For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies;
Then to her task she sighing turns again—
"Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!"
And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing,
Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing?
Panting for breath, and forced her voice to drop,
And far unlike the inmate of the shop,
Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay,
Laugh'd off at night the labours of the day;
With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers,
And sister converse pass'd the evening hours;
But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong,
Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong;
The morning call and counter were her dread,
And her contempt the needle and the thread:
But when she read a gentle damsel's part,
Her woe, her wish!-she had them all by heart.
At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,
Who spake of love till sigh re-echo'd sigh;
He told in honey'd words his deathless flame,
And she his own by tender vows became;
Nor ring nor license needed souls so fond,
Alphonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond:
And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd,
Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd.

Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,
See her! the grief and scandal of the troop;
A wretched martyr to a childish pride,
Her woe insulted, and her praise denied:
Her humble talents, though derided, used,
Her prospects lost, her confidence abused;
All that remains-for she not long can brave
Increase of evils-is an early grave.

Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed
What dreams ye cherish, and what books

ye

read.

From The Borough.

THE QUACK NURSE.

Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh,
To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry?
That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note,
Which came with vigour from the opening throat;
When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes,
And there was life and spirit in the cries;
Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep

Is all we hear; sensation is asleep:

The boy was healthy, and at first express'd
His feelings loudly, when he fail'd to rest;

When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb, cry aloud was what pertain'd to him;

To

Then the good nurse (who, had she borne a brain,
Had sought the cause that made her babe complain)
Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied

To set the cry, and not the cause, aside;
She gave her powerful sweet without remorse,
The sleeping cordial-she had tried its force;
Repeating oft: the infant, freed from pain,
Rejected food, but took the dose again,
Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express'd,
That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest:
Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt
Remains but quickly he will rest without.

From The Borough.

THIS poet, whose works have been consigned in the present day to unmerited neglect, was born in London, on the 9th of November, 1757. He was educated at Harrow, and at the age of seventeen he followed the steps of his father, who was a Colonel in the Guards, by purchasing a commission in the 10th Dragoons. The spare time of the young officer, while his companions were engaged in amusement or dissipation, was honourably and usefully spent in the pursuits of literature; and on quitting the army, which he did in 1780, he purchased Beirs Mount, near Southampton, once the residence of the Earl of Peterborough, and a favourite visiting place of Pope, and there continued his studies in the Classics and poetry for several years. In 1791, however, his love of literary society induced him to settle permanently in London, and seven years afterwards he published his admired translation of Wieland's Oberon. In 1816, he visited Italy, where he wrote a series of poems upon the scenery and ancient remem brances of that country, and published it under the title of Italy, which work constitutes the best of his poetical productions. Even when he had passed the age of seventy, such was still the energy and activity of his mind, that he commenced a translation of Homer, and lived to complete it. He died in London, on the 30th of December, 1833.

The writings of Sotheby were numerous, consisting, besides original poems, of translations from the Latin and Greek Classics, and from the German authors, the latter of which he was one of the first to introduce to the knowledge of English readers. During his life-time, his reputation as a poet was chiefly limited to a literary circle; and since that period, his works, notwithstanding their merits, have made no progress towards general celebrity. The cause of this it is impossible to assign: it forms one of the thousand literary anomalies of the present age, into the discussion of which we have no desire to enter. It is enough to say, that a perusal of his neglected volumes, and especially of his Italy, will convince an unbiassed reader that he was more worthy of popularity than many whose names are more frequently before the public.

TIVOLI.

Spirit! who lov'st to live unseen,

By brook, or pathless dell,

Where wild woods burst the rocks between,
And floods, in streams of silver sheen,

Gush from their flinty cell!

Or where the ivy weaves her woof,
And climbs the crag alone,

Haunts the cool grotto, daylight proof,
Where loitering drops that wear the roof
Turn all beneath to stone.

Shield me from summer's blaze of day,
From noon-tide's fiery gale,

And as thy waters round me play,
Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay,

Till twilight spreads her veil.

Then guide me where the wandering moon

Rests on Mæcenas' wall,

And echoes at night's solemn noon

In Tivoli's soft shades attune
The peaceful waterfall.

Again they float before my sight,
The bower, the flood, the glade;
Again on yon romantic height
The Sybil's temple towers in light,
Above the dark cascade.

Down the steep cliff I wind my way
Along the dim retreat,

And, 'mid the torrents' deafening bray,
Dash from my brow the foam away,
Where clashing cataracts meet.

And now I leave the rocks below,
And issuing forth from night,
View on the flakes that sun-ward flow,
A thousand rainbows round me glow,
And arch my way with light.

Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,
Fresh flowers my path perfume,
Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe,
And from the groves that bend beneath
Low trail their purple bloom.

Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,
Dark flood, and rivulet clear,

That wind, where'er you wander by,
A stream of beauty on the eye,
Of music on the ear:-

And thou, that when the wandering moon Illumed the rocky dell,

Did'st to my charmed ear attune

The echoes of Night's solemn noon,

Spirit unseen! farewell!

Farewell!-o'er many a realm I

My natal isle to greet,

go,

Where summer sunbeams mildly glow, And sea-winds health and freshness blow

O'er Freedom's hallow'd seat.