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ter, but in 1812 became Duchess of Devonshire. Being left again a widow, she quitted England, and established herself at Rome in 1815. She spent her life there in a continued and splendid patronage of the arts. Her apartments were adorned with pictures of all the living painters of Rome, of whose talents a just and advantageous idea might be there formed. She edited the translation of Virgil, by Annibal Caro, and besides having it splendidly printed, employed the ablest artists of Italy in adorning it with engravings, representing the places described by the Latin poet. She gave similar editions of a translation of Delille's "Passage of St Gothard," addressed to the first Duchess of Devonshire, and of a translation of the Fifth Satire of Horace, describing his journey from Rome to Brundusium. She was projecting a magnificent edition of Dante, executed

in the same style. There was a column in Rome, of which only half was above ground, between the Capitol and the Temple of Jupiter Stator, concerning the origin of which antiquaries had greatly differed in opinion. The Duchess caused the earth to be dug from around this column, when it was discovered to be the one raised in 608 by Smaragdus the Exarch, in honour of the Emperor Phocas. This research threw considerable light upon the general topography of ancient Rome. Her apartments were the resort of all distinguished British travellers, and of all persons from every country distinguished by their rank, their knowledge, and their merit. She is also understood to have bestowed liberally both on public institutions and private charity. She died at Rome, on the 30th of March, 1824, of an inflammatory illness.

FUGITIVE AND OCCASIONAL PIECES.

STANZAS,

BY LORD BYRON.

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear-
Too loved of all to die.-

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye;
The tears refuse to start;

But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet dropping harden there→
They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.

TO MONS. ALEXANDRE.

Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good
To carry two visages under one hood:

What should folk say to you? who have faces such plenty,
That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty!

Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us in truth,
Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth?
Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse?
Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house?
Each live thing, did I ask? each dead implement too!
A work-shop in your person-saw, chisel, and screw,
Above all, are you one individual? I know

You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co.
But I think you're a troop-an assemblage—a mob—
And that I, as the Sheriff, must take up the job;
And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse!
Must read you the Riot Act, and bid you disperse !
WALTER SCOTT.

ABBOTSFORD, 23d April.

SONNET.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM-LISLE BOWLES.

WHEN last we parted, thou wert young and fair,
How beautiful let fond remembrance say!
Alas! since then old Time has stol'n away
Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare.

So hath it perish'd like a thing of air,

The dream of love and youth !-Now both are grey,
Yet still remembering that delightful day,

Though Time with his cold touch hath blanch'd my hair,
Though I have suffer'd many years of pain,
Since then; though I did never think to live
To hear that voice, or see those eyes again,
I can a sad, but cordial greeting give,
And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer,
Lady, as when I loved thee young and fair!

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ON FIRST HEARING CARADORI SING.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

MUSE of immortal grace, and heavenly song!
No more despairing search the mortal throng,
One spirit like thyself, 'mid human kind,
With voice as sweet, and looks as fair, to find;
Oh! listen, and suspend thy parting wings,
Listen! for, hark! 'tis Caradori sings!-
Hear, in the cadence of each thrilling note,
Tones, scarce of earth, and sounds seraphic float;
Mark in the radiant smile that lights her face,
Mark, in her look, a more than earthly grace,
And say, repaid for every labour past,
"Beautiful Spirit! thou art found at last!"

TO THE CHASE-FIELD AWAY.

(From the Annals of Sporting and Fancy Gazette.)

"Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy."-Old Song.

HILLIHO-hilliho! to the Chase-field away,
The sun he is up in his chariot of day,

And the dew is his tear, and the light cloud his frown,
That you still snore away on your pillow of down :-
Hilliho-hilliho! snatch the coif from your head,
And put on the sportsman's gay doublet of red.

Iilliho-hilliho! the steed neighs in the stall,
A challenge as gay as the war-trumpet's call,
And the splendour of Spirity, the sinew of fame,
Lights up his dark eye, and his nostril of flame;
Hilliho-hilliho!-press his sleek sides and ride
Where the glad hearts are met by the bonny brake side,

Hilliho-hilliho!-there are Stuart, and Ray,
And Marlow astride on his Kill-devil bay :

And Wyndham, whose goodness all true fellows know,
At the tail of the fox, or the face of the foe:
Hilliho-hilliho! round the covert we wheel,
The old cap on our brow, the old spur at our heel.

Hilliho-billiho! there's a voice on the gale,
And echo, enamour'd, repeateth the tale;
The game it is roused, and the welkin has rung
With the best of all music, the hound's jovial tongue :
Hilliho-hilliho! we compete with the wind,
And where now is the craven to loiter behind?

Hilliho-hilliho! like wild spirits we fly,

And our track is as bright as a meteor of sky:
Hark forward through valley, o'er hill, clash along,
Diana herself seems to ride in our throng-
Hilliho-hilliho! see our proud coursers bound
To the horn's lusty scream, and the song of the hound.

Hilliho-hilliho! the long day it is o'er,

And our field it is scatter'd, so gallant before;
Some fell in the rough brake, some fell in the plain,
But their fame moults no feather, their badges no stain:
Hilliho-hilliho! ay, again they shall ride

In our race for the brush, at the green covert side!

Salisbury, 1824.

A. M. TEMPLETON, Jun.

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

["Some of the Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent. and that it brings them news from the other world."—Picart's Ceremonies and Religion Customs.]

THOU art come from the Spirit's land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the Spirit's land!

Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair

In the light of that distant shore,

And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more.

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