Yet can I not my teeming muse contain, For, fill'd with thee, to curb her fire is vain, And thou so sweet a theme-shalt have her sweetest strain. Yes, gentle Shepherd! thou who tunest thy reed To tell how sweetly thy lov'd Colin sung,Dost merit well for this an equal meed, Dost merit wreaths by every poet hung! Yet ah! I fear-howe'er thy claims divine,— Their praise of thee will ne'er like Colin's shine,— For tho' thou equall'st him-their powers not equal thine. A skilful painter, tho' his nymph be plain, Will with his art create a beauteous form,— But daubers gaze on Venuses in vain, Nor can with e'en one grace their canvass warm ;- The song that sings of thee, would far all songs outgo. Oh! much I love thee when with generous rage Thou dost upbraid it with thy Colin's woe;- May that rude churl who scorns the Muse divine Alive, nor dead, e'er know one Muse's gentle line! But why would'st thou the virgin Queen excuse?— For Essex' wrongs why feel no virtuous ire?Such murder foul deserved an angry MuseAnd should have waked the thunders of thy lyre;'Twas wrong to say in thy too-polished song For deed so base she could repent too long,― Oh no!--for murder ne'er can grief too great belong. When proud Eliza rises in her might, And teaches haughty Spain her power to know, When bleeding Essex sues and sues in vain,— Ah, then fast flow my tears,—and all her glories stain. But why do I thus rashly dare to chide? My eye-balls strain'd, one spot minute to spy So strong, that when but at that spot I gaze, With what a master's hand thou know'st to ope Each passion's cell, and give its form to day; How stands aghast thy Fear,-how smiling Hope,— And oh ! what glories round thy Mercy play; E'en Envy jaundice-eyed his portrait views, And though he can't t' applaud thy skill refuse, Yet with his praises faint he would dispraise thy muse. And when thou chant'st the heav'nly King of Kings,- To soar so high not e'en thy muse had wings— Enough,-'tis time my tedious song to close; Farewell dear bard,—my heart thy spirit knows, My verse receive, tho' cold,—for warm my bosom glows. ON DIVINATIONS, ANAGRAMS, ETC. I HAVE read with much pleasure the letters that have been addressed to you under the signature of "Nugarum Amator," and, as the subjects on which he treats have also formed a part of my desultory reading, I will avail myself of the invitation he holds out, of following his steps, and give you a few similar instances on the same topics. He rightly observes, that the Persians, in their divination, by taking an omen from the opening of a book, chiefly resort to the works of Hafiz. Scott Waring, in his "Tour to Shiraz," mentions the practice as being very common; and states his having in his possession a Diwan-i.e. Hafiz, or collection of his odes, in which the ceremony necessary to be previously gone through, is particularly detailed: in general, however, he says, there is little other ceremony used, than propitiating the poet by some couplet, as this, کاشف هرر ازي حافظ شيرازي "O Hafiz of Shiraz! thou art the opener of all secrets !" But that the custom existed before Hafiz himself, is certain, for the poet frequently mentions it in his poems, and, by his own confession, some times resorted to it ;—thus, in one place, he brings it forward as an excuse for his manner of living:— بغرم توبه سحر گفتم استخاره کنم بهار توبه شکن میرسد چه چاره کنم "I resolved this morning, with an intention of repenting, to consult an omen ;-it proved to be— "The Spring, the breaker of vows, has returned,' What therefore can I do?" By this it will be seen that this divination is not only termed "tufal," as stated by "Nugarum Amator," but also "istukharee." استخاره In speaking of divination by lots, Nugarum cites an instance from the book of Esther, in which it is mentioned that "Pur" was the Hebrew term for this species of oracle. I have to observe, that among the Jews, even of the present time, there is a kind of carnival annually held, which is called "Purim, or the Feast of Lots," and which I doubt not has relation to this very instance, the defeat of Haman. Of anagrams, to enumerate all that have been made would be an endless task; but I cannnot forbear adding a few more, of, I think, equal excellence to those that have been already offered. To match the Greek one on Ptolemy, I present the following from the same author, Lycophron, which pays Arsinoë the pretty compliment of calling her Juno's violet-"Apoivon tov "Hpaç. For single words, as the making is easy, there must be some peculiar felicity in the coincidence, to entitle them to our attention, such as when "Logica" is converted into "caligo;" for logic will, by very many, be readily allowed to be darkness;-or the English one, which hinted to us, that the cry of "opposition" was "O poison Pit!" This is generally known, but not the less happy on that account; and I have therefore mentioned it. It may not be amiss, in the same way, to acquaint Sir Francis Burdett, that his name makes "frantic disturbers.” 66 The fate of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey must be familiar to all my readers: it is not slightly singular, that the letters of his name compose the following sentence, “I fynd murder'd by rogues." But the most remarkable instance with which I am acquainted, is on that sentence in St. John (chap. xviii. v. 33.) where Pilate said to Christ,— "What is truth?" This in Latin would be "quid est veritas ?" and the anagram of it is the most excellent answer that could be given-" est vir qui adest !"—" Behold truth in the man now before you!" Really this is a most beautiful anagram, and, in my opinion, must take precedence of the celebrated one on Nelson. 66 I recollect, too, at the time of Bonaparte's assuming the consular dignity, the following anagrams being made on the words "Revolution Francaise ;-" Un Corse la finira!" The chief beauty of this anagram consisted, very remarkably, in what, at first, appears to be its imperfection, viz. |