185 worth.'* The plot is interesting, and the versification easy and musical. Mickle assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads'—in which 'Cumnor Hall' and other pieces of his first appeared; and though in this style of composition he did not copy the direct simplicity and unsophisticated ardour of the real old ballads, he had much of their tenderness and pathos. A still stronger proof of this is afforded by a Scottish song, 'The Mariner's Wife,' but better known as 'There's nae Luck about the House,' which was claimed by a poor schoolmistress, named Jean Adams, who died in the Town's Hospital, Glasgow, in 1765. It is probable that Jean Adams had written some song with the same burthen (There's nae luck about the house'), but the popular lyric referred to seems to have been the composition of Mickle. An imperfect, altered, and corrected copy was found among his manuscripts after his death; and his widow being applied to, confirmed the external evidence in his favour, by an express declaration that her husband had said the song was his own, and that he had explained to her the Scottish words. It is the fairest flower in his poetical chaplet. The delineation of humble matrimonial happiness and affection which the song presents, is almost unequalled. Beattie added a stanza to this song, containing a happy Epicurean fancy, elevated by the situation and the faithful love of the speaker-which Burns says is worthy of the first poet'— The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Mickle would have excelled in the Scottish dialect, and in portraying Scottish life, had he truly known his own strength, and trusted to the impulses of his heart instead of his ambition. Cumnor Hall. The dews of summer night did fall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies- That issued from that lonely pile. 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. 'Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; I rose up with the cheerful morn, If that my beauty is but small, 'And when you first to me made suit, Sir Walter intended to have named his romance Cumnor Hall, but was persuadedwisely, we think-by Mr. Constable, his publisher, to adopt the title of Kenilworth. E. L. v. iv.-7 'Yes! now neglected and despised, 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love 's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beanty will decay: What floweret can endure the storm? 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by? "Mong rural beauties I was one; Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my passing beauty rare. But, Leicester--or I much am wrongIt is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. "Then, Leicester, why, again I pleadThe injured surely nay repineWhy didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine ? "Why didst thou praise my humble charms And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the livelong day? 'The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go: Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe. "The simple nymphs! they little know How far more happy 's their estate; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; To be content, than to be great. 'How far less blest am I than them, Daily to pre and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say: "Countess, prepare-thy end is near." 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; Still that dread death-bell smites my There's nae Luck about the House.' The Mariner's Wife, or Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin 's at the door? And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Bring down to me my bigonet, My Turkey slippers I'll put on, Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; His very fit has music in 't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? In the author's manuscript, another verse is added: If Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave, And gin I live to mak him say, I'm blest aboon the lave. The following is the addition made by Dr. Beattie : The cauld blasts of the winter wind But what put parting in my head? The present moment is our ain, The Spirit of the Cape.-From the ‘Lusiad.' A black cloud hovered; nor appeared from far Or through forbidden climes adventurous strayed, * In the author's manuscript button gown.' Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky Than midnight tempest and the mingled roar, Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue rows; And all the storms that own my sovereign sway, Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane, Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew, He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew, CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY (1724-1805) was author of the New Bath Guide,' a light satirical and humorous poem, original in design, and 6 which set an example in this description of composition, that has since been followed in numerous instances, and with great success. Smollett, in his Humphry Clinker,' published five years later, may be almost said to have reduced the 'New Bath Guide' to prose. Many of the characters and situations are exactly the same as those of Anstey. The poem seldom rises above the tone of conversation, but is easy, sportive, and entertaining. The fashionable Fribbles of the day, the chat, scandal, and amusements of those attending the wells, and the canting hypocrisy of some sectarians, are depicted, sometimes with indelicacy, but always with force and liveliness. Mr. Anstey was son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, a gentleman who possessed a considerable landed property, which the poet afterwards inherited. He was educated at Eton School, and elected to King's College, Cambridge, and in both places he distinguished himself as a classical scholar. In consequence of his refusal to deliver certain declamations, Anstey quarreled with the heads of the university, and was denied the usual degree. In the epilogue to the 'New Bath Guide,' he alludes to this circumstance: Granta, sweet Granta, where studious of ease, Seven years did I sleep, and then lost my degrees. · He then went into the army, and married Miss Calvert, sister to his friend John Calvert, Esq. of Allbury Hall, in Hertfordshire, through whose influence he was returned to parliament for the borough of Hertford. He was a frequent resident in the city of Bath, and a favourite in the fashionable and literary coteries of the place. In 1766 was published his celebrated poem, which instantly became popular. He wrote various other pieces-but while the New Bath Guide' was the only thing in fashion,' and relished for its novel and original kind of humour, the other productions of Anstey were neglected by the public, and have never been revived. In the erjoyment of his paternal estate, the poet, however, was independent of the public support, and he took part in the sports of the field up to his eightieth year. While on a visit to his son-in-law, Mr. Bosanquet, at Harnage, Wiltshire, he was taken ill, and died on the 3d of August 1805. The Public Breakfast. Now my lord had the honour of coming down post, To pay his respects to so famous a toast; In hopes he her ladyship's favour might win, By playing the part of a host at an inn. I'm sure he's a person of great resolution, Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution; For he carried us all to a place 'cross the river, And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his liver: He said it would greatly our pleasure promote, If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat: I never as yet could his reason explain, Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain; |