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natch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball,
. meteor, traced by none, tho' seen by all ;
ind, when her shattered nerves forbid to roam,
A very spleen-rehearse the girls at home.

Last the grey Dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles the age denounces ;
Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle
Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile.
The
scourge

and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal ;
With modern Belles eternal warfare wages,
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages ;
And shuffles round to bear her tale to all,
Like some old Ruin,“ nodding to its fall !"

Thus Woman makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft

, with energy that scorns controul, At once lights up the features of the soul ; Unlocks each thought chained down by coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! -And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.

Born on the stage—thro' every shifting scene,
Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene,
Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired!
And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired?
Thus from her mind all artifice she flings,
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things !
To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows ;
For all that life endears—to you she owes.

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SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile.
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,
And

move, and breathe delicious sighs !

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish—and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps !
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
“And now, how like a saint she sleeps !
A seraph in the realms of rest !

Sleep on secure! Above controul,
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee!
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary !

From Delphi's venerable shade ?
The temple rocks, the laurel waves!
“ The God! the God!" the Sibyl cries.*

Her figure swells ! she foams, she raves !
Her figure swells to more than mortal size !

Streams of rapture roll along,

Silver notes ascend the skies :
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song,

Oh catch it, ere it dies !
The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o’er,
The holy harpings charm no more.
In vain she checks the God's controul;
His madding spirit fills her frame,
And moulds the features of her soul,

Breathing a prophetic flame.
The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths unclose!
And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows!

III. 1.
Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead !
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare

Even whisper to the idle air ;
Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed.

• Æn. VI. 46, &c.

Shivered by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.
Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly, *
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string !
At

every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar;

Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below.

III. 2.

Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears !

The red-cross squadrons madly rage,

And mow thro' infancy and age;
Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.

Veiling from the eye of day,

Penance dreams her life away ; In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise.

* See Tacitus, l. xiv. c. 29. + This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem in the last year

of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, IV 2.

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