TO CUPID. OF all the plagues of mortal life, Compared with thee, O cupid knight! I'm not a brainsick bard, to raise Then breathe a thousand piteous lays, But this I'll swear: if e'er poor wight To sigh for love, These three last weeks thou'st crack'd mequite, I swear by Jove. The time hath been when I could stray In loving June, or flow'ry May, And meet fine ladies on my way, With heart full light, Nor heed them farther on the way, But now in every lass's eyes. I see such witching pictures rise; Such darts point out and straitway rise As reason's cautious power defies, And self controul. Now hear thou peace destroying knave! But fly from me; For hence I swear by all that's grave, C. S. THE PAVILION, BRIGHTON. IT was not until the year 1784, that Brighton could boast of any other advantage than being a convenient sea-port, when our present Sovereign, (then Prince of Wales), first began to make it an occasional summer retreat; and the partiality of His Royal Highness for the town increasing, induced him to expend au immense sum in beautifying and adding to the size of his residence, then known by the name of the Marine Pavilion.' In 1816, or 1817, the building of the present gorgeous palace' was commenced; but so complicated was the nature of the design, that although seven years have passed away, it is not yet considered to be finished. The style is completely oriental, and said to be a copy of the Alambra, near Granada, built during the Moors possession of Spain. The principal front occupies near six hundred feet; and the pinnacles of the highest domes are one hundred feet in height from the level of the earth. The walls are of brick, covered with mastick. The cupolas are composed of iron. The whole space of ground covered by this building, is supposed to be thirty-four thousand square yards, or rather more than seven acres. Of the interior, the Royal Banqueting Room is considered the most elegant; being sixty feet long and upwards of forty wide. In the centre is a large dome, painted to represent clouds. This room is situated at the southern extremity of the building. In the middle of the palace are three magnificent drawing rooms; and at the northern end is the music saloon, in which His Majesty, (who has ever been acknowledged a vocalist,) often passes the evening. The stables were built previous to the palace, and are said to have cost near two hundred thousand pounds. They contain stalls for seventy horses, within a circular area, yet are very seldom used, in consequence of some defect in the ventilation. POPE'S VILLA AND GROTTO. THE relics of great men are always dear to the philosophic mind; hence their residences are in most cases, regarded with the greatest veneration by after ages. Nothing can be more gratifying to the lover of genius, than these interesting tributes to the memory of departed worth and excellence. Among these relics must be noticed Pope's Villa at Twickenham. In his lifetime the house was humble and confined. The centre building only was the residence of Pope. Sir William Stanhope, who purchased it on his death, added the two wings, and enlarged the gardens. Over an arched way, leading to the new gardens, is a bust of Pope in marble, under which are these lines, by Earl Nugent: The humble roof, the garden's scanty liue, Ill suit the genius of a bard divine: But fancy now displays a fairer scope, And Stanhope's plans unfold the soul of Pope. The lawn afterwards was enlarged; and towards the margin of the river, propped with uncommon care, stand the two weeping willows planted by Pope himself. They who can cherish each memorial upon classic ground, will rejoice to find that these trees (one of which is one of the finest of its kind, a vegetable curiosity) are as flourishing as ever. Slips of this tree are annually transmitted to 'different parts; and, in 1789, the late Empress of Russia had some planted in her own garden at Petersburgh. The once celebrated grotto is no longer remarkable but for having been erected under the immediate direction of our bard. The dilapidations of time, aud the pious thefts of visitors, who select the spars, ores, and even the common flints, as so many sacred relics, have almost brought it to ruin. It no longer forms a "camera obscura;" nor does" the thin alabaster lamp of an orbicular form" now "irradiate the star of looking glass" placed in the centre of it. Even " the perpetual rill that echoed through the cavern, day and night," is no longer in existence. In two adjoining apertures in the rock are placed a Ceres and a Bacchus, an excellent bust of Pope, and some other figures. In the right cavity, which opens to the river, by a small window latticed with iron bars, our hard sat, it is said, when he composed some of his happiest verses. At the extremity next the garden is this inscription, from Horace, on white marble: Secretum iter et fallentis semita vitæ. In another grotto, which passes under a road to the stables, and connects the pleasure-grounds, are two busts, in Italian marble, of Sir William Stanhope and the Earl of Chesterfield. In a niche opposite each, is a Roman urn, of exquisite workmanship. Masses of stone are scattered round, in imitation of rocks; and wild plants and hardy forest trees are planted on each side, to give a sylvan rudeness to the scene. From this spot, after visiting the orangery, &c. you are led to a small obelisk, erected by the filial piety of our poet, with this tender and pathetic inscription: Ah! EDITHA, MATRUM OPTIMA, VALE! 'Tis now the very witching time of night; When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Shakspeare. TWELVE o'clock at night, leads a very different life in town and in the country. In London the only stars it ever sees are those of the chalky firmament of ball-rooms or on the breasts of gallant knights: its only lights are wax candles and ladies eyes and if it were even inclined to dose, the thunder of rolling carrages, and the roar of footmen's artillery, would "murder sleep." In the country, midnight is as tranquil as the grave, and melancholy as the church-yard, when its approach is announced by the iron tongue of time, the owl hoots in concert with the bell, and the tender virgin hides her moistened forehead deep between the sheets, while her snowy bosom palpitates with "thick coming fancies and horrible imaginings!" IN the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties of England, I had struck into one of those crossroads that lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation of which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be found in the villages which lie on the great coach roads. I determined to pass the night there, and having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighbouring scenery. My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of grey. wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, but in the. afternoon it had cleared up; and though sullen clouds still hung over head, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. I had seated myself on a half-sunken tomb-stone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes, and early friends-on those who were distant, and those who were dead; and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it some |