and that he, who has given us the dominion of all things that live on earth, has not forgotten the creatures which he has intrusted to our sway. Even in the deserts, in which our sway is not acknowledged, where the lion, if man approached, would see no lord before whom to tremble, but a creature far feebler than the ordinary victims of his hunger, or his wrath-in the dens and the wildernesses, there are pleasures which owe nothing to us, but which are not the less felt by the fierce hearts that inhabit the dreadful recesses. They, too, have their happiness; because they too were created by a Power that is good-and of whose beneficent design, in forming the world, with all its myriads of myriads of varied races of inhabitants, the happiness of these was a part. "Nor," as it has been truly said, "is the design abortive. It is a happy world after all. The air, the earth, the water, teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon, or a summer evening, on whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view. The insect youth are on the wing.' Swarms of new-born flies are trying their pinions in the air. Their sportive motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous activity, their continual change of place without use or purpose, testify their joy and the exultation which they feel in their lately discovered faculties. A bee, amongst the flowers in spring, is one of the most cheerful objects that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all enjoyment; so busy and so pleased: yet it is only a specimen of insect life, with which, by reason of the animal being half domesticated, we happen to be better acquainted than we are with that of others."1

Such is the seemingly happy existence of that minute species of life which is so abundant in every part of the great scene in which we dwell. I shall not attempt to trace the happiness upward, through all the alacrity, and seeming delight in existence, of the larger animals-an ever-flowing pleasure, of which those who have had the best opportunities of witnessing multitudes of gregarious animals feeding together, and rejoicing in their common pasture, will be the best able to appreciate the amount. All have means of enjoyment within themselves; and, if man be the happy sovereign of the creation, he is not the sovereign of miserable subjects.

Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine,

Earth for whose use ? Pride answers, 'tis for mine.
For me, kind Nature wakes her genial power,
Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower;

'Paley's Nat. Theol. 8vo. p. 392.

Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew
The juice nectarious, and the balmy dew;
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
My footstool earth-my canopy the skies.1

All these sources of blessings, that are infinite as the living beings that enjoy them, were made, indeed, for man, whose pride makes the arrogant exclusive assumption-but they were made also for innumerable beings whose very existence is unknown to man, and who know not, in their turn, the existence of him who supposes that all these means of happiness are for himself alone. There is, at every moment, an amount of happiness on the earth, of which the happiness of all mankind is an element indeed, but only one of many elements, that perhaps bears but a small proportion to the rest; and it is not of this single element that we are to think, when we consider the benevolence of that God who has willed the whole.

:

Of Dr. Brown's poetry, "The Paradise of Coquettes" has been by far the most popular, though it is now but little read. Of it, the "Edinburgh Review" thus speaks: "It is by far the best and most brilliant imitation of Pope that has appeared since the time of that great writer; with all his point, polish, and nicely-balanced versification, as well as his sarcasm and witty malice deficient, indeed, in the strong sense and compressed reasoning by which he is distinguished, but possessing all the brightness and elegance and vivacity of his lighter and more exquisite productions; and almost entitled, if it were not for its injudicious diffuseness and the defect of its machinery, to take its place by the side of the Rape of the Lock.'" The poem is in nine parts. The first part is prefatory, and has not much connection with the rest of the poem. The second part discovers to us "Zephyra," just returned at daybreak from an evening party; mortified at having been eclipsed by the charms of a late-arriving rival; and weighing in her bosom the pleasures of a coquette's life against the endless inquietudes and disappointments with which it is attended. The latter, she finds, vastly preponderate; and just as she has passed a solemn vow of abjuration of coquetry, a person called the Genius of Coquetry appears-pardons her hasty resolve-and, by dint of flattery, wins her back to her pristine allegiance. With true feminine curiosity, she implores the deity to make use of his omniscient faculties in disclosing to her all the conquests she is to make this he declines to do, but hints to her that they will be all that the most inordinate ambition could desire. The following is a part of the coquette's repining :

1

Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 131-140.

2 Vol. xxiv. p. 397.

SOLILOQUY AFTER THE BALL.

How did I hope to vex a thousand eyes!
Oh glorious malice, dearer than the prize!
Yet well was taught my brow that pride serene
Which looks no triumph where no doubt had been;
That easy scorn, all tranquil as before,

Which speaks no insult, and insults the more;
And with calm air, the surest to torment,
Steals angry Spite's last torment, to resent.

Why was the triumph given? Too flattering joy!
Frail hour which one frail minute could destroy!
He came oh Hope! he hasten'd to my seat;

I saw, and almost dream'd him at my feet,

Close by my side a gay attendant slave,

The glance, which thousands sought, to none he gave;

Scarce bow'd to nodding bevies when we walk'd,

Smil'd when I smil'd, and talk'd, and laugh'd, and talk'd;
Held my light fan with more than woman's grace,

And shook the tiny zephyr o'er my face:

Why did I heedless trust the flattering sign,

As if no fan he e'er had broke but mine!

Ah, simple fool-yet wherefore nurse the smart?

The bauble he may break, but not my heart.

The third canto begins in an ambiguous tone, somewhat between raillery and apology for

THE CHANGEFULNESS OF WOMAN.

Ye watchful sprites, who make e'en man your care,

And sure more gladly hover o'er the fair,

Who grave on adamant all changeless things,

The smiles of courtiers and the frowns of kings!

Say to what softer texture ye impart

The quick resolves of woman's trusting heart;
Joys of a moment, wishes of an hour,

The short eternity of Passion's power.

Breath'd in vain oaths that pledge with generous zeal
E'en more of fondness than they e'er shall feel,
Light fleeting vows that never reach above,
And all the guileless changefulness of love!
Is summer's leaf the record? Does it last
Till withering autumn blot it with his blast?
Or frailer still, to fade ere ocean's ebb,
Grav'd on some filmy insect's thinnest web,
Some day-fly's wing that dies and ne'er has slept,*
Lives the light vow scarce longer than 'tis kept?

Ah! call not perfidy her fickle choice!
Ah! find not falsehood in an angel's voice?
True to one word, and constant to one aim,
Let man's hard soul be stubborn as his frame;
But leave sweet woman's form and mind at will,
To bend and vary, and be graceful still.

WOMAN'S CONVERSATIONAL POWERS.

Yes, Woman, yes!-Though in his pompous school,
Man proud may learn to think and talk by rule,
There is the native eloquence, whose grace
Flows true to every hour and every place-
That with a swain familiar can recall

Scenes, persons, things, and spread delight on all;
Or find, as fluent, if unknown the youth,

In mutual ignorance, gay stores of truth:

No theme thou need'st accordant thoughts to strike,
On something, nothing, all things sage alike;
Enough to wake thy eloquence and lore,
Ears that can list, and eyes that can adore.

ANNE HUNTER, 1742-1821.

ANNE HUNTER, the wife of the celebrated anatomist, John Hunter, and the daughter of Mr. Robert Home, was born in the year 1742. She enjoyed the friendship of Mrs. Elizabeth Carter and Mrs. Montagu, and was no inconsiderable member of that circle of literary ladies who composed their society. She excelled in lyric poetry, and two of her songs, "My mother bids me braid my hair," and "The Mermaid's Song," are embalmed in the eternal melodies of Haydn. She died in London on the 7th of January, 1821. Her poetry displays much elegance and feeling, of which the

following are fair specimens:—

TO-MORROW.

How heavy falls the foot of Time!
How slow the lingering quarters chime,
Through anxious hours of long delay!
In vain we watch the silent glass,
More slow the sands appear to pass,

While disappointment marks their way.

To-morrow-still the phantom flies,
Flitting away before our eyes,

Eludes our grasp, is pass'd and gone;
Daughter of hope, Night o'er thee flings
The shadow of her raven wings,

And in the morning thou art flown!

Delusive sprite! from day to day,
We still pursue thy pathless way:

Thy promise, broken o'er and o'er,
Man still believes, and is thy slave;
Nor ends the chase but in the grave,
For there to-morrow is no more.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow long concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What may not be revealed.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot for thousands cast

Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

Yet nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come;
And time leads with unerring feet
The weary wanderer home.

TO MY DAUGHTER,

On being separated from her on her marriage.
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,
Which animates this mortal clay,
For thee I court the waking dream,
And deck with smiles the future day;
And thus beguile the present pain
With hopes that we shall meet again.

Yet will it be as when the past

'Twin'd every joy and care and thought, And o'er our minds one mantle cast Of kind affections finely wrought?

Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again!