With what sweet founds the bordering foreft rings?
For fportive Echo catches, as the fings,
Each falling accent, ftudious to prolong
The warbled notes of Rowe's extatick fong.
Old Avon pleas'd, his reedy forehead rears,
And polish'd Orrery delighted hears.

See with what tranfport the refigns her breath,
Snatch'd by a fudden, but a wifh'd-for death!
Releas'd from earth, with fmiles the fores on high
Amidst her kindred fpirits of the sky,

Where faith and love thofe endless joys bestow,
That warm'd her lays, and fill'd her hopes below.
Nor can her noble friend escape unfeen,

Or from the mufe her modeft virtue fcreen:
Here, fweetly blended, to our wondering eyes,
The peerefs, poetefs, and Christian rife;
And tho' the Nine her tuneful strains inspire,
We lefs her genius than her heart admire;
Pleas'd, 'midft the great, one truly good to fee,
And proud to tell that Somerfet is fhe.

By generous views one peerefst more demands
A grateful tribute from all female hands;
One, who to shield them from the worst of foes,
In their juft caufe dar'd Pope himself oppofe.
Their own dark forms deceit and envy wear,
By Irwin touch'd with truth's celeftial fpeart.
By her difarm'd, ye witlings! now give o'er
Your empty fneers, and fhock the fex no more.

Thus bold Camilla, when the Trojan chief
Attack'd her country, flew to it's relief;

on here. It may be fufficient to lay, that without any previous illness the met at laft with that fudden death which she had always wifhed.

* Frances, Countefs of Hertford, and afterwards Dutchefs. Dowager of Somerfer, Mrs. Rowe's illuftrious friend, lamented her death in fome verfes prefixed to her poems, and was author of the letters in her collection figned Cleora.

† Anne, Viscountess Irwin, and aunt to the prefent Earl of Carlisle: this Fady, in a poetical epiftle to Mr. Pope, has refcued her fex's caufe from the afperfions caft on them by that fatyrift in his Effy on the Characters of Women. See Milton, book iv. ver. 811«‹

Beneath

Beneath her lance the bravest warriors bled,
And fear dismay'd the hoft which great Æneas led.
But, ah! why heaves my breast this penfive figh?
Why ftarts this tear unbidden from my eye?
What breast from fighs, what eye from tears refrains,
When, fweetly-mournful, hapless Wright complains* ?
And who but grieves to fee her generous mind,
For nobler views and worthier guests design'd,
Admit the hateful form of black despair,
Wan with the gloom of fuperftitious care;
In pity-moving lays, with earnest cries,
She call'd on Heaven to clofe her weary eyes,
And, long on earth by heart-felt woes opprefs'd,
Was borne by friendly death to welcome reft.

In nervous ftrains, lo! Madan's + polish'd taffe
Has Poetry's fucceffive Progrefs trac'd,

From ancient Greece, where firft fhe fix'd her reign,
To Italy, and Britain's happier plain.

Praise well-beftow'd adorns her glowing lines,
And manly ftrength with female foftness joins.
So female charms and manly virtues grace,
By her example form'd, her blooming race,
And fram'd alike to please our ears and eyes,
There new Cornelias and new Gracchi rife.
O that you now, with genius at command,
Would fnatch the pencil from my artless hand,
And give your fex's portraits, bold and true,
In colours worthy of themselves and you!

Now in extatick vifions let me rove,

By Cynthia's beams, thro' Brackley's glimmering grove,
Where ftill each night, by startled shepherds feen,
Young Leapor'st form flies fhadowy o'er the green.

* Mrs. Wright, fifter to the famous Wesleys, has published fome pieces, which, though of a melancholy caft, are written in the genuine spirit of poetry.

Mrs. Madan is author of a poem called the Progress of Poetry, wherein the characters of the best Grecian, Roman, and English poets, are justly and elegantly drawn.

Mrs. Leapor, daughter to a Northamptonshire gardener, has lately con

vinced

Thofe envied honours nature lov'd to pay

The briar-bound turf, where erft her Shakespeare lay,
Now on her darling Mira fhe bestows;

There o'er the hallow'd ground fhe fondly ftrows
The choicet fragrance of the breathing fpring,
And bids each year her favourite linnet fing.

Let cloifter'd pedants, in an endless round,
Tread the dull mazes of fcholaftick ground:
Brackley unenvying views the glittering train
Of learning's ufelefs trappings idly vain;
For, fpite of all that vaunted learning's aid,
Their fame is rivall'd by her rural maid.

So, while in our Britannia's beechen sprays
Sweet Philomela trills her mellow lays,
We to the natives of the fultry line
Their boafted race of parrots pleas'd refign:
For tho' on citron boughs they proudly glow
With all the colours of the watery bow,
Yet thro' the grove harfh difcord they prolong;
Tho' rich in gaudy plumage, poor in fong.

Now bear me, Clio, to that Kentish ftrand,
Whofe rude o'erhanging cliffs and barren fand
May challenge all the myrtle-blooming bowers.
Of fam'd Italia, when, at evening hours,
Thy own Eliza* mufes on the shore,
Serene, tho' billows beat and tempeft's roar.
Hail, Carter, hail! your favourite name inspires
My raptur'd breaft with fympathetick fires;
E'en now I fee your lov'd Ilyffus lead
His mazy current thro' th' Athenian mead;
With you I pierce thro' academick fhades,

And join in Attick bowers th' Aönian maids;

vinced the world of the force of unaffifted nature, by imitating and equalling fome of our most approved poets, by the ftrength of her parts, and the vivacity of her genius.

* Mrs. Eliza Carter, of Deal, well known to the learned world for her late tranflation of Epictetus, has tranflated, from the Italian, Algarotti's Dialogues on Light and Colours, and lately published a small collection of elegant poems.

Beneath

Beneath the spreading plane with Plato rove,
And hear his morals echo thro' the grove.
Joy fparkles in the fage's looks, to find
His genius glowing in a female mind;
Newton admiring fees your fearching eye
Dart thro' his myftick page, and range the sky;
By you his colours to your fex are shown,
And Algarotti's name to Britain known.
While, undisturb'd by pride, you calmly tread
Thro' life's perplexing paths, by wisdom led;
And, taught by her, your grateful mufe repays.
Her heavenly teacher in nocturnal lays.
So when Prometheus, from th' Almighty Sire,
As fings the fable, ftole celeftial fire,

Swift thro' the clay the vital current ran,

In look, in form, in fpeech refembling man;
But in each eye a living luftre glow'd,

That spoke the heav'nly fource from whence it flow'd.
What magick pow'rs in Celia's* numbers dwell,
Which thus th' unpractis'd breaft with ardour fwell
• To emulate her praise, and tune that lyre
• Which yet no bard was able to inspire!
• With tears her suffering Virgin we attend,
And fympathize with father, lover, friend!
What facred rapture in our bofom glows,
When at the fhrine fhe offers up her vows!
Mild majefty and virtue's awful power
Adorn her fall, and grace her latest hour.'
Transport me now to thofe embroider'd meads,

Where the flow Ouze his lazy current leads;
There, while the ftream foft-dimpling fteals along,
And from the groves the green-hair'd Dryads throng,
Clio herself, or Ferrar† tunes a lay,

Sweet as the darkling Philomel of May.

*We could not here, with justice, withold our tribute of praise from Mrs. Brooke, author of the tragedy of Virginia, nor could we better pay it than by the hand of a fister name.

This lady has written two beautiful odes to Cynthia and the Spring.

Halle,

Hafte, hafte, ye Nine, and hear a fifter fing
The charms of Cynthia, and the joys of spring!
See! night's pale goddess, with a grateful beam
Paints her lov'd image in the shadowy stream,
While, round his vot'ry, fpring profusely showers
• A fnow of bloffoms, and a wild of flowers.'
O happy nymph, tho' winter o'er thy head,
Blind to that form, the fnow of age shall shed;
Tho' life's fhort fpring and beauty's bloffoms fade,
Still fhall thy reafon flourish undecay'd;
Time, tho' he steals the rofeate bloom of youth,
Shall fpare the charms of virtue and of truth,
And on thy mind new charms, new bloom bestow,
Wifdom's best friend, and only beauty's foe.

Nor fhall thy much-lov'd Pennington remain
Unfung, unhonour'd, in my votive ftrain.
See where the foft enchantress, wandering o'er
The fairy ground that Philips trod before,
Exalts her chymick wand, and swift behold
The bafeft metals ripen into gold :
Beneath her magick touch, with wondering eye,
We view vile Copper with pure fterling vie.
Nor fhall the Farthing, fung by her, forbear
To claim the praifes of the fmiling fair;
Till chuck and marble shall no more employ
The thoughtless leifure of the truant boy.

Returning now to Thames's flowery fide,
See how his waves in still attention glide!

And, hark! what songstress shakes her warbling throat?
Is it the nightingale, or Delia's† note ?

The balmy zephyrs, hov'ring o'er the fair,

On their foft wings the vocal accents bear;

* Mifs Pennington has happily imitated Mr. Philips's Splendid Shilling, in a burlesque poem called The Copper Farthing. She died in 1759, aged 25.

This lady has written Odes to Peace, Health, and the Robin Red-breaft, which are here alluded to; and the has been celebrated in a fonnet by Mr. Edwards, author of the Canons of Criticism.

Thro'