in 1747, was probably completed, if not principally written, during the illness that terminated the life of his accomplished and amiable bride.

His Lordship's literary exertions afterwards extended to a work entitled "Dialogues of the Dead," and concluded with his "History of Henry the Seventh." He died at Hagley Park, August 22, 1773, after a lingering and painful indisposition; which he sustained with the equanimity of a philosopher, and the resignation of a christian. His remains were deposited at Hagley.

Of this nobleman, it is no extravagance to assert that he appears to have attained as much of perfection as the condition of human nature will admit. With no attractions of person, he had the felicity to secure, in his Lucy, the heart of one of the most interesting and excellent women of the age in which he lived:-such was the known benevolence of his feelings, the liberality of his 'views, the elegance and force of his genius, the variety and fascination of his accomplishments. Nobility is ennobled by conferring lustre on such a character. Lord Lyttelton married a second time, in 1749, to Elizabeth, daughter of Field-Marshal Sir Robert Rich. Though the confidential friend of his first wife, and on that account selected by his Lordship, she was found utterly incapable of supplying her loss. Only one poem seems to have been addressed to this Lady, and that one on her wedding-day!

THE heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me:
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.

But how, my Delia, will you meet
The man you've lost so long?
Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue?

Will you in every look declare
Your heart is still the same;
And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?

Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,
When shortly we shall meet ;
And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat.

But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove;

If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love :

All I of Venus ask, is this;
No more to let us join :

But grant me here the flattering bliss,
To die, and think you mine.

TO LUCY FORTESCUE.

To ease my troubled mind of anxious care,
Last night the secret casket I explored;
Where all the letters of my absent Fair,

His richest treasure, careful Love had stored.

In every word a magic spell I found,

Of power to charm each busy thought to rest; Though every word increas'd the tender wound

Of fond desire still throbbing in my breast.

So to his hoarded gold the miser steals,
And loses every sorrow at the sight!
Yet wishes still for more; nor ever feels
Entire contentment, or secure delight.

Ah! should I lose thee, my too lovely Maid,
Couldst thou forget thy heart was ever mine,
Fear not thy letters should the charge upbraid;
My hand each dear memorial shall resign :

Not one kind word shall in my power remain,
A painful witness of reproach to thee;

And lest my heart should still their sense retain, My heart shall break—to leave thee wholly free.

TO LUCY."

WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more,
I blame all the fears I gave way to before :

I say to my heart, "be at rest, and believe
That whom once she has chosen she never will leave."

But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace
That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face,
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.

These painful suspicions you cannot remove;
Since you neither can lessen your charms, nor my love:
But doubts caus'd by passion you never can blame;
For they are not ill-founded, or you feel the same.

PRAYER TO VENUS, IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE.

FAIR VENUS, whose delightful shrine surveys
Its front reflected in the silver lake,
These humble offerings, which thy servant pays,
Fresh flowers and myrtle-wreaths, propitious take!

If less my love exceeds all other love,

Than Lucy's charms all other charms excel, Far from my breast each soothing hope remove; And there let sad despair for ever dwell.

But if my soul is fill'd with her alone,

No other wish nor other object knows ;
Oh! make her, Goddess, make her all my own,
And give my trembling heart secure repose.

No watchful spies I ask, to guard her charms;
No walls of brass, no steel-defended door :
Place her but once within my circling arms,
Love's surest fort, and I will doubt no more!

WRITTEN AT WICKHAM, 1746.

YE silvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle shades of Wickham! say,
What is the charm that each successive year,
Which sees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart

A sense of joy, unfelt before, impart ?

Is it glad summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jasmine and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural bliss, was here before;

Oft have I met her on the verdant side
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride:

No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint the' enamel'd field.

Is it to love these new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving sun
His annual circle through the zodiac run,
Since all that Love's indulgent power
Or favour'd mortals can bestow

Was given to me in this auspicious bower.

Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charms!
Was yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed,

Hovering with purple wings, the' Idalian Boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
Of innocent desires,

While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.

Whence then this strange increase of joy? He, only he can tell, who, match'd like me, (If such another happy man there be)

Has by his own experience tried

How much THE WIFE IS DEARER THAN THE BRIDE!

END OF VOL I.

C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, Dean Street.