CHAPTER XIII.

The Duchess's Fugitive Poetry-The Late Lord Morley-Borino the Brave -His Feats at Melton described in Verse by George Ellis-Short Notice of that Gentleman-The Duchess of Devonshire's Lines on a Bust of Charles James Fox-Her Verses from a Blind Man to his Wife-Death of her Grace-Anecdote of Lady Bessborough.— Visit to the Vault of the Cavendishes-Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire-Gibbon in Love-Sketch of her Grace's CharacterHer Patronage of Literature, and Antiquarian Researches.

No doubt many other examples of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire's, taste and acquirements exist in the domestic archives of Chatsworth; but though they were not accessible to me, I trust I have in some degree succeeded in my attempt to awaken the reader's interest in the lovely authoress of the fugitive poetry that I now transcribe from Brummell's album, and which, after diligent search, I have not discovered in print. The first piece gives ample evidence of her classical taste, and the richness and elegance of her imagination.

"Here, in the bower of beauty, newly shorn,

Let Fancy sit, and sing how Love was born ;
Wrapt up in roses, Zephyr found the child
In Flora's cheek, when first the goddess smiled;
Nursed on the bosom of the beauteous Spring,
O'er her white breast he spread his purple wing.

On kisses fed, and silver drops of dew,
The little wanton into Cupid grew ;

Then arm'd his head with glittering sparks of fire,

And tipp'd his shining arrows with desire.

Hence joys arose upon the wings of wind,

And Hope presents the lover always kind;
Despair creates a rival for our fears,

And tender Pity softens into tears."

The stanzas that follow are not so imaginative, but more natural, and on that account, more pleasing.

"My cherish'd hope, my fondest dream,

Still, dearest! rests on thee;

A blank without thee all would seem,
And life would lifeless be.

The place thy presence glads to seek
Is where I'm ever best;

And when I hear thee kindly speak,
And speak to me, I'm blest.

But should hard fate command it so,
Still, dearest! I'm resign'd;
And if from me thou'rt bent to go,
Or alter'd, or unkind,—

Unfelt by thee, my silent care

Shall never claim relief;

And still I'll wish thou may'st not share

My solitary grief."

In the next, the Duchess seems to have adopted the metre of Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene, of M. G. Lewis.

The hero of this ballad was Lord Morley, then Lord Boringdon, who was a strong supporter of Mr. Pitt, and when a young man, spoke frequently in the

House of Lords. It is probably to these speeches that her Grace alludes, which no doubt found but little favour in the eyes of such an ardent Foxite as she was. Of the ladies that the youthful Lord Boringdon jilted, the author has no gossiping details to give; but of the one who jilted him the Peerage gives due information, and shows that these verses were written previously to the 24th of June, 1804, on which day he married the Lady Augusta Fane, second daughter of John, tenth Earl of Westmoreland; which marriage was dissolved in 1809, when her ladyship re-married the late Right Honourable Sir Arthur Paget. Lord Morley died on the 14th March 1840.

BORINO THE BRAVE.

"A baron so bold, and of parentage fair,

Was riding beside the green sea;

His vizor was up, and his forehead was bare,
His face it was comely, and long was his hair,
And tall, and full portly was he.

He slowly rode on, 'twas for exercise' sake,
Nor trotted, nor canter'd did he ;

He mused on the speeches he'd made, and would make,
Of the vows to fair damsels he'd keep or would break,
And on many a quaint repartee.

Oh! from him let the barons of England beware

How their loves and their palfreys they guide; Many women may love them, for whom they don't care, Many horses may stumble, unless they're aware,

Or if loose in their stirrups they ride.

A Bedlamite Duchess was bathing hard by,

When she saw the young Paladin pass;

He bewilder'd her brain, and he dazzled her eye,
Her guides could not stop her, she strove to rush by,
And swore that she would, 'by the mass!'

The baron was frighten'd, with reason and truth,
For her love and her frenzy were strong;
She turn'd as he turn'd, and with gesture uncouth,
Her arms she elongated straight at the youth,
And they seem'd to be half a mile long.

He spoke not, he flew not, he only could scream,
When plump in the water he fell !

And lo! all this bustle, though strange it may seem,
He found by awaking was only a dream,

Was a very good story to tell.

And now still at midnight, the supper just o'er,

Her spirit he seems to behold;

The story he told, though he told it before,

For each night, as the clock strikes, he tells it once more,
And forgets it has ever been told !”

The following ballad is another quiz upon the same nobleman, for which reason I have placed it with the preceding one: it was written by George Ellis, another of Brummell's friends, and is in some measure a parody on Monk Lewis's ballad of Durandarte and Belerma :

"Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncesvalles fight."

It was written when Mr. Ellis was on a visit to his cousin, Baron Seaford.

Seaford. Brooksby Hall is on the

road from Melton to Leicester.

1 Quere, her Grace of Gordon?

"Sad and fearful is the story

Of the hunt in Leicestershire, On that fatal field of glory

Met full many a dashing squire.

There fell bold Borino, never

Horse did such a baron bear, Thinking he could ride for ever, Mounted on so dun a mare.

Scarlet spencer deck'd his shoulders,
Of his coat the skirts were blue;
Pantaloons charm'd all beholders,
Leather, and of yellow hue.

Huge his hat, to put his head in,
Longer queue was never seen;
Round his neck his 'kerchief spreading,
Check'd with faded blue and green.

Leaps he thought were quite delightful,

Hedge and ditch, what'er might hap,

Even gates were not too frightful,

Leap he would,—and chose a gap.

O'er the gap the dun mare vaulted,
Glow'd with joy his noble blood;
Pass'd the gap, the dun mare halted,—
Dropp'd the Baron in the mud!

'Although young I fall, believe me,'
Cried this lord, of noble mind,
'Think not, sirs, a fall would grieve me,
'Tis to fall before we find :

'Comforts twain my griefs have lighten'd,

Though your grooms have seen me down ;

First I prove I was not frighten'd,

Next, the spencer's not my own.'