Yet sometimes let the skin of snow

Through the thin garment's covering shine, And faintly tell what beauties glow Unseen by any eyes but mine.

Enough, enough! upon my sight

Her charms with dazzling lustre break; She seems to breathe! with fond delight I pause, for she ere long will speak."

CC Come, Painter, Love demands thy care,
Thy strongest, brightest powers command,
Thy most unfading lines prepare,

Thy finest eye, and happiest hand.
For though I oft have seen to grow,
Beneath thy touch, the mimic face;
Have seen thy magic pencil throw

Upon the canvas living grace; This task must e'en thy labour foil,

Unequal all thy skill must prove; This task will mock thy utmost toil,

I think thou canst not paint my Love. Thy pencil-thine alone-may reach

The charms that fav'ring beauty gave, And thou, like her, perhaps, may'st teach The cheek to blush, the hair to wave ;But ah! a lover more requires

Than waving hair, and blushing cheeks; He asks the idea his flame inspires,

The form that lives, the face that speaks : He asks that brow that teems with sense, The feature with expression fraught; The eye that beams intelligence,

The pregnant glance, and silent thought. He asks that lip that seems to swell With love it does not dare reveal; He asks that eye that fears to tell The pleasing tale it can't conceal.

Oh! couldst thou trace the gentle heart,

As in her features it is shown!—
But here, unpractised in thy art—

That charm, my Love, is thine alone!"

There were two or three other fragments of Lord Melbourne's poetry; and one of them, written in his brother's pocket-book, after Mr. Lamb had recovered from a dangerous illness, offers a pleasing testimony of the friendship that existed between them. This gentleman, well known to the world as the author of a translation of Catullus, appears also to have added several pieces of his composition to Brummell's collection; and the following very original song is the happiest effort amongst them. At the period of his death, which took place in London on the 23rd of January 1834, in the forty-ninth year of his age, Mr. Lamb was Under Secretary of State for the Home Department.

THE ROBBER'S GOOD-NIGHT.

GEORGE LAMB.

"The goblet is empty, and toll'd are the chimes,

Sleep hides from mankind both its sorrows and crimes;
And, in quiet repose till the dawning of day,

The guilty and honest, the wretched and gay.

The guilty can sleep, though terrific, 'tis said,

The dreams and the ghosts that encircle their bed ;

But he who a victim's last curses can bear,

Will not shrink from the bodiless spectres of air.

The wretched can sleep, for the bosom is worn,

The heart has grown dull with the weight it has borne ;

More sweet are the visions in slumber that live,
Than the mournful realities daylight can give.

Yes! the goblet is drain'd, and its floods in their course
Have drown'd all reflection, regret, and remorse;
And shall spread o'er my pallet as tranquil a rest,
As the moralist paints on the couch of the blest."

There were likewise the following verses by Payne Knight, the author of "Taste," and one of the most eminent Greek scholars of his day. At his death, which took place at his house in Soho Square, on the 28th of April 1834, he bequeathed his collection of medals, drawings, and bronzes, worth more than thirty thousand pounds, to the British Museum. Amongst the drawings was a volume of Claude's, for which Mr. Knight gave sixteen hundred pounds to a person, who, a few days before, had purchased it for three pounds!

THE YELLOW LEAF.

R. P. KNIGHT.

"Round flew the bowl, the laugh rose high,

Whilst summer's richest canopy,

The wedded boughs of emerald dye,

Was all our shade.

So soft the air, so gay the plain,

Though August's moon was in her wane,

We said that summer's verdant reign

Would never cease.

High rose the laugh, the transports swell,
When sudden, potent as a spell,

Detach'd by no rude zephyr, fell

One yellow leaf!