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Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot, that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue "at home
Among the Blacks of Carolina—
Or, flying to the Eastward, see
Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea

And toast upon the Wall of China!

EXTRACT X.

Mantua.

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.

THEY tell me thou'rt the favour'd guest*
Of every fair and brilliant throng;

No wit, like thine, to wake the jest,
No voice like thine, to breathe the song.

Utque ferunt lætus convivia læta

Et celebras lentis otia mista jocis ;

Aut cithara æstivum attenuas cantuque calorem.
Hei mihi, quam dispar nunc mea vita tuæ !
Nec mihi displiceant quæ sunt tibi grata; sed ipsa est,
Te sine, lux oculis pene inimica meis.
Non auro aut gemmâ caput exornare nitenti
Me juvat, aut Arabo spargere odore comas:

Non celebres ludos fastis spectare diebus.

Sola tuos vultus referens Raphaelis imago
Picta manu, curas allevat usque meas.
Huic ego delicias facio, arrideoque jocorque,
Alloquor et tanquam reddere verba queat.
Assensu nutuque mihi sæpe illa videtur
Dicere velle aliquid et tua verba loqui.
Agnoscit balboque patrem puer ore salutat.
Hoc solor longas decipioque dies.

And none could guess, so gay thou art,

That thou and I are far apart.

Alas, alas, how different flows,

With thee and me the time away.

Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows-
Still, if thou canst, be light and gay;

I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou

So oft hast braided o'er my brow,

Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,

And all th' assembled world to see,

All but the one, the absent one,

Worth more than present worlds to me! No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart

My only joy, from thee apart,

From thee thyself, is sitting hours

And days, before thy pictur'd form

That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers

Have made with all but life-breath warm!

And as I smile to it, and say

The words I speak to thee in play,
I fancy from their silent frame,

Those eyes and lips give back the same;
And still I gaze, and still they keep
Smiling thus on me-till I weep!

Our little boy, too, knows it well,

For there I lead him every day, And teach his lisping lips to tell

The name of one that's far away. Forgive me, love, but thus alone

My time is cheer'd, while thou art gone.

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No-'tis not the region where Love's to be foundThey have bosoms that sigh, they have glances

that rove,

They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,

When she warbled her best-but they've nothing

like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,

Which Heav'n for the mild and the tranquil hath

made

Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant,

Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade;

That feeling, which, after long years have gone by, Remains, like a portrait we've sat for in youth,

Where, ev'n though the flush of the colours

may fly,

The features still live, in their first smiling truth;

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