Now when the patriot band should be prepared,
Nor pamphlets now, nor paragraphs be spared;
Why rove I here when Parliament is met ?
Why stray my steps beyond thy shop, Debrett?
What means this stupor in a statesman's breast?
Fame, virtue, sleeps,-ambition is at rest,—
My long-made maiden speech remember'd not;
The House of Commons, the Whig-club forgot!
Far other cares thy lover Hunloke, knows!
All Hackman's 2 sorrows, and all Werther's woes!
Lost and extinct, my party zeal I see,

And pity fools that think of aught but thee.
What though, unmatch'd in diplomatic fame,
Beyond the Baltic they revere my name?
Though now at Luneville the Congress wait
Adair's decision upon Europe's fate;

1 Debrett's shop opposite Burlington House, was, until lately, occupied by Mr. Pickering the publisher. Mr. Stockdale, who has been succeeded by Mr. Thorpe, bookseller and autograph collector, lived next door. Perhaps Lady Hunloke's house was nearer to the Park, for a former family mansion of Sir Harry's was in Piccadilly; this house was purchased by Lord Coventry, in 1765, for ten thousand pounds.

2 The Rev. James Hackman had first been an officer, and became afterwards a clergyman; he shot Miss Reay, the mistress of Lord Sandwich, as she was coming out of Covent Garden Theatre. Lust and jealousy hurried him to the commission of this deed on the 7th of April 1779, and he was hung on the 19th of the same month at Tyburn. The hangman's cupidity on the occasion was of the most barefaced description; when the unfortunate culprit flung down his handkerchief as the signal for the cart to move on, instead of instantly whipping the horses he jumped on the other side of him to snatch it up, lest he should lose this perquisite in the crowd; he then returned to the cart, and, as Lord Carlisle writes to George Selwyn, "with the gesture so faithfully represented by your friend Lord Wentworth, Jehu'd him out of the world." There still exists in a private garden at Hampton Court, a grotto that was constructed by Miss Reay-and with her own hands. She left Lord Sandwich five children, one of whom, Mr. Basil Montagu, became a lawyer of eminence, and died in 1851, in his 82d year.

VOL. I.

Should at my feet the mighty Consul fall,
France, Austria, Russia, I would scorn them all.1
Not Fox's mission would I deign to carry,

Here let me stay, the rival of Sir Harry!

Thou know'st how first at Chatsworth I was made
Thy hapless victim, as at whist we play'd;

Each wink, each shrug, each whisper, and each look,
For softest hints my vanity mistook;

Too soon I found, how rash was my conceit,

All eyes but mine thou couldst contrive to cheat.
Say not for me were meant thy sly regards,

Not me they ogled, but Lord Bessborough's cards;
Too plain I saw (no wonder in the dumps)
Thy side-long glances leering at his trumps;
Thou say'st that when Sir Harry leaves thee free,
Thy heart, thy card-purse, shall belong to me;
Nor beef, nor ale, nor pudding wilt thou grudge,-
All this thou say'st—but all thou say'st is fudge.
Soon as Sir Harry's fatal knell shall toll,
Oh! that 'twere mine his widow to console ! 2
But ah! some youth more delicate than I,
Shall hush thy murmurs, and thy tears shall dry.
Some sturdier swain more suited to thy taste,
With keener stomach for the rich repast.
Then fly me, fly-to Wingerworth repair,
Forget, renounce, abjure, the lost Adair !
Yet say, my Hunloke, thou who every part
Of Shakspeare's drama canst repeat by heart,

1 "Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all.
Not Cæsar's empress would I deign to prove,
No-make me mistress to the man I love."

POPE.-Eloisa to Abelard.

* How much unnecessary trouble the Duchess and Lord John gave themselves about the Rt. Hon. diplomatist's love affairs was shown by his marrying, in 1805, Gabrielle Angelica, Countess d'Hagincourt, at which time Lady Hunloke was "a widow," Sir Henry having died on the 15th of November 1804.

Where's the mock envy, or fictitious spleen,
But some similitude in me is seen?

Long nursed and train'd in Melancholy's school,
One sad epitome of every fool.

Oft hast thou heard me sigh, and seen me look,

Like musing Jacques stretch'd by a murmuring brook;
Seen me its stream augment with many a tear,
And mourn and moralise the passing deer:
Vain of my yellow hue, oft seen me move,
The piteous pageant of Malvolio's love.
Oft, too, like Romeo's, is my woful plight,
Banish'd from thine, as he from Juliet's sight;
Prostrate the holy priest beheld him fall,
And heard the frantic wretch for poison call;
From thee exiled, not less I madly rave,
Or 'take the measure of an unmade grave;'
Not less resolved to play some desperate freak,
And stare, and terrify poor Parson Peeke !
Yet oh, vain cares, not all the fire I've felt,
'That solid, ah! too solid flesh can melt'—
Vain is my vacant stare, my random talk,
Vain the slow grandeur of my pensive walk;
Vain is my faded form's pathetic grace,
My hopeless, endless, comfortless disgrace!
My sallow cheek—my sad funereal air,

And deep and hollow groans, that paint the soul's despair. Then rouse, Adair! assume a nobler part!

Let fame, let glory, re-inspire thy heart!

Lo! where St. Stephen's chapel greets thine eyes,

Its proudest triumphs are thine easy prize;

There anxious ever, ever on the watch,

Each trick of singularity to catch,

Το pause and bow, and every gesture ape

That art assumes in senatorial shape;
Lend me, ye mimic powers! your aid divine,

Each grace concentrate, and each charm combine.
Teach me, like Grey,1 to rise, or to sit down;
To stare like Sheridan, like Tierney frown;

1 The first Earl, then Mr. Grey.