Curses the light with so much pain,
And weeps, and sighs to sleep again,
So ardently as I.

Invidious light! my hated bane,
Why rudely break the ideal chain

On which my raptures hung?

I saw sweet Laura's angel grace,
My eyes were fix'd upon her face,

My soul upon her tongue.

Her rosy lips I seemed to press,
Nor seemed the maid my fond caress
By frowns to disapprove;

I heard her voice so sweet, so clear,
Sound music to my ravish'd ear,
For it express'd her love.

Smile, then, sweet Laura! let me find,

For once, reality as kind

As golden visions seem;

For it has been my lot to rue,

That all my sorrows still were true,

And all my joys a dream."

The following ode was translated by a Mr. Shepherd -see the "Poetical Register" for 1810-or rather do not see it, for the translation is sadly inferior.

TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON,

WHO CALLS UPON SOME EMINENT ARTIST TO PAINT HIS MISTRESS.

Come, Painter, draw, as I command,
The absent mistress of my heart.

Paint first each soft and jetty tress,

With which her graceful head is crown'd; If colours can so much express,

Oh! paint them breathing odours round.

Above her cheek, full, lovely, fair,

Where modest blushes reddening glow, Beneath her mildly curling hair, Describe with skill her ivory brow.

Ah! how to imitate her face

Thy chiefest science will be tried ; Between her brows the middle space

Nor quite confound nor quite divide.

Here let the eyelid's lash be shown;

Here let her semblance bear complete, Dark arching eyebrows like her own, Which meeting, scarcely seem to meet.

But, Painter, do not here forget
To give her eye its native flame,
Azure, Minerva-like, and yet,

As melting as the Paphian dame.

Her nose and cheek then fashion well-
That white as milk, and roseate this :
Her lips, like soft Persuasion's swell,
Pouting and challenging the kiss.

Beneath her chin, where dimples play,
About her neck of Parian stone,
Let all the Loves and Graces stray;
That happy spot is all their own.

But oh! those beauties of my fair,
Which I alone must e'er reveal,
Come, Painter, with the strictest care
Beneath the purple robe conceal.

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."

"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 ;