Sir,

CURIOUS ADVERTISEMENT OF POPE.

[From the Universal Magazine.]

LOOKING over some loose numbers of the Daily Post, I found the following singular advertisement, and copied it off for the perusal and amusement of your readers.

66 Daily Post, June 14, 1728.

6

"Whereas there has been a Scandalous paper cried about the. streets, under the title of a Popp upon Pope,' insinuating that I was whipped in Ham Walks on Thursday last; this is to give notice that I did not stir out of my house at Twickenham, and that the same is a malicious and ill grounded report.

"ALEXANDER POPE."

Who the person was that was insinuated to have whipped the poet, I have never heard; but the fact of such an advertisement appearing is another proof, if another were wanting, of the morbid irritability of his character. Would any other man have thought it necessary to repel a charge of being whipped. The only excuse is, that his diminutive and feeble person rendered such a transaction not impossible.

Sir, your obedient servant,

X.

VOL. II. 2D ED.

12

POETRY.

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.

BY LORD BYRON.

SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain:
I would not say "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will;
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies;
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Qur meeting I can ne'er forget:
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes in sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering language deals,
And tells a tale it never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,

And hush the mandates of the heart;
But souls' interpreters, the eyes,

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise;
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit from within reproved us,
Say rather 'twas the spirit moved us.
Though what they uttered I repress,
Yet I conceive thou 'It partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
Thus for myself at least I'll say,

Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems,

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;

The vision charms the hours away,

And bids me curse Aurora's ray

For breaking slumbers of delight,

Which makes me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or wo my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas, again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictates of my bosom's care:

"May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker,
That anguish ne'er may overtake her,
But blessed be aye her heart's partaker."
Oh, may the happy mortal fated

To be by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know,
What 'tis to feel the restless wo,
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget.

THIS IS NOT LOVE.

I.

"YOU ask me why unseen I stray,

And waste the solitary day;

Why far my wandering path extends,

From mirth, and books, and home, and friends;

You tell me Love alone can bind

Such fetters round the yielding mind:

Ah! no; this heart doth know
No joys like Love.

II.

"Far from the vulgar ken I fly, To muse on Her averted eye;

I turn from friends to think how She

Has turned her altered cheek from me;

Mirth, books, and home-ah! how can these
The bosom's secret pang appease!

Go, go; I do not show

One sign of Love.

III.

"It is not Love to chill and glow
Like wintry suns on beds of snow;
To chase the stifled sigh with fear;
To dry before it fall the tear;
And, last sad victory of Pride,
In smiles this inward strife to hide.
Ah! no: this cannot flow

From any Love:

IV.

"'Tis Love to loosen Rapture's rein,
And dream of all that might have been;
Give Fancy's eye unbounded scope,
Outstrip the fleetest wings of Hope;
Still fail, and still the course pursue,
And deem each wish of Passion true.
If so, this heart would know
A genuine Love.

V.

"Mine is not love; this breast has bled
Till every finer sense is dead;
Mine is the craving bosom's void,
The joyless heart, and unenjoyed,
Engrossed by selfishness alone,

As weeds o'ershade the desart stone.
Ah! no; full well I know

I cannot Love."

ADDRESS TO THE SPIRIT OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.

BY J. CONNOR.

BLEST spirit of my sainted friend,
Which, in this vale of misery,
So oft with mine was wont to blend,
With all an angel's sympathy;
Bending from Heaven's exalted sphere,
Ah deign again my voice to hear.

When gloomy Sorrow gives her tear,
Deep o'er my darkened eye to roll,
O then, as thou didst oft, appear
To tranquillize my troubled soul;
For soon as I perceive thee nigh
I know the shades of grief will fly.

When, as calm evening o'er the bowers,
From golden clouds her dews doth shed,

I cull the loveliest, sweetest flowers,
And, weeping, wreathe them round thy bed;
O then, light hovering o'er the soil,
With smiles of love reward my toil.

And, when my voice and lyre combine
To swell the vesper hymn of praise,
O let me hear thy harp divine,

That sounds on high to Zion's lays;
And through the silent air, my song
In strains of sweeter tone prolong.

When on thy monumental stone

I lean, and mourn in accents low, Whilst o'er the church-yard still and lone, The watchful stars of midnight glow; O then on Pity's wing descend, To whisper comfort to thy friend.

And let me hear thee softly say,

"Repress those tears, and hush that sigh, "Soon will arrive the happy day,

"When here by mine thy dust will lie;

"Then in the beams of endless light,

"Our blissful spirits will unite."