Where the world may ne'er invade,
Be those windings and that shade.
Courteous Fate! afford me there
A table spread, without my care,
With what the neighb'ring fields impart,
Whose cleanliness be all its art.
When of old the calf was drest
(Though to make an angel's feast)
In the plain, unstudied sauce
Nor truffle, nor morillia was,

Nor cou'd the mighty patriarch's board
One far-fetch'd ortolan afford.
Courteous Fate, then give me there
Only plain and wholesome fare.
Fruits indeed (wou'd Heaven bestow)
All that did in Eden grow,
All, but the forbidden tree,
Wou'd be coveted by me;
Grapes with juice so crowded up,
As breaking thro' the native cup;
Figs (yet growing) candy'd o'er
By the sun's attracting pow'r ;
Cherries, with the downy peach,
All within my easy reach;

Whilst creeping near the humble ground
Shou'd the strawberry be found,

Springing wheresoe'er I stray'd

Thro' those windings and that shade.

Give me there (since Heaven has shown

It was not good to be alone)
A partner suited to my mind,
Solitary, pleas'd, and kind;

Who, partially, may something see
Preferr'd to all the world in me;
Slighting, by my humble side,

Fame and splendor, wealth and pride.
When but two the earth possest,
'Twas their happiest days, and best;
They by business, nor by wars,
They by no domestic cares,
From each other e'er were drawn,

But in some grove or flow'ry lawn
Spent the swiftly flying time,

Spent their own and nature's prime
In love, that only passion given

To perfect man, whilst friends with Heaven.
Rage, and jealousy, and hate,

Transports of his fallen state,

When by Satan's wiles betray'd,
Fly those windings, and that shade!

Let me then, indulgent Fate!

Let me still in my retreat

From all roving thoughts be freed,

Or aims that may contention breed;
Nor be my endeavors led

By goods that perish with the dead!
Fitly might the life of man
Be indeed esteem'd a span,
If the present moment were
Of delight his only share;
If no other joys he knew

Than what round about him grew :

But as those whose stars would trace

From a subterranean place,

Through some engine lift their eyes
To the outward glorious skies;
So th' immortal spirit may,

When descended to our clay,

From a rightly govern'd frame

View the height from whence she came;

To her Paradise be caught,

And things unutterable taught.
Give me, then, in that retreat,
Give me, O indulgent Fate!
For all pleasures left behind,
Contemplations of the mind.
Let the fair, the gay, the vain,
Courtship and applause obtain;
Let th' ambitious rule the earth;
Let the giddy fool have mirth;
Give the epicure his dish,
Every one their several wish;
Whilst my transports I employ
On that more extensive joy,
When all Heaven shall be survey'd
From those windings and that shade.

An old Country Bonse and an old Lady.

FROM MACKENZIE'S "LOUNGER," NO. 87.

THE old lady described in the following charming paper of Mackenzie (which was a favorite with Sir Walter Scott), is not of so largeminded an order as Lady Winchilsea, but she has as good a heart; is very touching and pleasant; and her abode suits her admirably. It is the remnant of something that would have been greater in a greater age. We fancy her countenance to have been one that would have reminded us of the charming old face in Drayton :

"Ev'n in the aged'st face where beauty once did dwell,

And Nature in the least but seemed to excel,

Time cannot make such waste, but something will appear
To show some little tract of delicacy there."

Polyolbion.

The reader, perhaps, hardly requires to be told that Mackenzie, whose writings have been gathered into the British classics, was a Scottish gentleman, bred to the bar, who in his youth wrote the once popular novel called the Man of Feeling, and died not long ago at a reverend age, universally regretted. He was the editor and principal writer of the two periodical works called the Mirror and Lounger, to which several of the reigning Scottish wits contributed. He was not a very original or powerful writer, but he was a very shrewd, elegant, and pleasing one, a happy offset from Addison; and he sometimes showed great pathos. His stories of La Roche and Louisa Venoni are among the most affecting in the world, and free from the somewhat

morbid softness of his novel. We are the happier in being able to do this tardy, though very unnecessary justice to the merits of a good man and a graceful essayist, because in the petulance and presumption of youth we had mistaken our incompetence to judge them for the measure of their pretensions.

I

HAVE long cultivated a talent very fortunate for a man of my disposition, that of travelling in my easy chair; of transporting myself, without stirring from my parlor, to distant places and to absent friends; of drawing scenes in my mind's eye; and of peopling them with the groups of fancy, or the society of remembrance. When I have sometimes lately felt the dreariness of the town, deserted by my acquaintance; when I have returned from the coffee-house, where the boxes were unoccupied, and strolled out from my accustomed walk, which even the lame beggar had left, I was fain to shut myself up in my room, order a dish of my best tea (for there is a sort of melancholy which disposes one to make much of one's self), and calling up the powers of memory and imagination, leave the solitary town for a solitude more interesting, which my younger days enjoyed in the country, which I think, and if I am wrong I do not wish to be undeceived, was the most Elysian spot in the world.

'Twas at an old lady's, a relation and godmother of mine, where a particular incident occasioned my being left during the vacation of two successive seasons. Her house was formed out of the remains of an old Gothic castle, of which one tower was still almost entire; it was tenanted by kindly daws and swallows. Beneath, in a modernized part of the house, resided the mistress of the mansion. The house was skirted by a few majestic elms and beeches, and the stumps of several others showed that once they had been