Long since the value of this world I knew;
Pitied the folly, and despis'd the shew;
Well as I can, my tedious part I bear,
And wait dismissal without pain or fear.

Seldom I mark mankind's detested ways, Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise; And unconcern'd my future fate I trust, To that sole Being merciful and just.

FRANCES SHERIDAN,

Born 1724, died 1767,

The mother of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Her maiden name was Chamberlair.e.

Her Sidney Biddulph was once a popular novel, and her romance Nourjahad still finds readers. She also wrote two comedies.

Ode to Patience.

UNAW'D by threats, unmov'd by force,
My steady soul pursues her course,
Collected, calm, resign'd;

Say, you who search with curious eyes
The source, whence human actions rise,
Say, whence this turn of mind?

'Tis Patience! lenient goddess, hail!
O let thy votary's vows prevail,
Thy threaten'd flight to stay;

Long hast thou been a welcome guest,
Long reign'd an inmate in this breast,

And rul'd with gentle sway.

Thro' all the various turns of fate,
Ordain'd me in each several state,
My wayward lot has known;
What taught me silently to bear,
To curb the sigh, to check the tear,
When sorrow weigh'd me down?

"Twas Patience! temperate goddess, stay! For still thy dictates I obey,

Nor yield to passion's power; Tho' by injurious foes borne down,

My fame, my toil, my hopes o'erthrown,

In one ill-fated hour.

When robb'd of what I held most dear,
My hands adorn'd the mournful bier
Of her I lov'd so well;

What, when mute sorrow chain'd my tongue,
As o'er the sable hearse I hung,

Forbade the tide to swell?

'Twas Patience! goddess ever calm!

O pour into my breast thy balm,

That antidote to pain;

Which flowing from thy nectar'd urn,

By chemistry divine can turn

Our losses into gain.

When sick and languishing in bed,

Sleep from my restless couch had fled,
(Sleep which e'en pain beguiles,)
What taught me calmly to sustain
A feverish being rack'd with pain,
And dress'd my looks in smiles?

"Twas Patience! Heaven-descended maid Implor'd, flew swiftly to my aid,

And lent her fostering breast;

Watch'd my sad hours with parent care,
Repell'd th' approaches of despair,
And sooth'd my soul to rest.

Say, when dissever'd from his side,
My friend, protector, and my guide-
When my prophetic soul,

Anticipating all the storm,
Saw danger in its direst form,

What could my fears control?

"Twas Patience! gentle goddess, hear! Be ever to thy suppliant near,

Nor let one murmur rise;

Since still some mighty joys are given,
Dear to her soul, the gifts of heaven,
The sweet domestic ties,

ANNA, COUNTESS TEMPLE,

died 1777,

The daughter of Thomas Chambers, Esq. and wife of Richard, first Earl Temple. Horace Walpole printed a small volume of her poetry at his private press. In Park's edition of the R. and N. Authors, a poem entitled The Jewel in the Tower is given as the composition of this lady: it is, however, merely an alteration of some verses which are to be found in A Pill to purge State-Melancholy, 1715.

Lines sent with a Piece of painted flowered Silk, to LADY CHARLES SPENCER, when she complained of being low in Pocket.

SINCE the times are so bad, and are still growing

You

worse,

may call this your own without sinking your
purse.

The nymphs and fauns say that the pattern is new,
And that Flora's gay pencil design'd it, is true:
It was finish'd and destin'd for Beauty's gay queen,
So to whom it belongs is most easily seen.
Tho' flowerets soon wither, yet these will not die,
When fading, revived by a beam of your eye;