ANN YEARSLEY,

Born died 1806,

A milkwoman of Bristol, was lifted from obscurity by Mrs. Hannah More, who published her poems, and prefaced them by a letter to Mrs. Montagu, in which their merit is somewhat overrated. It is said that Mrs. Yearsley treated her amiable patroness with ingratitude.

From Clifton Hill.

YE silent, solemn, strong, stupendous heights,*
Whose terror-striking frown the school-boy frights
From the young daw; whilst in your rugged breast
The chattering brood, secur'd by Horror, rest.
Say, Muse, what arm the lowering brothers cleft,
And the calm stream in this low cradle left?
Coeval with Creation they look down,
And, sunder'd, still retain their native frown.
Beneath those heights, lo! balmy springs arise,t

To which pale Beauty's faded image flies;

*St. Vincent's rocks, between which flows the river Avon.

+ The Hot Wells.

Their kindly powers life's genial heat restore,

The tardy pulse, whose throbs were almost o'er,
Here beats a livelier tune. The breezy air
To the wild hills invites the languid fair;
Fear not the western gale, thou timorous maid,
Nor dread its blast shall thy soft form invade;
Tho' cool and strong the quickening breezes blow,
And meet thy panting breath, 'twill quickly grow
More strong; then drink the odoriferous draught,
With unseen particles of health 'tis fraught.
Sit not within the threshold of Despair,
Nor plead a weakness fatal to the fair;
Soft term for Indolence, politely given,

By which we win no joy from earth or heaven.
Foul fiend! thou bane of health, fair virtue's bane,
Death of true pleasure, source of real pain!
Keen exercise shall brace the fainting soul,
And bid her slacken'd powers more vigorous roll.

How thickly cloth'd, yon rock of scanty soil,*
Its lovely verdure scorns the hand of toil.
Here the deep green, and here the lively plays,
The russet birch, and ever-blooming bays;
The vengeful black-thorn, of wild beauties proud,
Blooms beauteous in the gloomy-chequer'd crowd:

Leigh Wood.

The barren elm, the useful feeding oak,
Whose Hamadryad ne'er should feel the stroke
Of axe relentless, till twice fifty years

Have crown'd her woodland joys, and fruitful cares.
The poisonous reptiles here their mischiefs bring,
And thro' the helpless sleeper dart the sting;
The toad envenom'd, hating human eyes,
Here springs to light, lives long, and aged dies.
The harmless snail, slow-journeying, creeps away,
Sucks the young dew, but shuns the bolder day.
The long-nos'd mouse, the woodland rat is here,
The sightless mole, with nicely-pointed ear;
The timid rabbit hails th' impervious gloom,
Eludes the dog's keen scent, and shuns her doom.
Various the tenants of this tangled wood,
Who skulk all day, all night review the flood,
Chew the wash'd weed driven by the beating wave,
Or feast on dreadful food, which hop'd a milder

grave.

Hail, useful Channel! Commerce spreads her wings,

From either pole her various treasure brings; Wafted by thee, the mariner, long stray'd, Clasps the fond parent, and the sighing maid; Joy tunes the cry; the rocks rebound the roar; The deep vibration quivers 'long the shore;

The merchant hears, and hails the peeping mast,
The wave-drench'd sailor scorns all peril past;
Now love and joy the noisy crew invite,
And clumsy music crowns the rough delight.

From a Poem "On Mrs. MONTAGU."

OFT as I trod my native wilds alone,

Strong gusts of thought would rise, but rise to die;
The portals of the swelling soul ne'er op'd
By liberal converse, rude ideas strove

Awhile for vent, but found it not, and died.

Thus rust the mind's best powers. Yon starry

orbs,

Majestic ocean, flowery vales, gay groves,

Eye-wasting lawns, and heaven-attempting hills,
Which bound th' horizon, and which curb the view;
All those, with beauteous imagery, awak'd
My ravish'd soul to ecstasy untaught,

To all the transport the rapt sense can bear;
But all expir'd, for want of powers to speak;
All perish'd in the mind as soon as born,
Eras'd more quick than ciphers on the shore,
O'er which the cruel waves unheedful roll.

CHARLOTTE SMITH,

Born 1749, died 1806,

The daughter of Nicholas Turner, Esq., who possessed estates in Surrey and Sussex, was married, when very young, to Mr. Smith, the son of a West India merchant. The affairs of her husband having proved unprosperous, Mrs. Smith experienced much harsh treatment from his creditors, shared his imprison. ment, and, after a series of misfortunes, died at Thetford. Her poems, novels, and other works, which were favourably received by the public, gained her a subsistence.

Charlotte Smith, considered as a poetess, has been excelled by few of her countrywomen. Her Sonnets, once very popular, are not framed on the Italian model, and exhibit little of concentrated thought;

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but

they are most musical, most melancholy," and abound with touches of tenderness, grace, and beauty. Her descriptions of rural scenery, particularly those in her posthumous volume,* are fresh and vivid: and her love of botany, from the study of which she derived the greatest pleasure, has led her, in several of her pieces, to paint a variety of flowers with a minuteness and a delicacy rarely equalled.

Beachy Head, and other Poems.