Mrs. Hartley was only a second-rate actress. Her 'first attempts' were very favourably received; but latterly she proved a mere copyist--her only well supported character, 'Jane Shore,' being after Mrs. Yates. 'Detector,' in the 'Weekly Magazine,' says, "The tree at first bore many blossoms: I am sorry it did not yield more fruit. Although it failed, it was not for want of care and culture (on the part of Digges, the Manager of the Theatre) or the sunshine of public favour." There is a very beautiful Portrait of Mrs. Hartley drawn and engraved by Sherwin.]

Hartley resembles Scotland's Queen,
Some bard enraptured cries :
A flattering bard he is, I ween,
Or else the painter lies.1

ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMAS LANCASHIRE,

COMEDIAN.

[Lancashire, says Jackson, "possessed a great fund of dry humour, and filled Shuter's line in low comedy. He was a great favourite with the public. He kept a tavern, first in the Canongate, and afterwards in the New Town. He drank and joked with his customers: laughed and grew fat; and at length died, respected by many, and with the good word of all."-History of the Scottish Stage, p. 42.]

2

ALAS, poor Thom! how oft, with merry heart,
Have we beheld thee play the sexton's part,
Each comic heart must now be grieved to see
The sexton's dreary part perform'd on thee.

1 See her picture in the palace of Holyroodhouse.-F. 2 Grave-digger in Hamlet.-F.

SONG. 1

WHERE winding Forth adorns the vale,
Fond Strephon, once a shepherd gay,
Did to the rocks his lot bewail,

And thus address'd his plaintive lay:
"O Julia! more than lily fair,

"More blooming than the kindling rose, "How can thy breast relentless wear

"A heart more cold than winter's snows?

"Yet nipping winter's keenest sway

"But for a short-liv'd space prevails;
"Spring-time returns, and cheers each spray,
"Scented with Flora's fragrant gales.

66

Come, Julia, come, thy love obey,

"Thou mistress of angelic charms!

"Come smiling like the morn in May,
"And centre in thy Strephon's arms.

"Else, haunted by the fiend despair,
"He'll court some solitary grove,
"Where mortal foot did ne'er repair,

"But swains oppress'd by hapless love.
"From the once pleasing rural throng,

"Remov'd, he'll through the desert stray,

"Where Philomela's mournful song

"Shall join his melancholy lay."

1 This Song' appeared in Johnson's 'Scots Musical Museum' [142, Vol. 2d. p. 149.] adapted to the fine old air of Cumbernauld House,' which is inserted both in Macgibbon and Oswald's Collections. Can no one recover the old words to 'Cumbernauld House?' The Editor of Fergusson should feel greatly obliged by any one sending them or any fragment to his publishers. They have eluded the search even of Mr. Laing and of Mr. Sharpe.

CONSCIENCE:-AN ELEGY.

-Leave her to heaven,

And to the thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her.

SHAKSPEARE. [RICHARD II. ACT I. Sc. 5.]

No choiring warblers flutter in the sky;
Phoebus no longer holds his radiant sway;
While Nature, with a melancholy eye,
Bemoans the loss of his departed ray.

O happy he whose conscience knows no guile!
He to the sable night can bid farewell;
From cheerless objects close his eyes a while
Within the silken folds of sleep to dwell.

Elysian dreams shall hover round his bed,

His soul shall wing, on pleasing fancies borne, To shining vales where flow'rets lift their head, Waked by the breathing zephyrs of the morn.

But wretched he whose foul reproachful deeds
Can through an angry conscience wound his rest,
His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs,

Though slumber seldom knows him as her guest.

To calm the raging tumults of his soul,

If wearied nature should an hour demand,
Around his bed the sheeted spectres howl,
Red with revenge the grinning furies stand.

Nor state nor grandeur can his pain allay;

Where shall he find a requiem to his woes? Power cannot chase the frightful gloom away, Nor music lull him to a kind repose.

Where is the king that conscience fears to chide?
Conscience, that candid judge of right and wrong,
Will o'er the secrets of each heart preside,

Nor awed by pomp nor tamed by soothing song.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. TOSHACK OF PERTH,

A GREAT HUMOURIST.

Where be those gibes, those flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar?

HAMLET, ACT V.

THE Doctor dead! let old St. Johnston mourn;
Let laughter's sons to sorrow's votʼries turn;
Mirth, wit, and humour from the earth are gone,
And to the summit of Olympus flown.
Could Momus die, 'tis sure, as Jove's in heaven,
The vacant chair to Toshack would be given.

THE SIMILE.

[This Simile appears as a Song (cxxxvi. p. 118—19) in the Goldfinch or new modern Songster, 1 Vol. 12mo, 1782. Burns's first effusion, namely, the words to the 'Tither Morn,' appeared in the Goldfinch; and I believe that this is the Collection which he speaks of in his Memoranda.]

Ar noontide as Colin and Sylvia lay
Within a cool jessamine bower,

A butterfly, waked by the heat of the day,
Was sipping the juice of each flower.

Near the shade of this covert a young shepherd boy

The gaudy brisk flutterer spies,

Who held it as pastime to seek and destroy

Each beautiful insect that flies.

From the lily he hunted this fly to the rose,
From the rose to the lily again,

Till weary with tracing its motions, he chose
To leave the pursuit with disdain.

Then Colin to Sylvia smilingly said,
Amyntor has follow'd you long;

From him, like the butterfly, still have you fled,

Though woo'd by his musical tongue.

Beware in persisting to start from his arms,

But with his fond wishes comply;

Come, take my advice; or he's pall'd with your charms,

Like the youth and the beautiful fly.

Says Sylvia,-Colin, thy simile's just,
But still to Amyntor I'm coy;

For I vow she's a simpleton blind that would trust
A swain, when he courts to destroy.

TO MR. [JOHN F.] GUION, COMEDIAN,

FOR HIS PANEGYRIC ON DR. WEBSTER.

THOUGH moralists may wisely say,

It is but barely civil

For all our enemies to pray,

And render good for evil;