436 Original 
petites. It is from ignorance of his na- 
ture that he misapprehends his interest : 
not comprehending how he 18 made, he 
disputes the will of his Maker. 
I am impatient for the publication of 
your book, and bope your printer will 
make all possible haste to indulge us with 
it. I rejoice that it has pleased God to 
give you life and health to finish this 
work; and I flatter myself, though you 
may not again embark in so great an un- 
dertaking, that so able a pen will not be 
consigned to indolent repose. As to my 
poor goose-quill, it is not much to be 
regretted that, very probally, it will 
scribble no more. I have neither the 
force of good health, nor the presumption 
of good spirits, Jeft to animate me, and 
without the energy of great talents, these 
‘are necessary to the task of undertaking 
something for the public. - 
I have been for many months teazed 
with a slow fever; and the loss of my ex- 
cellent friend lord Lyttelton, has cast a 
cloud over my mind. I remember, sir 
William Temple says, in one of his es- 
says, that ‘* when he recollects how many 
excellent men and amiable women have 
died before him, he is ashamed of being 
alive.” With much more reason than 
sir William (whose merit was equal to 
that of any of the friends he survived) I 
feel this very strongly. I have lived in 
the most intimate connexion with some 
of the highest characters of the age. - 
They are gone, and I remain: all that 
adorned me is taken away, and only a 
cypress wreath is left. - I used to borrow 
lustre from them, but now I seem respec- 
table, even in my own eyes, only as the 
mourner of departed merit. 
Poetry, [Dec. 1, 
T agree with vour lordship, that I ought 
not to lament the death of lord Lyttleton 
on his own account. His virtue could 
not have been more perfect in this mortal 
state, nor his character greater than it 
was, with all whose praise could be an 
object to a wise and worthy man. He 
now reaps the full reward of those vir- 
tues, which, when here, though they 
gave him a tranquil cheerfulness amidst 
many vexations, and the sufferings of 
sickness, yet could not. produce a perfect 
calm to the wounds inflicted on his pa- 
ternal affection. When I consider how 
unhappy his former, how blessed his pre- 
sent, state, [am ashamed to lament him. 
Fhe world has lost the best exampie, 
modest merit the best protector, mankind 
its gentlest friend. My loss is unspeak- 
able; but as the friendship of such aman 
is the best vift of God, and I am sensible 
that I was never deserving of so great a 
blessing, I ought rather to offer thanks 
that it was so Jong bestowed, than to res 
pine that it was taken away. EF ought 
also to beg that, by the remembrance of 
his precepts and example, I may derive 
the same helps to doing my duty in al! 
relations of life, and in all social engage= 
ments, that I did from his advice. But 
virtue never speaks with such persuasion 
as when she horrows the accents of a 
friend; moreover, my time in this world 
will probably be very short, andif it were 
long, I could never cease to admire so 
‘perfect a pattern of goodness. 
I am ever, 
My lord, &c. &c. 
EvizaBetH Montacua, 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
are 
LINES, 
WRITTEN BY MAJjoR C OF tornD 
WELLINGTON'S ARMY, TO A LADY, 
DATED, PORTUGAL, 1810. 
*VE long, dear lady, try’d in Vain 
To write you in poetic strain, 
Tn lieu of common prose 5 
But let me woo her as I will, 
The truant-Muse eindes me still, 
And scarce a stanza flows. - 
Sometimesd seize the pen to write 
The tale of Talavera’s fight, 
Were France and England bled: 
To tell how British valour shene, 
Recerd the dying soldier's groam, 
Ard celevrate the dead. 
And then within my bosom glow | 
The mingled throbs of joy and wees 
Of triumph, and of grief; 
For then I glory in the hour 
That check’d usurping France’s pow’r, 
And offer’d Spain relief. ~ 
And then, I long for deathless lays 
Tosound our gallant Wellesley’s praise, 
And deeds of wonder tell ; 
And then, I feel a scidier’s pride 
In having fought by Sherbrooke’s side, 
And where Mackenzie fell! 
Fond dream; another motaent’s thought 
is with the mighty slaughter fraught, © 
And all my ardour dies; ° 
For 
* 
