Not Blenheim’s field, nor Ister’s flood, Nor standards dyed in Gallic blood, Torn from the foe, add nobler grace To Churchill’s house than Spenser’s face. The warlike thunder of his arms Is less commanding than her charms; His lightning strikes with less surprise Than sudden glances from her eyes. His captives feel their limbs confined In iron; she enslaves the mind: We follow with a pleasing pain, And bless the conqueror and the chain. The Muse that dares in numbers do What paint and pencil never knew, Faints at her presence in despair, And owns th’ inimitable fair. Presently appeared the following epigram or _impromptu_ composed by some divine, of which it has been truly remarked that it is difficult to say whether the author or the lady has the greater compliment!— While numerous bards have sounded Spenser’s name, And made her beauties heirs to lasting fame, Her memory still to their united lays Stands less indebted than to Watts’s praise. What wondrous charms must to that fair be given, Who moved a mind that dwelt so near to heaven! Tunbridge Wells is still the pleasant resort of those who seek the mild and quiet attractions of charming scenery, refreshing breezes, and crags and downs; but the romantic season of Tunbridge Wells is to be sought for about the period when Watts and his contemporaries were visitors there, scenes open to the fancy which it would be difficult to realize now amidst its splendid palatial residences; even Nature must look less like Nature than it did then, while the superior auxiliaries of comfort and accommodation have, as in almost all such instances, been purchased at the expense of dissipating the charms and rural beauties of a place which still retains so many of them as to make one of the most attractive and satisfying haunts for a sick heart among the sanatories of England.