“I was not unmindful of the merry chorister! But the lark has made a pause; and I have your promise of a song. Now is the time to fill up the one, and to fulfil the other.” EUGENIO'S SONG. “Sweet is the breath of early morn That o'er yon heath refreshing blows: And sweet the blossom on the thorn, The violet blue, the blushing rose. When mounts the lark on rapid wing, How sweet to sit and hear him sing! No carols like the feathered choir, Such happy, grateful thoughts inspire. Here let the spirit, sore distress'd, Its vanities and wishes close: The weary world is not the rest Where wounded hearts should seek repose. But, hark! the lark his merry strain, To heav'n high soaring, sings again. Be hush'd, sweet songster! ev'ry voice That warbles not like thee--Rejoice!” “Short and sad! Eugenio. We must away from these bewitching solitudes, or thy note will belong more to the nightingale than to the lark! Let imagination carry thee back to the reign of Queen Anne, when the Spectator and Sir Roger de Coverley embarked at the Temple-Stairs on their voyage to Vauxhall. We pass over the good knight's religious horror at beholding what a few steeples rose on the west of Temple-Bar; and the waterman's wit, (a common thing in those days, * ) that made him almost wish himself a Middlesex magistrate! * What a sledge-hammer reply was Doctor Johnson's to an aquatic wag upon a similar occasion. “Fellow! your mother, under the _pretence_ (!!!) of keeping a ------------ is a receiver of stolen goods!” 'We were now arrived at _Spring Garden_ says the Spectator, 'which is exquisitely pleasant at this time of the year. When I considered the fragrancy of the walks and bowers, with the choir of birds that sang upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it put him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales.' “And mark in what primitive fashion they concluded their walk, with a glass of Burton ale and a slice of hung-beef! “Bonnel Thornton furnishes a ludicrous account of a stingy old citizen, loosening his purse-strings to treat his wife and family to Vauxhall; and 'Colin's * 'Description to his wife of _Greenwood Hall_, or the pleasures of _Spring Gardens_,' gives a lively picture of what this modern Arcadia was a century ago. 1 May 20, 1712.