With look sedate, and staid beyond her years, In matron weeds a _Housekeeper_ appears. The jingling keys her comely girdle deck— Her ’kerchief colour’d, and her apron _check_. Can that be Adelaide, that “soul of whim,” _Reform’d_ in practice, and in manner prim? —On household cares intent,[185] with many a sigh She turns the pancake, and she moulds the pie; Melts into sauces rich the savoury ham; From the crush’d berry strains the lucid jam; Bids brandied cherries,[186] by infusion slow, Imbibe new flavour, and their own forego, Sole cordial of her heart, sole solace of her woe! While, still responsive to each mournful moan, The saucepan simmers in a softer tone. · · · · · [The following extracts will give some idea of PAYNE KNIGHT’S poem. Hail! happy States, that fresh in vigour rise From Europe’s wrecks beneath Atlantic skies! Long may ye feel the blessings ye bestow; Nor e’er your parents’ sickly symptoms know! But when that parent, crush’d beneath the weight Of debts and taxes, yields herself to fate; May you her hapless fugitives receive, Comfort their sorrows, and their wants relieve! For come it will—th’ inevitable day, When Britain must corruption’s forfeit pay, Beneath a despot’s, or a rabble’s sway. After a glowing description of the amours of a shepherd and shepherdess, he thus speaks of _Marriage_:— Bless’d days of youth, of liberty, and love! How short, alas! your transient pleasures prove! Just as we think the sweet delights our own, We strive to fix them, and we find them flown:— For fix’d by laws, and limited by rules, Affection stagnates and love’s fervour cools; Shrinks like the gather’d flower, which, when possess’d, Droops in the hand, or withers on the breast: Feels all its native bloom and fragrance fly, And death’s pale shadows close its purple dye. While mutual wishes form love’s only vows, By mutual interests nursed, the union grows; Respectful fear its rising power maintains, And both preserve, when each may break, its chains. But when in bands indissoluble join’d, Securely torpid sleeps the sated mind; No anxious hopes or fears arise, to move The flagging wings, or stir the fires of love: Benumb’d, the soul’s best energies repose, And life in dull unvaried torpor flows; Or only shakes off lethargy to teaze Whom once its only pleasure was to please.—ED.]