William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in his 'Ghost,' says-- 'But he who in the laureate chair, By grace, not merit, planted there, In awkward pomp is seen to sit, And by his patent proves his wit,' &c. To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.' VARIETY. A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. A gentle maid, of rural breeding, By Nature first, and then by reading, Was filled with all those soft sensations Which we restrain in near relations, Lest future husbands should be jealous, And think their wives too fond of fellows. The morning sun beheld her rove A nymph, or goddess of the grove! At eve she paced the dewy lawn, And called each clown she saw, a faun! Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, And turned some copious volume o'er. For much she read; and chiefly those Great authors, who in verse, or prose, Or something betwixt both, unwind The secret springs which move the mind. These much she read; and thought she knew The human heart's minutest clue; Yet shrewd observers still declare, (To show how shrewd observers are,) Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, And novels, in profusion, came, Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, She only read the heart's romance. The world, no doubt, was well enough To smooth the manners of the rough; Might please the giddy and the vain, Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: But, for her part, the truest taste She found was in retirement placed, Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, 'On every thorn instruction grows.' Not that she wished to 'be alone,' As some affected prudes have done; She knew it was decreed on high We should 'increase and multiply;' And therefore, if kind Fate would grant Her fondest wish, her only want, A cottage with the man she loved Was what her gentle heart approved; In some delightful solitude Where step profane might ne'er intrude; But Hymen guard the sacred ground, And virtuous Cupids hover round. Not such as flutter on a fan Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, (Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, And hold their fingers to their noses,) But simpering, mild, and innocent, As angels on a monument.