We happened to read it in our early days, and thought it a very contemptible performance. The Duchess of Marlborough left L1000 in her will between Glover and Mallett to write a Life of her husband. Glover threw up his share of the work, and Mallett engaged to perform the whole, to which, besides, he was stimulated by a pension from the second Duke of Marlborough. He got the money, but when he died it was found that he had not written a line of the work. In his latter days he held the lucrative office of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. He died on the 2lst April 1765. Mallett is, on the whole, no credit to Scotland. He was a bad, mean, insincere, and unprincipled man, whose success was procured by despicable and dastardly arts. He had doubtless some genius, and his 'Birks of Invermay,' and 'William and Margaret,' shall preserve his name after his clumsy imitation of Thomson, called 'The Excursion,' and his long, rambling 'Amyntor and Theodora;' have been forgotten. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 1 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. 2 Her face was like an April-morn, Clad in a wintry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud. 3 So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. 4 Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. 5 But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime: The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; She died before her time. 6 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid, Thy love refused to save. 7 'This is the dumb and dreary hour, When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. 8 'Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth. 9 'Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep? 10 'How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin-heart, Yet leave that heart to break? 11 'Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid! Believe the flattering tale? 12 'That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. 13 'The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.