Lord Lyttelton brings to mind his friend and patron, Frederick Prince of Wales (grandfather of the present King). From the impression which _history_ has given of his character, no one, I believe, would suspect him of being a poet, though he was known as the patron of poets. He sometimes amused himself with writing French and English songs, &c. in imitation of the Regent Duc d'Orleans. But, assuredly, it was not in imitation of the Regent he chose his own wife for the principal subject of his ditties. In the same manner, and in the same worthy spirit of imitation of the same worthy person, he tried hard to be a libertine, and laid siege to the virtue of sundry maids of honour; preferring all the time, in his inmost soul, his own wife to the handsomest among her attendants. His flirtations with Lady Archibald Hamilton and Miss Vane had not half the grace or sincerity of some of his effusions to the Princess, whom he tenderly loved, and used to call, with a sort of pastoral gallantry, "ma Sylvie." One of his songs has been preserved by that delicious retailer of court-gossip, Horace Walpole; and I copy it from the Appendix to his Memoirs, without agreeing in his flippant censure. SONG. 'Tis not the languid brightness of thine eyes, That swim with pleasure and delight, Nor those fair heavenly arches which arise O'er each of them, to shade their light:-- 'Tis not that hair which plays with every wind, And loves to wanton o'er thy face, Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind Retiring with insidious grace:-- ....*....*....*....* 'Tis not the living colours over each, By Nature's finest pencil wrought, To shame the fresh-blown rose and blooming peach, And mock the happiest painter's thought; But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love So kindly answering my desire,-- That grace with which you look, and speak, and move! That thus have set my soul on fire. To Dr. Parnell's[69] love for his wife (Anne Minchin), we owe two of the most charming songs in our language; "My life hath been so wondrous free," and that most beautiful lyric, "When your beauty appears," which, as it is less known, I give entire, When your beauty appears In its graces and airs, All bright as an angel new dropt from the skies, At distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears, So strangely you dazzle my eyes. But when without art, Your kind thoughts you impart, When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants at your heart, Then I know that you're woman again. "There's a passion and pride, In our sex," she replied; "And thus, might I gratify both, I would do,-- Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman for you!"