A LONG STORY.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands :
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the pow'r of fairy hands

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave lord-keeper led the brawls;
The seal and maces danced before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,

His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet,

Moved the stout heart of England's queen,
Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

F

What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your hist❜ry whither are you spinning!
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-à-pie from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other amazon kind Heaven

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire;

But Cobham had the polish given,

And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; Melissa is her nom de guerre.

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long they hid their armour, And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.