Lord Harcourt, Chancellor in the reign of Queen Ann, was really no mean poet, and has left some excellent verses addressed to Pope on the publication of his works. Lord Somers also was the author of some very tolerable translations from the Latin Classics, and other poems. (See his Life, by Mr. Maddock, p. 95.) Every one remembers Pope's praise of Lord Mansfield :

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"How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost."

We are told also, that an extemporaneous addition to Lord Lyttleton's poem of Virtue and Fame, by Lord Chancellor Hardwicke, had so much merit as to induce the former to observe, "If your Lordship can write such verses extempore, it is well for other poets that you chose to be Lord Chancellor rather than Laureate." His Lordship's talent is said to have descended to his son, the, all-accomplished " Charles Yorke, who has left several proofs of a fine poetical talent. Some verses addressed by him to his sister, Miss Yorke, afterwards Lady Anson, may be found in the Annual Register for 1770. "He used to call himself," says Dalrymple, in the Preface to his Memoirs," fugitive from the Muses." Sir John Davies, a celebrated lawyer in the reign of James I. was a poet of very considerable merit. His poem on the Immortality of the Soul, entitled Nosce te ipsum, is said, by a very competent judge, to be one of

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the closest, the most ingenious, and at the same time the clearest pieces of reasoning ever couched in rhyme. (See Miss Aikin's Memoirs of James I. v. i. p. 93.) Lord Chancellor Hatton, whose saltatory excellences are celebrated by Gray, is said to have been addicted to the Muses, and to be the undoubted author of the four acts of the old tragedy of Tancred and Gismunda. (Hist. of Engl. Poetry, iii. 97.) This play is supposed to have been the joint production of five students of the Inner Temple, and was acted by that society before the queen in 1568, but not printed till 1592. It is contained in the second edition of Dodsley's Old Plays.

Sir William Blackstone was very much attached to poetical pursuits. His verses on the death of Frederick, Prince of Wales, father of George III., printed with the signature of James Clithero, are esteemed one of the best compositions in the Oxford Collection of 1751. (See Preface to Blackstone's Rep.p.vi. and Catalogue of the Works of Sir William Blackstone, p. 13.) The most pleasing of Sir William's poems is that entitled,

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;

Pensive he treads the destined way,

And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay Queen of Fancy, and of Art,
Reluctant move with doubtful mind,
Oft stop and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees with humming voice
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms, with awful bend,
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along :
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,

These scenes must charm me now no more,

Lost to the field, and torn from you

Farewell!

—a long, a last adieu !

The wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw;
There selfish faction rules the day
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose revelry and riot bold

In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or when in silence all is drown'd,
Fell murder walks her lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you-
Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!

Shakespeare no more, thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self must please :
Instead of these, a formal band

In furs and coifs around me stand,
With sounds uncouth, and accents dry,
That grate the soul of Harmony.
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding, close retreat,
Is Justice doom'd to fix her seat;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the Law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe;

And there from vulgar sight retired,

Like Eastern Queens, is much admired.

Oh! let me pierce the secret shade Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark, with reverent awe, The Guardian of Britannia's Law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, (The united boast of many an age, Where mix'd, though uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years,) In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true, And other doctrines thence imbibe Than lurk within the sordid scribe ; Observe how parts with parts unite In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend, By various laws, to one great end; While mighty Alfred's piercing soul Pervades and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife Welcome the cares, the thorns of life; The visage wan, the pore-blind sight, The toil by day, the lamp by night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy Bench, the babbling Hall, For thee, fair Justice, welcome all !