er ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right--but needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion,
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd die before he'd wrong it--'tis decorum.--
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,
A time, when rough, rude man had haughty ways;
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men--and you are all well-bred--
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration
Most humbly own--'tis dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life--immortal love.--
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares--
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions,
Let majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ca ira! the majesty of woman!

* * * * *

CXXXII.

MONODY,

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.

[The heroine Of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park:
a lady young and gay, much of a wit, and something of a poetess, and
till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his
displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked
on some "epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes designated
commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We
owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the poet, written
with great beauty and feeling.]

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd!
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
From friendship and dearest affection remov'd;
How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
So shy,