as she says in delicious numbers that might be Wordsworth’s own.  In these delightful moments, released from the burden of her tyrant malady, her eyes seem to have been touched with the herb euphrasy, and she has the gift, denied to the rest of her generation, of seeing nature and describing what she sees.  In these moods, this contemporary of Dryden and Congreve gives us such accurate transcripts of country life as the following: 

When the loos’d horse now, as his pasture leads, Comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads, Whose stealing face and lengthened shade we fear, Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, And unmolested kine rechew the cud:  When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls.

In Eastwell Park there was a hill, called Parnassus, to which she was particularly partial, and to this she commonly turned her footsteps.

Melancholy as she was, however, and devoted to reverie, she could be gay enough upon occasion, and her sprightly poems have a genuine sparkle.  Here is an anacreontic—­written “for my brother Leslie Finch”—­which has never before been printed: 

From the Park, and the Play, And Whitehall, come away To the Punch-bowl by far more inviting; To the fops and ’the beaux Leave those dull empty shows, And see here what is truly delighting.

  The half globe ’tis in figure,
  And would it were bigger,
  Yet here’s the whole universe floating;
  Here’s titles and places,
  Rich lands, and fair faces,
  And all that is worthy our doting.

  ’Twas a world like to this
  The hot Grecian did miss,
  Of whom histories keep such a pother;
  To the bottom he sunk,
  And when he had drunk,
  Grew maudlin, and wept for another_.

At another point, Anne Finch bore very little likeness to her noisy sisterhood of fashion.  In an age when it was the height of ill-breeding for a wife to admit a partiality for her husband, Ardelia was not ashamed to confess that Daphnis—­for so she styled the excellent Heneage Finch—­absorbed every corner of her mind that was not occupied by the Muses.  It is a real pleasure to transcribe, for the first time since they were written on the 2nd of April, 1685, these honest couplets: 

This, to the crown and blessing of my life, The much-loved husband of a happy wife; To him whose constant passion found the art To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart; And to the world by tenderest proof discovers They err who say that husbands can’t be lovers.  With such return of passion as is due, Daphnis I love, Daphnis my thoughts pursue, Daphnis, my hopes, my joys are bounded all in you!

Nearly thirty years later the same accent is audible, thinned a little by advancing years, and subdued from passion to tenderness, yet as genuine as at first.  When at length the Earl began to suffer from the gout, his faithful family songster recorded that also in her amiable verse, and prayed that “the bad disease”