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His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay,
The guests sat in silence and fear;

At length, spoke the bride, while she trembled
"I pray,
"Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would
"And deign to partake of our cheer."
The lady is silent-the stranger complies,
And his vizor he slowly unclos'd."
Oh, gods! what a sight met fair Imogene's eyes,
What words can express her dismay and sur-
When a skeleton's head was expos'd. [prise,

All present then utter'd a terrified shout,
And turn'd with disgust from the scene;
The worms they crept in, and the worms they

crept out,

And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the spectre address'd Imogene. "Behold me, thou false one! behold me!" he cried,

"Behold thy Alonzo the brave.

"God grants that to punish thy falsehood and "pride [side, "My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy "Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as 66 bride,

"And bear thee away to the grave." This saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While fair Imogene shriek'd with dismay; Then sank with his prey through the wideyawning ground,

Nor ever again was fair Imogene found,
Or the spectre that bore her away.

Not long liv'd the baron, and none since that
To inhabit the castle presume: time,
For chronicles tell, that by order sublime,
There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight four times in each year does her
When mortals in slumber are bound, [sprite,
Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with her skeleton knight,
And shrieks as he whirls her around.
While they drink out of sculls newly torn from
the grave,

Dancing round them pale spectres are seen: Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: To the health of Alonzo the


"And his consort the false Imogene."

$263. Sonnet.


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F chance some pensive stranger hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views, The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape hues,

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lonely bed, 'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame

Of ruthless love: yet her look screne. As the pale moonlight in the midnight isle, [lend Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could Like that which spoke of a departed friend, And a meck sadness sat upon her smile!— Be the rude spot by passing pity blest, [rest. Where, hush'd to long repose, the wretched

§ 266. Sonnet. BOWLES. OTIME that know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away); On thee I rest my only hope at last,

WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whisper-And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear

ing sweet,

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That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And ineet life's peaceful evening with a smile-
As some lone bird at day's departing hour
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,
Forgetful tho' its wings are wet the while:
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart
Which hopes from thee, and thee aloue, a

§ 267. Spoken by Mr. THOMAS KNOX at the unnual Visitation of Tunbridge School. SWEET is thy month, O Maia! nor less sweet Life's earliest prime, when roseate blossoms blow

In Fancy's fairy meads, the Elysian fields
Of infantine illusion, on the breast
Of boys, who court, like us, the classic Muse,
And daily sip the dews of Castalie.

Happy the school-boy! did he prize his bliss,
Twere ill exchang'd for all the dazzling gems
That gaily sparkle in ambition's eye;
His are the joys of nature, his the smile,
The cherub smile of innocence and health,
Sorrow unknown, or if a tear he shed,
He wipes it soon; for hark! the cheerful voice
Of comrades calls him to the top, or ball:
Away he hies, and clamours as he goes
With glee, which causes him to tread on air;
Bounding along elastic to the field,
Or play-ground, scarce the well stuff'd leathern

Springs from the earth so light, so swift as he: And well he earns the sports he well enjoys, For from the morning's dawn o'er learning's


His steady eye has por'd till eventide.
Early he awoke; scarcely had chanticleer
Announc'd Aurora's orient blushing beams,
When from the turret of the classic dome、
The bell importunate, rang shrill and loud,
And call'd him from his pillow; up he sprang,
Shaking soft slumbers from his shining eyes,
And eager to renew his daily task.
First lowly on his knees with orisons
His Father high in heaven he supplicates
To bless his earthly father, her that bore him,
Friends, tutors, all that watch with anxious care
To guide his footsteps in the paths of peace:
Then to the limpid spring he hies, and laves
In the cold element his morning face.
His flowing locks well kempt, all neat and

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As vernal violets wash'd with drops of dew,
He takes his seat upon the classic bench,
With Lily's volume duly op'd before him,
And cons the task to memory assign'd,
Repeating rules of grammar o'er and o'er
With patience unsubdu'd; for now and then
He sweetens toil with gingerbread's nice cakes,
Or apples par'd unseen beneath the form,
Or conversation softly interchang'd
Of nests, slides, marbles, weighty cares,
Yet not unpleasing; till now the busy school
Glows with a general hum, as when in May
The bees go forth to rifle honied flowers,
They buz and murmur, yet no labour slight,
But bring home luscious loads to enrich the

The morning part well sail, new cares suc-

For now the authors of a golden age,
Virgil and Horace, Tully's copious page,
And Honier's manly mélody invite

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Harmonious; polish'd is his ear, and keen
His intellect, he hears, he tastes, he feels,
Till his whole soul elate with ecstacy,
Catching the flame of genius, boldly dares
To emulate the beauties he admires:
Hence in the evening exercise the theme
Pregnant with moral truth, express'd in style
Purely Augustan; one day sure to grace
The bar, the pulpit, or the author's page,
Himself to aggrandize, and serve mankind.
Nor seldom does the stripling suatch the lyre,
And strike the deep-ton'd shell. Alcæus now
He emulates; whose sinewy nervous lines
Pour forth like Handel's strains-full harmony;
And now he sings with Sappho softly sweet;
The liquid measures flow like honied drops
That trickle from the dodal cells of bees,
Adonis closing the mellifluent lay
With gentlest cadence. Listen yet once more!
Tis elegy I hear; the mournful verse
Is simple; yet is nature's voice, and comes
Directly from the heart;—and to the heart
It deeply pierces; I could weep, and smile
To think I wept-how plaintive are the act.
Like such as oft I hear the nightingale
Modestly warble from the thicket shade,
Concealment seeking, yet betray'd by tones
Softer and sweeter than Italia's sons
Strain from their throats to raptur'd theate
But not to ode and elegy alone

His ardour leads; 1:-s emulative skill
In epigram he tries; and many a point
Which Martial might not blush to own,
In classical expression neat and terse.
Oft on the banks of Medway, near the dom
Of Sydney's noble race, he sits reclin'd,
And meditates the verse where Waller sat
And sung his Sacharissa; by his side
Horace and Ovid. While the trembling
With Hy appendant lures the golden chub,
His pencil in his hand, he studious notes
Some bright idea, or some polish'd phrase
Suggested by the Muse, that haunts the g
Of Penshurst, classic ground: if Britain's
Can claim such ground, then Penshurst -
[wild serer

the claim, Though solitude now reigns, and the here: Drowns with his din the song of Philomel.

The task now finish'd, to the master's eve The stripling bard submits with anxiousher. Happy, thrice happy could it meet with pra His bosom throbs, till soon the judge's brev That frown'd terrific, gentler looks assume; He calls the urchin with a friendly voice, And stroking his curl'd locks, fisgood," h


"And to reward thy well-done task I grant "A holiday." Strait all the air resounds A holiday! loud shouts from infant lips Proclaim a holiday! Out they eager rush

To snatch the licens'd joy ; each moment lost
Seems like an hour. Take, O take your fill,
Ye innocent tribes, nor let severity
Too rigorous, rob you of the fleeting day:
'Tis brief at best, and hardly shall ye know
In life's most boasted years a purer bliss
Or more exalted. Fly then o'er the lawn,
Climb yonder hill-expatiate thro' the grove,
Or from the river's margin plunge into the wave.
Why need I urge? already they are gone;
Some in the linipid stream already merg'd,.
Their pastime take and cleave the ambient wave,
Orbuoyant on the surface float supine,
Sporting like Halycons on the smooth expanse.
Thus nerv'd with added strength they urge the

At cricket, manly game! the boast of Kent,
Tunbridge's sous against all England's race;
Nor last, tho' least, the sprightly boys of Judd,
Scorning to be surpass'd in school, or field.

Others, as seasons urge, with weary eye
Search every thicket for the mossy nest;
And, thoughtless of the wrong, the eggs despoil,
Blue as the ethereal concave streak'd or vein'd
By nature's pencil with a thousand dyes.
Oh! my companions! rob not the poor bird,
For many a pang she feels; but be content
With viewing the fair prize, and leave it there.
Sweetly the song from yonder hawthorn bush
Shall pay your generous pity as you pass,
And conscious virtue shall a bliss bestow,
Which rapine, tho' successful, never tastes,
Though India's gems enrich the plunderer.
Trust not in wrong and robbery for happiness,
Nor, when autumnal suns the pensile fruit
Matures, and on the southeru garden wall
Blushes the nectar'd peach like Hebe's cheek,
O'erleap the fence. Oh, turn thy roving eye
From orchards rich with vegetable gold."
The pippin and the pear; but learn, like me,
The ripen'd cherry, shining, sleek, and plump,
To view with all the stoic's apathy.
I hate the purple cluster of the grape
When, out of reach, it peeps between the leaves
Half shewn and half conceal'd, to tempt the




Insidious beauty! Comrade, touch it not;
If e'er in evil hour thou pluck the fruit
Unlawful, thou shalt rue it, short-liv'd sweet
Follow'd by bitterness. The owner sees
Unseen, and tells your master of thy theft.
Then lo, the birchen fasces-hateful twigs;
Down go the galligaskins; sighs and sobs
Too plainly tell what penalties and woes
Brings disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree. Then learn content:
A little weekly stipend is thine own,
And freely use it, as 't was given for use.
Does thy mouth water? See the matron's stall,
Plums, nuts and apples, ranged in tempting
Invite, nor rigid Prudence bids forbear; [rows,
There purchase, paying ready cash, and eat,
Welcome as nuts to thee, thy mite to her.
Enjoy thy feast, poor imp, and freely taste,
No fears or qualins einpoisoning the regale;

Then, with light heart, and pockets lighter
Eas'd of thy money-root of every ill! [still,
Away again to drive the circling hoop,
Or spin the top, or knuckle down at taw.

But now the shades of eve and turret bell
Proclaim the holiday too soon expired.--
"In, boys! all in, boys!" Instant to the school
Repairing, low they bend to that high Pow'r
That guards them from the noontide heat,
The pestilence that walketh in the night,
And out of mouths of sucklings and of babes
Ordained praise. The choral hymn and pray'r
Ascends like incense to the throne of heaven.

And now all weary, and with eyes half-clos'd,
Down on the couch they sink, nor sooner down
Than sleep seals up their lids: how hash'd the
The merry noise that echo'd o'er the field [din,
The live-long day! "Tis silent all and still"
Along the chambers of the dormitory,
Save where a gentle breathing sooths the ear,
Or now and then a voice that talks in sleep:
For many a vision, or fantastic dream,
Hovers around their pillows; rivers, groves,
Birds, nests, on tops of tallest trees are seen,
With callow young, or eggs of varied hue;
Goldfinches, linnets lined with twigs,
Or shared in traps, or gudgeons on the hook:
The orchard's charms with added lures appear,
Already up the tree they seize the prize;
The plums and pippins, pears of freshest bue,
Clusters of grapes, no longer out of reach,
Distil nectareousjuices on their lips,
Which seem to smack again: so strong and trus
Imagination's pencil paints the scene.
Thus chear'd by slumbers and a holiday,
With double diligence they ply the task
Upon the morrow: then vacation's good
When to ingenuous minds allow3d it gives
A spur to industry, aud to genius fire.

Rest and alternate labour, these combined
With discipline shall form the emulous youth
To high accomplishments in liberal arts;
And when his friends and country call him
To generous service in busy life, [forth
With energetic force he acts his part
With strict propriety, fitted for each place
However arduous in the social scene."
Happy and honour'd, prominent he stands
Among the sons of men; and lustre flings
Back on the place where education stored
His mind with arts that taught him to excel.
Pardon my daring, if amid this group
Of school-boys, who, beneath your fostering

The muses, graces, virtues, cultivate,
I venture to foretel that, spurning case,
Some shali emerge, and add to the renown
Of Tunbridge school; an ancient hoary seat
Of classic institution, favour'd long
By patronage of men whose liberal souls,
Amid the cares of gain, commercial toils.
Chief cause of Britain's proud pre-eminence,
Still find an hour to listen to the muse,
And honour arts which seek no sordid pelf, '
And add a grace to life, and build up inan.

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A Case of Conscience; submitted to a late Dig- On the Phrase "killing Time." Transl

nitary of the Church, on his Narcotic Expo

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sition of the following Text: Watch and

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Pray, lest ye enter into Temptation."

BY our pastor perplext,

How shall we determine? "Watch and Pray," says the Text, "Go to Sleep," says the Sermon.

On a Lady who squinted.
ancient poets Argus prize
Who boasted of an hundred eyes,

"Sure greater praise to her is due,
Who looks an hundred ways with two!.

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from Voltaire. THERE's scarce a point wherein mankiti


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The Clown's Reply. GOLDSMITH. OHN Trott was desired by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears: "An't please you," quoth John, “I'm not "given to letters,

[betters: "Nor dare I pretend to know more than my Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see " your graces,

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WHEN late I attempted your pity to move, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on
Why seem'd you so deaf to my prayers?
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love-
But why did you kick me down stairs?

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A Parody on Blest as the immortal Gads is he." By the Honourable HENRY ERSKINE.

RUNK as a dragon sure is he,


The youth that dines and sups with thee; And sees, and hears thee, full of fun, Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun. Twas this first made me love my dose, And rais'd such piniples on my nose; For, while I fill'd to ev'ry toast, My health was gone, my senses lost. I found the claret and champagne Inflame my blood, and mad my brain; The toast fell falt'ring from my tongue, I hardly heard the catch I sung. I felt my gorge and sickness rise; The candles danc'd before my eyes; My sight grew dim, the room turn'd round, I tumbled senseless on the ground!

"MY wife's so very bad," cried Will,

"I fear she ne'er will hold it

"She keeps her bed !"'—
"Mine's worse," quoth Phil.
"The jade has just now sold it."

Epitaph on a Lady. By PETER PINDAR. BENEATH this turf, in sweet repose, The friend of all--a fair-one liesYet nence let sorrow vent her woes, Far hence let pity pour her sighs. Tho' ev'ry hour thy life approv'd, The muse the strain of grief forbears, Nor wishes, tho' by all belov'd, To call thee to a world of tears. Best of thy sex! alas, farewel! From this dark scene remov'd, to shine Where parest shades of mortals dwell, And virtue waits to welcome thine.

An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex. By the same.

GOOD people all with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, with silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew—

But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her

When she has walk'd before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,.
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder-mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,
That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth. more,
She had not died to-day.

On a Miser.

RON was his chest, IRO

Iron was his door, His hand was iron, And his heart was more.

On Mr. Churchill's Death.

SAYS Tom to Richard, “Churchill's dead."

Says Richard, Tom, you lie: "Old Rancour the report has spread,

"But Genius cannot die."

TACK brags he never dines at homé,

With reason too, no doubt—. Ia truth, Jack never dines at all, Unless invited out.

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