written by a youth who soon afterward was laid in the grave himself. His life had been eventful and unfortunate, till his extraordinary merits were discovered by persons capable of appreciating, and willing and able to assist him. He was then placed under a kind and able instructor, and arrangements had been made for supporting him at the university; but he had not enjoyed that prospect many weeks, before it pleased God to remove him to a better world. The reader will remember that they are the verses of a schoolboy, who had not long been taken from one of the lowest stations of life, and he will then judge what might have been expected from one who was capable of writing with such strength and originality upon the tritest of all subjects."

LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. "It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles: one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."-Matt. xvii. 4.

Methinks it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve, that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below

In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,

Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain;

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid
Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,

And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah no! they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-the Dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill'd;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeath'd us them both when He rose to the skies.

JOHN WOLCOT, 1738-1819.

DR. JOHN WOLCOT, better known by the appellation of "Peter Pindar," was born at Dodbrooke, in Devonshire, on the 9th of May, 1738. He was apprenticed to his uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, in Cornwall, and, after going to London to attend the hospitals, he entered upon the practice of the profession, and in 1767 was appointed the medical attendant of Sir William Trelawney, who had been just nominated governor of Jamaica. Finding there, however, but little to do in his profession, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living, which happened to be then vacant, in "the Church." "The bishop of London ordained the graceless neophyte," and Wolcot entered upon those sacred duties for which he was so little spiritually qualified. But Sir William dying soon after, and expecting no preferment in "the Church," Wolcot returned to England, and established himself as a physician at Truro, in Cornwall, where he practised about four years.

By this time he had acquired some reputation as a satirical poet, by an effusion entitled, "A Supplicatory Epistle to the Reviewers;" and inheriting £2000 from his uncle, he concluded, in 1782, to remove to London, where he might have a wider field for his talents. Here he published "Lyric Odes to the Royal Academicians," in which he attacked West and other eminent artists: with these the public were so pleased, that he continued the subject under the title of "More Lyric Odes." In 1786, a certain little obnoxious insect having been discovered on the plate of the king, he published "The Lousiad, an Heroi-comic Poem, in five cantos," in which he ridicules the event with inimitable drollery. This was followed by a humorous poetical epistle to James Boswell, the biographer of Johnson, entitled "Bozzy and Piozzi, or the British Biographers." Then succeeded "Peeps at St. James's," "Royal Visits," &c., in which the personal habits of the king were ridiculed; and numerous other satirical pieces, aimed at different indi

viduals. Indeed, so prolific was his pen, that between 1778 and 1808, above sixty poetical pamphlets were issued by this witty writer; and so formidable was he considered, that it was said that the ministry endeavored to bribe him to silence. In 1793, Wolcot sold the copyright of his works to the booksellers for an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly. He had been ill for some time, and the purchasers calculated upon his speedy death; but to their great vexation and loss he recovered, and continued to enjoy his annuity for more than twenty years. He died at his residence in Somers' Town, on the 14th January, 1819.

Dr. Wolcot was certainly one of the most original poets England has produced; his productions displaying not merely wit and smartness, but a profound knowledge of the world and of the human heart, combined with a sound and cultivated understanding. His serious poems evince the same command of language and originality of ideas as are displayed in his satires, though he excelled in the latter. No man, perhaps, ever enjoyed so much temporary popularity as Peter Pindar; and he himself says, that when the Duke of Kent was last in America, taking a stroll into the country, he entered a neat little farm-house, and seeing a pretty girl with a book in her hand, he said, with a sort of sneer,-"And pray, do you have books here, my dear?" "Oh yes, sir!" the girl very archly replied, "we have the Bible and Peter Pindar."!

TO JAMES BOSWELL.

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame;
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson midst his native north;
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!

Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shall sail,
The pilot of our literary whale;

Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

Close as a supple courtier to a king;

Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power;

Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had bless'd thy eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies:

Yes, his broad wing had raised thee, (no bad hack,)
A Tom-tit twittering on an eagle's back.

JOHNSON'S STYLE.

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch the importance of a mile,
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,

To raise a simple daisy from the ground;

"Wolcot was a genuine man of his sort, though his sort was not of a very dignified species. There does not seem to have been any real malice in him. He attacked greatness itself, because he thought it could afford the joke; and he dared to express sympathies with the poor and outcast."-LEIGH HUNT'S "Wit and Humor."

Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labor with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart!

MAY DAY.

The daisies peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odor yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
Then, lads and lasses all, be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty Labor drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.
Then, lads, &c.

Behold the lark in ether float,

While rapture swells the liquid note!
What warbles he, with merry cheer?
"Let Love and Pleasure rule the year!"
Then, lads, &c.

Lo! Sol looks down with radiant eye,
And throws a smile around his sky;
Embracing hill, and vale, and stream,
And warming nature with his beam.
Then, lads, &c.

The insect tribes in myriads pour,
And kiss with zephyr every flower;
Shall these our icy hearts reprove,
And tell us we are foes to Love?
Then, lads, &c.

TO MY CANDLE.

Thou lone companion of the spectred night!
I wake amid thy friendly watchful light,

To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep.
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark!
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,

And swells the thundering horrors of the deep! From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies, Now blacken'd, and now flashing through the skies; But all is silence here beneath thy beam.

I own I labor for the voice of praise

For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream? Who would not live in songs of distant days?

How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire!
Ah! falling-falling-ready to expire!

In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er.
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap;
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,

Faint, lessening, quivering, glimmering, now no more! Thus shall the sons of science sink away,

And thus of beauty fade the fairest flowerFor where's the giant who to Time shall say, "Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power!"

ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM.

Bright stranger, welcome to my field,
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, oh nightly be thy splendor given:
Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand,
With every sweetest dew of heaven!

Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train,
Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain,

Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,

Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine,

And chase the horrors of the midnight shade?
Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bower,
And with barbarian beak thy life devour:

Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky,
O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat;
Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee midst the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect-world, what leaves delight,
Of such these willing hands a bower shall form,
To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Sweet child of stillness, midst the awful calm
Of pausing Nature, thou art pleased to dwell;
In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,

And shed, through life, a lustre round thy cell.
How different man, the imp of noise and strife,
Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life;
Bless'd when the passions wild the soul invade!
How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease;
To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace,
And shine in solitude and shade!