Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill,
Along the heath and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown,
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Dixerit, albescant cana cui fronte capilli;
'Mane novo juvenis sæpe videndus erat,
Cum pede festino quateret de gramine rores,
Staret ut in summis, sole oriente, jugis.

Illic qua fagi patet umbra, vetustaque radix
Lascive e summa tortilis exstat humo,
Sole sub æstivo molli porrectus in herba
Captabat murmur lene loquacis aquæ.

Ad nemus ille vagans, risuque notandus amaro,
Mussabat dubios, intima corda, sonos:
Vel miser et pallens sese incomitatus agebat,
Deliro similis, quemve fefellit amor.

Mane mihi quodam collis juga nota petenti
Arboris et soliti defuit hospes agri:
Altera lux oritur-nec propter flumen, aprico
Nec tamen in campo, nec nemora inter, erat.

Tertia successit-planctus audimus et inde
Funeris elati triste notamus iter.

Perlege (namque potes) tmulo superaddita verba,
Surgit sub vetulo qua lupis ille rubo.'

EPITAPHIUM.

Hic recubat juvenis maternæ in cespite terræ ;
Fama latet nullas us habebat opes.
Hunc placido vidit nas entem lumine Musa,
Et puerum optavit lugubris Hora suum.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompence as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had a tear;

He gained from Heaven-'twas all he wished—a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose,

The bosom of his Father and his God.

GRAY.

ENOUGH'S A FEAST.

I WENT to the toad that lies under the wall,
I charmed him out, and he came at my call:
I scratched out the eyes of the owl before;
I tore the bat's wing-what would you have more?

THUS EVER.

OH! ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never loved a tree or flower,

But 'twas the first to fade away.

I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.

MOORE.

Ipse animi simplex largi, quæ reddidit ultro
Largior, agnovit libera dona, Deus :

Pauper pauperibus lacrymam, munuscula, fudit,
Ex voto Coeli nactus amicitiam.

Sed neque virtutes evolvere longius illas,

Nec vitia a tenebris dissociare velis:
Spe pariter tacita, pariter terrore quiescunt,
In Patris æterno non adeunda sinu.

J. H. M.

SATIS SUPERQUE.

BUFONEM accessi sub pariete semper agentem, Vocibus elicui magicis, venitque vocatus:

Alam divelli vespertilionis, ocellis

Privato bubone prius quid plura requiras?

F. H.

SIC SEMPER.

Sic mihi de teneris spes infeliciter annis,
Et vota et cupidæ præteriere preces!
Arbusta in sylvis, in aprico flosculus horto-
Sub manibus pereunt omnia pulcra meis.

Si forte effusi mirantem fulgur ocelli,

Jam me surpuerat cara capella mihi,

Cum sciret vocem, peteret mea basia, mecum
Luderet-ad certam mittitur illa necem !

H. D.

THE MAN IN THE WILDERNESS.

THE man in the wilderness asked me,

How many strawberries grow in the sea?"

I answered him, as I thought good,

'As many as red herrings grow in the wood.'

GAMMER GURTON.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
WELL, be it so, my friend!—I've done
With mirth, extravagance and fun:
I fear I've passed the fatal line:

That unchecked mirth and unstopped wine,
That flow of wit that knows no bound,
The merry laugh's perpetual round,
Nay, e'en the social generous glow
That all-enlivening grapes bestow—
Joys that a few brief sennights past
I thought eternally would last,
Or fondly wished, before they fled,

I might be numbered with the dead

No more are tricked with charms for me,

Nor wake my soul to jollity:

That if to pleasure I incline,

No more I view her form in wine,
Nor if bleak care besets my soul,

Can drown him in the sparkling bowl.