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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 'If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

- Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dew 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 bubbles 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 accustomed 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.”

HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A Youth to Fortune and to Fame uuknown;
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to Misery all he had, a tear;

He gained from Heaven, 'twas all he wished, a friend. No farther 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.



OF THE SOUL. It must be so-Plato, thou reasonest well! Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the Soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ?'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us : 'Tis Heaven itself that points out-a hereafter, And intimates-Eternity to man. Eternity !-thou pleasing-dreadful thought ! . . Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.Here will i hold. If there's a Power above us, (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works,) He must delight in virtue :

And that which He delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar ?
I'm weary of conjectures—this must end them.-

[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The Soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.-
The stars shall fade away, the Sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years ;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds,

This shadow on the Dial's face,

That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Moments, and months, and years away;
This shadow, which, in every clime,

Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime ;-

What is it?- Mortal Man!
It is the scythe of TIME:
-A shadow only to the eye;

Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;

And still, through each succeeding year,
Right onward, with resistless power,

Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till Nature's race be run,

And Time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun.

Nor only o'er the Dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Steals moments, months, and years away;
From hoary rock and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,
From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

From every blade of grass it falls ;
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,

The scythe of Time destroys,
And man at every footstep weeps

O’er evanescent joys;
Like flowerets glittering with the dews of morn,

Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn :
-Ah! soon, beneath the inevitable blow,

I too shall lie in dust and darkness low.
Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend

His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend

Each frail beholder's doom.
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though Time's triumphant flight be shown,
The truest index on its face .

Points from the church-yard stone.

TO-MORROW. To-MORROW, didst thou say? Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. Go to~I will not hear of it-To-morrow! 'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury Against thy plenty—who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises, The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor !--To-morrow!

It is a period nowhere to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present moments;
For be assured, they all are arrant tell-tales ;
And though their flight be silent, and their path trackless
As the winged couriers of the air,
They post to Heaven, and there record thy folly,
Because, though stationed on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive : and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-winked Justice, who shall tell thy audit ?

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio, Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain. O ! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like The good old patriarch upon record, Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.

When all was wrapt in dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

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