THE EPITAPH.

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown ;
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 ('t was 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.

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,

The common sun, the air, the skies,

To him are opening paradise.

Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune; He had not the method of making a fortune.

On his own Character.

A favourite has no friend. On the Death of a Favourite Cat.

Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages that lead to nothing.

A Long Story.

Now as the Paradisaical pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying

with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of To Mr. West. 3d Series. Letter iv.

Marivaux and Crebillon.

WILLIAM COLLINS. 1720-1756.

OW sleep the brave who sink to rest,

How

By all their country's wishes blessed! Ode in 1746.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;

By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,

Ibid.

While yet in early Greece she sung. The Passions. Line 1.

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired.

Ibid. Line 10.

'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

Ibid. Line 28.

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;

Nature in him was almost lost in Art.

To Sir Thomas Hanmer on his Edition of Shakspere.

In yonder grave a Druid lies. Ode on the Death of Thomson.

NATHANIEL COTTON. 1721-1788.

F solid happiness we prize,

Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam :

The world has nothing to bestow;

The Fireside. St. 3.

From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut,-our home.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ;

Its checkered paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread.

Ibid. St. 13.

JOHN HOME. 1722-1808.

N the first days

IN

Of my distracting grief, I found myself As women wish to be who love their lords.

Douglas. Act i. Sc. 1.

My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills
My father fed his flocks.

Ibid. Act. Sc. 1.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774.

THE TRAVELLER.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow.

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,

Line 1.

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Line 7.

And learn the luxury of doing good.*

Line 22.

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.

Line 26.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home.

Line 77.

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled;

The sports of children satisfy the child.

Line 153.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

Line 172.

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.

Line 217.

Alike all ages: dames of ancient days

Have led their children through the mirthful maze ;

For all their luxury was doing good.

GARTH. Claremont, Line 148.

CRABBE. Tales of the Hall, Book .

He tried the luxury of doing good.

And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,

Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. Line 251.

Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies,
Methinks her patient sons before me stand
Where the broad ocean leans against the land.

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by.*

Line 282.

Line 327.

The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms.

Line 356.

For just experience tells, in every soil,

That those that think must govern those that toil.

Line 372.

Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.

Line 386.

Forced from their homes, a melancholy train. Line 409.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find

That bliss which only centres in the mind.

Line 423.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.

Line 13.

* Lord of human kind.-Dryden. The Spanish Friar, Act . Sc. 1.