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was uttered with something of a Cervantic tone ; he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes ; faint picture of thole flashes of his fpirit, which (as Shakspeare faid of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar !
EUGENIUS was convinced from this that the heart of his friend was broken ; he fequeezed his hand,—and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door, he then closed them, and never opened them more.
He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard, under a plain marble flab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid upon grave, with no more than these three words of inscription ; ferving both for his epitaph and elegy,
Ten times a day lias Yorick’s gloit the consolation to hear his monumental infcription read over with such a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and efteem for him a footway crossing thc church-yard clofe by his grave,—not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look
it. -and sighing as he walks on, Alas, poor YORICK!
PUT Y the forrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief! and Heaven will bless your store.
These tatter'd cloaths my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ;
And many a furrow in my grief-worm cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamperid menial drove me from the door
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome ;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold !
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my griefg
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears.of Pity would not be repreft.
Heaven fends misfortunes ; why should we repine ? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you
be foon like mine, The child of Sorrow and of Misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn ;
But ah ! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon’d on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care !
Struck with fad anguish at the itern decree,
Fell, ling’ring fell, a victim to despair.
And left the world to wretchedness and me,
Pity the forrows of a poor old man,
Whose tiembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your storna:
HAT beck’ning ghost, along the Moon-light shade.
Invis my steps, and points to yonder glade ? 'Tis she !--but why that bleeding bolom gor'd, Why dimnly gleams the visionary sword ?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly ! tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well ?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die ?
Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes ;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods :
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Moft souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in fepulchres ;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky,
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood !
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blait of death ;
Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Juftice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall :
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall ftand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose fouls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day !
So perish all, whose breasts ne'er learn’d to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.
What can atone (oh ever injur'd shade !)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier :
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd ;
By foreigns hands thyhumble grave adorn’d,
By ítrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho' no weeping Loves thy alnes grace,
Nor polith'd marble emulate thy face ;
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft,
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.