Come, Sadness, then, and thy companion, Care, And all the fiends that crowd the couch of Death: Let the black cypress crown my unkimpt hair, With deadly hemlock twined, the sweetest wreath. Let nought but savage woes around me breathe, Nought but the death-watch greet my sullen ear: For I pre-eminence of grief may claim.

Oft shall fond memory pour the heart-drawn tear; While woe congenial pauses on my fame,

1

And dumb Despair points out my long-lamented

name.

Where the romantic cliff, like Ruin's throne,
Hangs o'er the dashing surge with awful steep;
Where unseen spirits heave the dismal groan,
And distant elves are often heard to weep;
Where shiv'ring corpses leave their haunted sleep,
Seen by the moon's affrighted eye alone;

There let me moulder with the mould'ring ground.
For brother-bards, and tuneful souls, long gone,
Shall glad with melody the wilds around;

And fairies mark my grave, with mountain-garlands crown'd.

THE

PROGRESS OF PEDANTRY.

THE wight I sing who thro' Protean changes
The course of brazen pedantry pursues;

Thro' quibbles, puns, and motley bon-mots, ranges,
(Bon-mots, sage elfs, who con all wayward news,
Subject perdye right arduous to the muse!)
The wight who quite from mortal ken estranges
To study Plato and the Stagyrite,

Ye sprites Batavian, critics deep, avenge his
Dispraises vile; and while all proud I write,
Dub me (illustrious meed!) great" sooterkin of wit."

First in the musty cloisters of a college,
Poor servitor (a hapless state, I ween),
He dives expert in metaphysic knowledge,
And sees (what only by his eye is seen)

Myst'ries of awful depth; dulness their queen;
Like the vain dreams that crown'd the murky foliage

Of Morpheus tree, erst view'd by Venus' sun,
Darkling he ponders on a chair whose two legs
Down topple soon; bereft of sprightly fun,
Bereft of beef and ale,—but not bereft of dun.

Eftsoons the brother-wizards spy his lore,

A scholarship his golden branch appears ;

Fine branch, that gives him, ale unquaff'd before, October cognamed, hid full many a year.

Now deep Smiglecius, wet with nut-brown cheer, Doth pose his pate, and bid the sluggard snore : 'Mongst holy fathers spends he the long night, And livelong day, while others rant and roar. His tassel'd square cap, comely to the sight, Doth make him seem like man that necromancer hight.

At last, old pedantry's anointed heir,
The Antichrist of learning, he doth rise
Despotic fellow of Miss Alma's chair.
Exub'rant ignorance doth glaze his eyes:
Ignorance that makes a turtle a lord may'r.
With frowzy beard, black mouth, and haggard hair,
The goblin meagre utters maxims wise;
Through logic, physic flounders in despair,
Or tumbles in the depth where error lies :

Awful profound! where dash'd in woeful guise With cobwebs blind he sleeps; till, miscreant vile! he dies.

THE VANITY OF HOPE.

FORLORN is he who trusts to-morrow's fate: The genial sun will rise, but not for him. The fool who revels high in gorgeous state Ne'er sees the frightful face of Mis'ry grim, Or views of bitter woe before him swim. The poet's cottage is her surest seat; O'er his meek head she flaps her raven wing; Poisons the pittance poor that he must eat; With deadly juice taints the Pierian spring, And bids her spirits lurk beneath each warbling string.

Fair Promise oft may come with smiling face; But trust not, trust not her deceiving wile! Envy perhaps may mar each well-masqued grace, And foul Disdain usurp the pitying smile. O mortal wight! what is thy life but toil; A pilgrimage of woes, a false embrace; A lasting pain where Disappointment rears Her scorpion whip to sting thy gentlest peace; To Innocence shuts close her iron cars,

And from the aching heart each beauteous phantom tears?

Alert we climb the mountain's rugged brow; And toil to gain the summit, idly vain : At last we find that bliss was left below, And proud Ambition is the sire of Pain. Bright-tressed Transport, and her jocund train, In the deep valley bid their blossoms blow: Struggling Desire the lofty cliff would climb, But foul Derision stands his grinning foe: Awhile he stands; but, lo! in flow'ry prime Mischance will hurl him swift from potency sublime.

Forlorn is he who trusts to-morrow's dawn. Then let no glitt'ring gauds delude thine eye; Let Hope's fond rainbow scenery be withdrawn, And brighter aims recal thy glance on bigh. Fulfilment is the daughter of the sky, Who bids frail doubts and subtleties be gone ; With Destiny she shares her radiant seat, Placed to the right of the eternal throne: She can alone make saddest sorrows sweet, Erase thy sable stains, and make thee all-complete.