Imagens das páginas

ed this ; _- yet still it was uttered with fomething of a Cervantic tore ; and as he spoke it, Eugenius eould perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes ;-to-faint picture of those fashes of his spirit, which (as Shakespear 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 broke; he squeezed his hand, and then walled fuftly out of the room, weeping as he ivalked. You rick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door, the then closed them, and never-opened them more.

Hbe dies buried in a corner of his church-yard, under a plain marble flab, which his friend Eugenies, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of infcription, forving both for his epitaph, and elegy.

Alas, poor YORICK!

Ten times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read over with fuch a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and elteem for him; --a footway crosting the church-yard close by his grave; --not a paffenger goes by without stopping to caft a look upon it,

and sighing as he walks on, Alas, poor YORICK!



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Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

Thefe tatter'd cloaths my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclain my lengthen'd.years;
And many a furrow in my grief worn 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 akede.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I cray'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd medial 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.

Shoald. I reveal the fources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breaft,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of Pity would not be repreft,

Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine ? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you

see; And your condition may 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 forcd 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, Tweet soother of my care !
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to defpair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows 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.

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HAT beck’nirig ghoit, along the Moon-light shade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? 'Tis she !--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly 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 part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition firft 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.
Most fouls, '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 fky.
As into air the purer spirits flow;
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So few the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood !
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
Thefe cheeks, now fading at the blaft of death;
Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waitsa.
And frequent hearses thall, besiege your gates.
There passengers shall fand, and painting say,
(While the long fun’rals, blacken all the way),
Lo these were they, whose fouls, the Furies steel'da
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yielde
Thus unlamented, pass, the proud away.
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day ,
So perifh all, whofe breast neerilearn to glow
For others good, 96 melt aksthers: WORM

What can atone (oh qver injus dihade!);
Thy fate unpityd, and thxxites, unpaid if sisi
No friends complainta nokind.domestis teari'
Pleas’d thy pale ghoft,or gras'd, thyjmournful biet:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were, elos?d
By foreign hands thy, decent limbs compos de
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'da
By strangers honourd, and by ftrangers, moun'da
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then, mourn 4 years
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public. Now?
What tho’no weeping Loves thy alhes grace.
Nor polish'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 drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestowa
There the first roses of the year shall blow.;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.


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