For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "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, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now dropping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite 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 thro' the churchyard path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear; He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No further 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. ODE ON THE PASSIONS. COLLINS, 1720-1756. WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire With woful measures wan Despair, But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair, He threw his bloodstained sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; And ever and anon he beat The double drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Whilst dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Love of peace and lonely musing, But oh how altered was its sprightly tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; To some unwearied minstrel dancing; As if he would the charming air repay, NIGHT THOUGHTS. YOUNG, 1681-1765. THE bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss: to give it then a tongue I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. It is the signal that demands dispatch : How much is to be done? My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss; Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? A worm a god !--I tremble at myself, Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread! What can preserve my life! or what destroy! The Complaint. THE VILLAGE PASTOR. GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774. NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, |