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To feel that thou hadst not incurr'd
To strengthen Virtue's hallow'd claim. How much more glorious is the name, The humble name which thou hast won, Than-" damn'd with everlasting fame," To be for fame itself undone.
Better, and nobler was thy choice
To be the Bard of simple swains,— In all their pleasures to rejoice,
And soothe with sympathy their pains ; To paint with feeling in thy strains The themes their thoughts and tongues discuss, And be, though free from classic chains, Our own more chaste THEOCRITUS.
For this should SUFFOLK proudly own
And, ere thy sun of life was set, Had won her Poet's grateful prayer.
"TIS NOW TOO LATE! the scene is clos'd, Thy conflicts borne,-thy trials o'er ;— And in the peaceful grave repos'd
That frame which pain shall rack no more ;Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for Nature's lowliest child;
Whose song, well meet for peasant lore, Was lowly, simple, undefil'd.
Yet long may guileless hearts preserve
By cottage-hearth, by greenwood tree,
Written by an Officer long resident in India, on his return to England.
THE following Stanzas are worthy of being committed to memory by young and old. They paint life and the fallacy of human expectations in their true colours, remove the veil which fancy had thrown over them, and shew how different are the mellowed and subdued feelings of declining age from the ardour of youth, and its vivid imaginings of undying bliss.-Ed.
I came, but they had pass'd away,
The fair in form, the pure in mind,-
Where all are strange, and none are kind;
Kind to the worn, the wearied soul,
That pants, that struggles for repose:
O that my steps had reached the goal
Years have past o'er me like a dream,
Some relic of a former age.
Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish,-a hope, a fear!
Yet I had hopes, and they have fled;
I may not, dare not, cast away; To sigh for one small, still, abode, Where I may sleep as sweet as they:
As they, the loveliest of their race,
Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep; Whose worth my soul delights to trace,Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep; To weep beneath the silent moon,
With none to chide, to hear, to sce:
On one whom death disdains to free.
I leave a world that knows me not,
Where fancy's softest dreams are shed.
I see each shade, all silvery white,
Nor stone, nor monumental cross,
THE LAST MAN.
WRITTEN BY T. CAMPBELL.
OUR observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature.
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
Before this mortal shall assume
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some!
Yet prophet like, that lone one stood,
Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun,
"Tis mercy bids thee go;
For thou ten thousand, thousand years
What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,