915.-EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL.

Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear:

Take that best gift which heaven so lately

gave:

To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling

care

Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave,

And died! Does youth, does beauty, read the line ?

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine : Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.

Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free;

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, ('Twas even to thee) yet the dread path once trod,

Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids "the pure in heart behold their
God."

Mason.-Born 1725, Died 1797.

916.-EDWIN AND ANGELINA. "Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still:
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.

But from the mountain's grassy side,
A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart,
To soothe the stranger's woe:
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
“And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?

From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things
More trifling still than they.

And what is friendship but a name :
A charm that lulls to sleep!

A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep!

And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest,
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

44%

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms;

The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.

"And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cried, "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray : Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine;
He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came ;

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd, a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove ;

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he:
Wisdom and worth were all he had;
But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could naught of purity display,
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine:
Their charms were his; but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.

Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died!

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay :
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die :
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain ;

And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain :

Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is
lamb;

That Hickey's a capon; and, by the same rule,

Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?

Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,

Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,

Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find them out;

Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,

That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;

Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;

Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat

To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ;

Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;

And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.

In short, 't was his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,

To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a

razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,

While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't;

The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument

wrong;

Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;

Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had

none;

What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ;

Alas that such frolic should now be so quiet :

What spirits were his! what wit and what whim,

Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!

Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 'That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old Nick:

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his

parts,

The Terence of England, the mender of hearts:

A flatt'ring painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they

are.

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,

And Comedy wonders at being so fine:
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out.
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;

And coxcombs, alike in their failings, alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their

own.

Say, where has our poet this malady caught? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?

Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,

Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,

The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:

Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,

Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:

When satire and censure encircled his throne; I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own: But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,

No countryman living their tricks to dis

cover;

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who

can,

An abridgement of all that was pleasant in

man:

As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line! Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,

The man had his failings-a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,

And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'T was only that when he was off he was

acting.

With no reason on earth to go out of his way,

He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick

If they were not his own by finessing and trick:

He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what

came,

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for

fame;

Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,

Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his
skill

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will : Old Shakspere receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,

And slander itself must allow him good

918.-THE TRAVELLER.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po!
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the
door ;

Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless
pain,

And drags at each remove a length'ning chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;

Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire

To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire;

Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty

crown'd,

Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never

fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destined such delights to share,

My prime of life in wand'ring spent and

care;

Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;

That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,

Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.

Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And placed on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where a hundred realms
appear;

Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus creation's charms around combine,

Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ?

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd,

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale,

For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine.

As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er,

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleased with each good that Heav'n to man supplies;

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at
rest,

May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,

Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his

And though the rocky-crested summits frown,

These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.

From art more various are the blessings sent;

Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content: Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest,

That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, content

ment fails;

And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.

Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone,

Conforms and models life to that alone:
Each to the favourite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer
eyes,

And trace them through the prospect as it lies:

Here for awhile, my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry
blast.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends:
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's
side,

Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between

With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in diff" rent climes are found, That proudly rise or humbly court the ground;

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year;

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,

And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles
here.

Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;

Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;

Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;

And ev'n in penance planning sins anew.