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But if the fact's recorded right,
The motive seldom comes in sight;
Hence, while the fairest deeds we blame,
We often crown the worst with fame.
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean,
Those who were actors in the scene;
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek,
Of his renown'd ten thousand speak;
His commentaries * read again
Who led the troops and held the pen;
The way to conquest best he show'd
Who trod ere he prescrib'd the road.
Read him, for lofty periods fam’d,
Who Charles's age adorn'd and sham'd :
Read CLARENDON, unaw'd, unbrib’d,
Who rul’d th’ events his pen describ’d;
Who law, and courts, and senates knew,
And saw the sources whence he drew.

Yet, lovely Sally, be not frighten'd,
Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd;
Admire with me the fair alliance
Which mirth, at Maudlin, + makes with science;
How humour may with learning dwell,
Go ask Papa - for he can tell.



+ Dr. Horne was at this time President of Magdalen College, Oxford, where this little Poem was written,



Jn Two Parts.

Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,

No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due. — LANGHORNE.



O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista!
Com' perde agevolmente in un momento,
Quel, ch'en molt anni a grand pena s'acquista!--PETRARCA.

THERE was a young and valiant Knight,

SIR ELDRED was his name, And never did a worthier wight

The rank of Knighthood claim.

Where gliding Tay, her stream sends forth,

To feed the neighbouring wood, The ancient glory of the North,

Sir ELDRED's castle stood.

The Knight was rich as Knight might be

In patrimonial wealth ;
And rich in nature's gifts was he,

In youth, and strength, and health.
He did not think, as some have thought,

Whom honour never crown'd, The fame a father dearly bought,

Could make the son renown'd.

He better thought, a noble sire,

Who gallant deeds had done, To deeds of hardihood should fire . A brave and gallant son.

The fairest ancestry on earth

Without desert is poor; And ev'ry deed of former worth

Is but a claim for more.

Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind,

Alive to Pity's call;
A crowd of virtues grac'd his mind,

He lov’d, and felt for all.

When merit rais’d the sufferer's name,

He shower'd his bounty then ; And those who could not prove that claim,

He succour'd still as men.

But sacred truth the Muse compels

His errors to impart;
And yet the Muse reluctant tells

The fault of ELDRED's heart.

Though mild and soft as infant love

His fond affections melt; Though all that kindest spirits prove

Sir ELDRED keenly felt:

Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,

By jealousy led on;
The fierce resentment scorn'd control,

And bore his virtues down.

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