Perhaps mid these unsocial yews is placed,

Some head once member of the "Chosen Few *," Hands that the dazzling diamond might have graced, Or tip'd with ecstasy the billet-doux ;

But Fashion to their eyes her motley page

Rich with the rags of France would ne'er unroll ; Through this they lost "The Ton,"-" the Thing,""the Rage,"

And all the soft enamel of the soul.

Full many a bawdy pun and joke obscene,
Penn'd as he pass'd by some unlucky dog,
On the lone alehouse window lurk unseen,
Or waste their waggish sweetness in a bog.

Some birth-day Colonel, with undaunted breast,
May here do generals, or defy the proctor,
Some lee-shore Admiral here at calm may rest,
And mutely read wall lectures for a doctor.

To rule each cackling circle coxcomb smitten,

To cheat their tradesmen and despise their betters, To spell their titles in the Red-Book written,

(Should fate have kindly taught them but their letters.)

Their lot forbids-nor circumscribes alone
Their decent virtues, but their crimes, you'll find,
Forbids with fawning face to dog the throne,
And 'whelm with war and taxes half mankind;

* A club in Oxford of that name, chiefly consisting of noblemca and men of fortune.

The surly pangs of stubborn truth to hide,
To hush the tumults of rebellious shame,
To feast the pamper'd taste of glutton Pride

With sweet sauce piping hot from Learning's flame.

Far from the turbid paths of madd'ning strife
Their fire-side wishes never learn to stray,
Along the turnpike road of even life,

They keep the jog-trot tenour of their way;

Yet even their bones from surgeons to protect,
Some friendly tablet in the chapel aisle,
With sniv❜ling cherubs, and fat angels deck'd,
Excites the casual tribute of a smile;

The name bedizon'd by the pedant Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supplies,
Who many an L. L. D.—and A. B.-strews,
That bid th' admiring Freshmau read and rise.

For who at Hymen's block in youthful bloom,
His scholarship and freedom e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the common room,
Nor sighing cast one farewell wish behind?

To some dear friend by stealth remembrance flies,
A festive glass the drooping mind requires,
His far-off phiz keen Fancy's eye descries,
Even in his pipe still live the wonted fires;

For me who, mindful of the life I loved,

In these weak lines its happiness relate,
And with fair images of past joys moved,
Compare my present with my former state;

Should e'er in future day some roaming friend *,
(The lions gazing whilst his horses wait)
In breathless speed his steps to Trin. Coll. bend,
And waste an idle question on my fate;

Haply old Kitt, with iron tears, may say †,
To read the lessons oft I've seen the lad,

Brushing from broken cap the dust away,
Limp with a paper band across the quad ;

"His listless length at breakfast would he lay
There in that sunless corner cobweb hung,
Gods, how he crack'd his eggs and drank his tea,
And pored upon the kettle as it sung!

"Hard by yon gate, now painted as in scorn,
Muttering rude rhymes he stood and fancies wild,
Rack'd with a dose of salts like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with duns, or cross'd with bastard child;

"One morn I miss'd him in the chapel train,
Along the court, and near his well-known fire,
The eggs were placed, the kettle boil'd in vain,
No more he came his breakfast to require.

"Next post the tidings came; in due array
At Hymen's shrine the youth was seen to bend ;
Here may'st thou read, 'tis English all, a lay,

The farewell tribute of some lonely friend ‡."

* For the cast of this natural thought the author is indebted to a most inimitable passage in Churchill.

The Personage here alluded to is no less than the author's bedmaker, an old soldier much distinguished for his honesty and roughness, and can be only understood by his friends in college.

To a most ingenious and valuable friend the author is indebted for the five concluding stanzas of this piece.

VOL. II.

THE CHARACTER.

HERE dwelt, ere marriage call'd to joys refin’d,

A youth to riot and to noise unknown, Fair poesy engaged his gentler mind,

And melancholy claim'd him for her own.

Kind was his soul of softest sympathy,

Nor pass'd in vain his friendship unreturn'd; Each old companion heav'd a parting sigh,

Their master's loss each sorrowing servant mourn'd.

Yet seek not here his virtues to disclose,

Nor learn from hence the tenour of his life,

The best of all can paint the worth she knows,

With equal virtues graced, his sister, friend, and wife.

ROSALIND'S

DYING COMPLAINT TO HER SLEEPING CHILD.

ALAS! my dearest baby,

I grieve to see thee smile;

I think upon thy rueful lot,

And cold's my heart the while.

'Gainst wind and tide of worldly woe,
I cannot make my way;

To lull thee in my bosom warm,

I feel I must not stay.

My mother will not hear me speak,
My father knits his brow:

Sweet Heavens! were they never young,
That thus they treat me so?

Ye souls unkind, a fate like mine
O never may ye prove!
Nor live to find how bitter 'tis
To miss the man ye love.

My friends they all forsake me,
Nor comfort will afford;
They laugh while I am thinking,
My True-Love broke his word.

May God amend their cruel hearts,
For surely they're to blame;
They little know what 'tis to feel
The heaviness of shame.

Th' ungentle hand of rude mischance
Has 'reft my heart of rest,
And frighted hope of cheerless eye

Lies strangled in my breast.

'Twas yester-eve at midnight hour,
I waked but to weep,

I kiss'd my baby's pretty hand,
And watch'd it while asleep:

Its cruel far-off father

My tender thoughts embraced, And in my darling's infant look His lovely likeness traced,