Lo Stonor, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome! Lo thousands more, but I want rhyme and room!

XXI.

How lov'd! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain!
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say,
All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain,
On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain;

165

And what rewards his grateful country pay? None, none were paid-why then all this for me? These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.

VERSES TO DR. BOLTON,

In the Name of MRS. BUTTER's Spirit, lately
deceased.

STRIPT to the naked soul, escap'd from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolv'd in day;
Unwarm'd by vanity, unreach'd by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;
Why am I charm'd by friendship's fond essays,
And though unbody'd, conscious of thy praise?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the firmless mind control!
Can gratitude out-pant the silent breath!

Or a friend's sorrow pierce the gloom of death!
No-'tis a spirit's nobler task of bliss ;
That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine approves,
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves;
Who liv'st to crown departed friends with fame;
Then dying, late, shalt all thou gav'st reclaim.

5

9

NOTES.

Ver. 8. firmless] A new-coined, and not a very happy epithet.

EPITAPHS.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani

Munere !-Virg.