"Those parts which heaven bestow'd should

drown,

"A butt to all the sots in town?

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Why, tell me, Tom-what fort can stand "(Though regular, and bravely mann'd) "If night and day the fierce foe plies "With never-ceasing batteries; "Will there not be a breach at last?".

"Uncle, 'tis true-forgive what's past."
"But if nor interest, nor fame,

"Nor health, can your dull soul reclaim,
"Hast not a conscience, man? no thought
"Of an hereafter? dear are bought

These sensual pleasures."-" I relent,
"Kind sir-but give your zeal a vent-
Then, pouting, hung his head, yet still
Took care his uncle's glass to fill,
Which as his hurried spirits sunk,
Unwittingly, good man! he drunk.
Each pint, alas! drew on the next,
Old Ebony stuck to his text,
Grown warm, like any angel spoke,
Till intervening hickups broke
The well-strung argument. Poor Tom
Was now too forward to reel home.
That preaching still, this still repenting,
Both equally to drink consenting,
Till both brimful could swill no more,
And fell dead drunk upon the floor.

Bacchus, the jolly god, who sate
Wide-straddling o'er his tun in state,

Close by the window side, from whence® He heard this weighty conference; Joy kindling in his ruddy cheeks, Thus the indulgent godhead speaks: "Frail mortals, know, reason in vain "Rebels, and would disturb my reign. "See there the sophister o'erthrown, "With stronger arguments knock'd down "Than e'er in wrangling schools were known! "The wine that sparkles in this glass "Smooths every brow, gilds every face: "As vapours when the sun appears,

"Far hence anxieties and fears:

"Grave ermine smiles, lawn sleeves grow gay,

"Each haughty monarch owns my sway,

"And cardinals and popes obey:

"Ev'n Cato drank his glass, 'twas I

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Taught the brave patriot how to die "For injur'd Rome and liberty;

"'Twas I who with immortal lays

66

Inspir'd the bard that sung his praise. "Let dull unsociable fools

"Loll in their cells, and live by rules;

My votaries, in gay delight

"And mirth, shall revel all the night;
"Act well their parts on life's dull stage,
"And make each moment worth an age."

RICHARD WEST.

BORN 1716.-DIED 1742.

RICHARD WEST, the lamented friend of Gray, who died in his twenty-sixth year.

AD AMICOS 1.

YES, happy youths, on Camus' sedgy side,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend;
Now pleas'd along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye chuse
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse.
Mean time at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like some sad exile in a desert land;

Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine.

1 An imitation of Elegy V. 3d book of Tibullus.-This poem was written by this interesting youth at the age of twenty.

Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the sunshine of my days;
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rosy face away.

Just heav'n! what sin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?

Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife?
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?

Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,

Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet just started from the lists of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.
Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray?
Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;

Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.
How weak is man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;

Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own,
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the stream, beside whose wat❜ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head,
Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

way,

But why repine? Does life deserve my sigh? Few will lament my loss whene'er I die.

For those the wretches I despise or hate,

I neither envy nor regard their fate.

For me, whene'er all-conquering Death shall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,

I care not; though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth, nor portents in the air;