With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy1 supply; And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 1 Elegy, funeral song. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care or crossed in hopeless love. 'One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree : Another came-nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 'The next with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' The Epitaph.1 'Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery all he had-a tear; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 'No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.' 1 Epitaph, an inscription upon a tomb. THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. (COATES.) DARK is the night.-How dark! No light! no fire! Cold on the hearth the last faint sparks expire! Shivering, she watches by the cradle side For him who pledged her love-last year a bride! 'Hark! 'Tis his footstep! No! 'Tis past!-'tis gone!' Tick-Tick!-'How wearily the time crawls on! Why should he leave me thus?—He once was kind! And I believed 'twould last!-How mad!-how blind! 'Rest thee, my babe !-rest on !-Tis hunger's cry! one. 'Hush! 'Tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there he's there: For this for this, he leaves me to despair! Leaves love-leaves truth-his wife-his child-for what? The wanton's smile-the villain and the sot ! 'Yet I'll not curse him. No! 'Tis all in vain! 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, My child! My child! Oh fiend!'-The clock strikes two. 'Hark! How the signboard creaks! The blast howls by. Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! Ha! 'Tis his knock ! He comes-he comes once more! 'Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er ! 'Can he desert us thus? He knows I stay, 'Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart! Thou'rt cold!-thou'rt freezing! But we will not part! Husband-I die! Father!-It is not he! O God! protect my child!'--The clock strikes three. They're gone! they're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled! The wife and child are numbered with the dead! The gambler came at last-but all was o'er: Dread silence reigned around.—The clock struck four. HENRY IV. ON SLEEP. (SHAKESPEARE.) William Shakespeare our greatest dramatic poet-was born at Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, in 1564. Very little is known of his early life. He was married at the age of nineteen, and soon afterwards went to London, where he commenced earning a livelihood by holding the horses of gentlemen who came to the theatres. He then got admission as an actor, and from this period he came into notice both in that profession and as a writer of plays. After an honourable career in London, where he enjoyed the favour of both Queen Elizabeth and James I., be retired to his native place about the year 1604, where he spent the remaining years of his life in ease and comfort. He died on his birthday, April 23, 1616. His fame rests on his magnificent plays. Hamlet, Macbeth,' 'Richard III.,' 'The Merchant of Venice,' 'Othello,' &c., are well known. ་ O SLEEP, O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile And in the visitation of the winds, 2 1 Watch-case. The king's couch is here compared to a sentry-box, in which the sentinel must be always awake. 2 Rude imperious surge, the angry waves. |