Book vii For my part, continued Eugenius, crying bitterly as he uttered the words,--I declare I know not, Yorick, how to part with thee, and would gladly flatter my hopes, added Eugenius, cheering up his voice, that there is still enough left of thee to make a bishop, and that I may live to see it.--I beseech thee, Eugenius, quoth Yorick, taking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left hand--his right still being grasped close in that of Eugenius,--I beseech thee to take a view of my head.--I see nothing that ails it, replied Eugenius. Then, alas! my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you, that it is so bruised and mis-shapened with the blows which have been so unhandsomely given me in the dark, that I might say with Sancho Pança, that should I recover, and "mitres "there-upon be suffered to rain down from "heaven as thick as hail, not one of them "would fit it. -Yorick's last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to depart as he uttered this; yet still it was uttered with something of a Cervantic tone; and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes; faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, which (as Shakespeare said of his ancestor ) were wont to set the table in a roar !

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Eugenius was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broken he squeezed his hand,--and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door--he then closed them,--and never opened them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his churchyard, under a plain marble slab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid

upon his grave, with no more than these three words of inscription; serving both for his epitaph and elegy

Alas! poor YORICK!

Ten times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read. over with such a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him ;--a footway crossing the church-yard close by his grave, not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it,--and sighing as he walks on,

Alas! poor YORICK !

STERNE.

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your

door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store.
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road:
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,

A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold;
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt.

Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once, the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your

door

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store.

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade!
'Tis she! but why that bleeding bosom gor'd?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breast of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits Bow,

And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor Left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world be-

fore,

And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus

fall:

your

children

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo, these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
Sa perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone (oh, ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face;
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,