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the quarrelsome consider this, they ought to blush at their little hatreds, and grow ashamed to let their souls be divided by animosity, when death may crumble their bodies together, and incorporate them with their most malicious enemy!

There is no fortune so exalted, but it may find a check in this dark mansion; nor any condition so dejected, but that it may be sure of a comfort: every stone that we look upon, in this repository of past ages, is an entertainment and a monitor. I never leave its venerable gloom, without finding my mind cooler and more composed than when I entered. I sink deep into myself, and see my heart without disguise, in its good or evil propensities ; and I gather power from these strong impressions to resist pleasure, pride, ambition, or low avarice; and to fortify the impulses of humility, forgiveness, charity, and the virtues of content and quietude.

There was published, a few years since, a poem called “ Westminster Abbey.” I am sorry the author's name was not printed with it.There is something highly elevated in his genius, that is sweetly serious, and sublimely melancholy.—The verses inserted above I am in= debted for to that poem; and I shall borrow from the same piece these following, which, I will take the liberty to affirm, are as fine ones as were ever written. I ask pardon for a transposition, and alteration or two, which I have only made, that I might have the pleasure of collecting into one view as many of the beauties as could possibly be drawn together in the narrow compass


my paper.

Lead on, my Muse! while, trembling, I essay
To trace thy footsteps through the cloister'd way:
Throw a thick veil around thy radiant head,
And lead me through the dwellings of the dead;
Where the still banner, faded and decay'd,
Nods pendant o'er its mouldring master's head;
Where loves, transform’d to marble angels, moan;
And weeping cherubs seem to sob in stone.

Seize Time, and by the pinions, urge his stay;
Stop him a while in his eternal

Bid him recline his scythe on each pale tomb,
And name the tenant of the darksome room.
O Muse! with care the blended dust explore,
And re-inspire and wake the sleeping floor.

To mount their throne, here monarchs bend their way
O'er pavements where their predecessors lay.
Ye sons of empire! who, in pompous hour,
Attend to wear the cumbrous robe of power;
When ye proceed along the shouting way,
Think there's a second visit still to pay ;
And when in state on buried kings you tread,
And swelling robes sweep o'er th’ imperial dead,
While like a god your worship'd eyes move round,
Think then, O! think you walk on treach'rous ground;


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Though firm the chequer'd pavement seems to be,
Twill surely open and give way for thee!

While crowding lords address their duties near,
Th’ anointing prelate, and the kneeling peer,
While with obsequious diligence they bow,
And spread the careful honours o'er thy brow ;
While the high-raised spectators shout around,
And the long ailes and vaulted roofs resound;
Then snatch a sudden thought, and turn thy head
From the loud living to the silent dead,
With conscious eye the neighbʼring tombs survey ;
These will instruct thee better far than they :
What now thou art, in yon gay homage see ;
But these best shew what thou art sure to be!

I am ignorant what reception this excellent performance met with in the world; but, I hope, for the honour of my country, that it was not a

The whole poem is full of beauties; but if it had no other merit than appears in what I have copied from it, every candid judge of poetry must allow it to have deserved the highest applause and admiration.

bad one.

PLAIN-DEALER, No. 42, Aug. 14, 1724,

Though this paper has no small share of merit, and seems principally to have been written with a view of recommending the verses introduced; yet must it be considered as a daring attempt, when we recollect the twenty-sixth number of the Spectator, by Addison, to which not only this, but probably every other essay on the subject, will be deemed inferior. The paragraph commencing with “ Let him walk

with me in this instructive circle,” is a copy of the admirable close of Addison's reflections, which never can be too often reprinted: “When I look upon the tombs of the great (says this exquisite writer), every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them; when I consider rival wits placed side by side; or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes; I reftect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together.”

Of the import of both these passages the Bard of Marmion has beautifully availed himself in his introduction to canto the first of that poem, when deploring the loss of the rival states. men, Pitt and Fox:

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Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards and kings ;
Where stiff the brand, and still the tougale,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung :
Here, where the fretted ailes prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,
" All peace on earth, good-will to men;"
If ever from an English heart,
O! here let prejudice depart.-
Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tombed beneath the stone,
Where-taming thought to human pride!
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side;
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ;
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound :

The solemn echo seems to cry-
" Here let their discord with them die."

I cannot here avoid remarking, that this introduction contains a very striking and poetical imitation of the pensive lines of Moschus on the death of his brother bard:

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings ;
The genial call dead nature hears,
And in her glory re-appears :
But, Oh! my country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike, and the wise ;
The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel ?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But yainly, vainly may he shine,
Where Glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,
That shrowds, O Pitt! thy hallow'd tomb.

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