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in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mother; "all my hopes," said he, "of getting to the University are now blasted: in preparing myself for it, I have lost time in my profession; I have much -ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover what I have lost." The consequence was, that he applied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He now allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for his meals, and scarcely any for sleep. He would read till one, two, three o'clock in the morning; then throw himself on the bed, and rise again to his work at five, at the call of a Larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in his chamber. Many nights he never laid down at all. It was in vain that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destructive application. In this respect, and in this only one was Henry undutiful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor intreaties could check his desperate and deadly ardour. At one time she went

every night into his room, to put out his candle; as sogu as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide it in cupboard, throw himself into bed, and affect sleep while she was in the room; then when all was quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful studies.

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"The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has been every thing to me: and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night-images are, as they judge, so ridi

culously predominant in my verses." During some of these midnight hours he indulged himself in complaining, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more of them had been found among his papers.




COME, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad;

Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;

Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine.


Tho' Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation in her cell,

Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;

And tho' the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile and say, my all was not laid here.

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To wean me from the world;

To turn my eye


From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene?
peevish April day!

A little sun-a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)
Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.


Oh, what is Beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break,

To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek,
Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er beauty's fall,

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.


The most belov'd on earth,
Not long survives to-day;

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,

But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade,

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid,


Then since this world is vain,
And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,

Where rust corrupts and moth destroys,

And cares and sorrows eat!

Why fly from ill,

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.


Come, Disappointment, come!
Thou art not stern to me;
Sad Monitress! I own thy sway,
A votary sad in early day,
I bend my knee to thee.

From sun to sun,
My race will run,

I only bow and say, My God, thy will be done!


On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment.



I DREAM no more-the vision flies away,
And Disappointment *
There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this,
My cherish'd all of visionary bliss.

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;
Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe.
Plunge me in glooms


His health soon sunk under these habits; he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery, he wrote the following lines in the church-yard of his favourite village.



On recovery from Sickness,

Here would I wish to steep.-This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in ;
Tir'd out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. "Tis a nook
Most pleasant.-Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he wanton'd.

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