"One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite 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 churchway path we saw him borne :Approach and read, for thou canst read, the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

The Epitaph.

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 ('t was all he wished) a friend.

No further 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.

A LONG STORY.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands :
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employed the power of fairy hands

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,

Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls; The seals and maces danced before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crowned hat, and satin doublet,
Moved the stout heart of England's queen,
Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!

Shame of the versifying tribe!

Your history whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind Heaven

Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire;

But Cobham had the polish given,

And tipped her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; Melissa is her "nom de guerre.

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long, they hid their armor: And veiled their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.

Fame in the shape of Mr. P-t,

(By this time all the parish know it) Had told that thereabouts there lurked A wicked imp they call a poet:

Who prowled the country far and near,
Bewitched the children of the peasants,

Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer,
And sucked the eggs, and killed the pheasants.

My lady heard their joint petition,
Swore, by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.

The heroines undertook the task;

Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured, Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask,

But bounce into the parlor entered.

The trembling family they daunt,

They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,

Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,

And up-stairs in a whirlwind rattle:

Each hole and cupboard they explore,

Each creek and cranny of his chamber Run hurry-skurry round the floor,

And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

Into the drawers and china pry,

Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! Under a tea-cup he might lie,

Or creased, like dog's-ears, in a folio.

On the first marching of the troops,
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Conveyed him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumor says. (Who will, believe.)
But that they left the door ajar,
Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.

Short was his joy. He little knew
The power of magic was no fable;
Out of the window, whisk, they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle,
The poet felt a strange disorder;
Transparent bird-lime formed the middle,
And chains invisible the border.

So cunning was the apparatus, .

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house He went, as if the devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phoebus he preferred his case,

And begged his aid that dreadful day.

The godhead would have backed his quarrel; But with a blush, on recollection,

Owned that his quiver and his laurel

'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The court was sate, the culprit there;

Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, The lady Janes and Joans repair,

And from the gallery stand peeping :

Such as in silence of the night

Come (sweep) along some winding entry, (Styack has often seen the sight)

Or at the chapel-door stand sentry :

In peakéd hoods and mantles tarnished,
Sour visages enough to scare ye,
High dames of honor once, that garnished
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary!

The peeress comes. The audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission;

She curtseys, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.

The bard, with many an artful fib,
Had in imagination fenced him,
Disproved the arguments of Squib,

And all that Groom could urge against him.