IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNnton, Esq.
"But I, or ere that season come, "Escaped from every care, "Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, "And sleep securely there."*
So sang, in Roman tone and style, The youthful bard, ere long Ordained to grace his native isle With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain, Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dared profane His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect Thy living worth repaid, And blind idolatrous respect As much affronts thee dead.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.
POETS attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man, And, next, commemorating worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore; Thee, THORNTON! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine,
I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory, for the virtuous when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, Sweet as the privilege of healing woe By virtue suffered combating below?
* Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri Fronde comas-At ego securâ pace quiescam. MILTON in Manso.
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Thou hadst an industry in doing good, Restless as his who toils and sweats for food; Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable or by stealth; And if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end,
Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. And, though God made thee of a nature prone To distribution boundless of thy own, And still by motives of religious force Impelled thee more to that heroic course, Yet was thy liberality discreet,
Nice in its choice, and of a tempered heat, And though in act unwearied, secret still, As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. Such was thy charity; no sudden start, After long sleep, of passion in the heart, But steadfast principle, and, in its kind, Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, Traced easily to its true source above,
To Him whose works bespeak His nature Love. Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake: That the incredulous themselves may see Its use and power exemplified in thee.
"I COULD be well content, allowed the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom gleaned
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"
Thus, while grey evening lulled the wind, and called Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,
And held accustomed conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied:
"Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past? Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far Than opportunity vouchsafed to err With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect?" I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind I passed, and next considered, What is man? Knows he his origin? can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date? Slept he in Adam? and in those from him Through numerous generations, till he found At length his destined moment to be born? Or was he not, till fashioned in the womb?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toiled To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.
It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves Truths useful and attainable with ease, To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies Not to be solved, and useless if it might. Mysteries are food for angels; they digest With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.
THE REFUSAL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD TO SUBSCRIBE
TO HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER.
COULD Homer come himself, distressed and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedycina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear)
'Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here!"
EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.
LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veiled from human sight. They in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell; Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
A POET'S cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick,- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE, Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot; There, wanting nothing save a fan To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparelled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use— A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression Surveyed the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held. Awakened by the shock, cried Puss, "Was ever cat attended thus ! "The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me.
"For soon as I was well composed, "Then came the maid, and it was closed. "How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!
66 Oh, what a delicate retreat! "I will resign myself to rest "Till Sol, declining in the west, "Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, "Susan will come and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remained still unattended. The night rolled tardily away, (With her indeed 'twas never day,) The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before. With hunger pinched, and pinched for
She now presaged approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, or purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred. That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said "What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied; Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length, a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him, and dispelled his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top; For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipped the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Anything rather than a chest. Then stepped the poet into bed, With this reflection in his head :
Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.
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