Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus * old, Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, * A Cornish giant. + Mount St. Michael; not far from the Land's End in Cornwall, whence at low water it is accessible. The guarded mount, says Mr. Warton, is simply the fortified mount; and the great vision is the famous apparition of St. Michael, who is said to have appeared on the top of the mount, and to have directed a church to be built there. Or Numantia; a town of Old Castile, once highly celebrated in the Spanish history. Todd. A description of our Saviour. In thy large recompense, and shalt be good Thus sang the uncouth swain to the' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; Scarce could the morn drive on the' unwilling When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By something liker death possess'd. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Thy soul and body, when Death's agony Did not with more reluctance part My dearest friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do, If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day; As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas! my treasure's gone! why do I stay? He was my friend, the truest friend on earth; For much above myself I loved them too. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry, Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two? VOL. IV. Ꭰ Ꭰ Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; Or your sad branches thicker join, Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing, No whistling winds through the glad branches fly: But all, with sad solemnity, Mute and unmoved be, Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie. To him my Muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain: He loved my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend, Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight: Be this my latest verse, With which I now adorn his hearse; And this my grief, without thy help, shall write. I should contemn that flourishing honour now; Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me; Not Phoebus grieved, so much as I, Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er High as the place 'twas shortly in heaven to have, So high, that all the Virtues there did come, Conspicuous and great; So low, that for me too it made a room. He scorn'd this busy world below, and all He, like the stars, to which he now is gone, Yet burn not with the same, Had all the light of youth, of the fire none. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, About his eloquent tongue, Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. So strong a wit did Nature to him frame Oh! had he lived in Learning's world, what bound His overpowering soul! We' have lost in him arts that not yet are found. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, |