EARL OF ROCHESTER.

King CHARLES II.

Whose eloquence – brightening whatever it Here lies our sovereign lord the king,

tried, Whose word no man relies on ;

Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave He never says a foolish thing,

Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide, Nor ever does a wise one.

As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave! Written on the Bedchamber Door of Charles II.

Lines on the Death of Sheridan.

T. MOORE. Ye men of wit and social eloquence !

He was your brother, — bear his ashes hence ! James Thomson.

While powers of mind almost of boundless range, A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems Complete in kind, as various in their chauge, Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, While eloquence, wit, poesy, and inirth, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,

That humbler harmonist of care on earth, Poured forth his unpremeditated strain :

Survive within our souls, — while lives our sense The world forsaking with a calm disdain, Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence, Here laughed he careless in his easy seat;

Long shall we seek his likeness, — long in vain, Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous train,

And turn to all of him which may remain, Oft moralizing sage : his ditty sweet

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, He loathéd much to write, ne cared to repeat.

And broke the die --- in moulding Sheridan! Stanza introduced into Thomson's "Castie of indolence," Cant... | Monody on the Death of Sheridan.

LORD LYTTELTON.

BYRO.

W. COLLINS.

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

AMOS COTTLE. Where slowly winds the stealing wave; Oh ! Amos Cottle ! *_ Phæbus ! what a name The year's best sweets sball duteous rise To fill the speaking trump of future fame! To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

Oh ! Amos Cottle! for a moment think

What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! And see, the fairy valleys fade ;

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.

BYRON. Dun night has veiled the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek Nature's child, again adieu !

The DUKE OF WELLINGTON. Ide on the Death of Thomson.

| O good gray head which all men knew,

O voice from which their omens all men drew, WILLIAM HOGARTH.

O iron nerve to true occasion true,

O fallen at length that tower of strength The hand of him here torpid lies

Which stood four-square to all the winds that That drew the essential form of grace ;

blew ! Here closed in death the attentive eyes

Such was he whom we deplore. . That saw the manners in the face.

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. Epitaph.

DR. S. JOHNSON.

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no

more.
William WORDSWORTH.
On the Death of the Duke of Wellington.

TENNYSON.
Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices ; - by the source

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence There in seclusion and remote from men

fills The solitude with sound ; for in its course

The wizard hand lies cold,

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part !

And left the tale half told.
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Wordsworth.

F. D. HEMANS.

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power,

And the lost clew regain ?
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light,

Unfinished must remain !

LONGFELLOW, Played round every subject, and shone as it Hawthorne, May 23. 1864. played ;

THE OLD MANSE.
EARLY HOME OF EMERSON, AND, LATER, OF HAWTHORNE,
Because I ... found a home in haunts by others scorned,
The partial wood-gods over paid my love, ...
And through my rock-like, solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.

HAWTHORNE

HARP of New England Song,
That even in slumber trembled with the touch

Of poets who like the four winds from thee waken
All harmonies that to thy strings belong,–
Say, wilt thou blame the younger hands too much

Which from thy laureled resting place have taken
Thee crowned one in their hold? There is a name

Should quicken thee! No carol Hawthorne sang, Yet his articulate spirit, like thine own,

Made answer, quick as flame, To each breath of the shore from which he sprang, And prose like his was poesy's high tone.

But he whose quickened eye
Saw through New England's life her inmost spirit,

Her heart, and all the stays on which it leant,-
Returns not, since he laid the pencil by
Whose mystic touch none other shall inherit!

What though its work unfinished lies? Half-bent
The rainbow's arch fades out in upper air;

The shining cataract half-way down the height
Breaks into mist; the haunting strain, that fell

On listeners unaware,
Ends incomplete, but through the starry night
The ear still waits for what it did not tell.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

Publishers: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston

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