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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.
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
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.
F. D. HEMANS.
Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clew regain ?
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain !
LONGFELLOW, Played round every subject, and shone as it Hawthorne, May 23. 1864. played ;
• "Mr. Cottle, Amos or Joseph, I don't know which, but one or
both, once sellers of books they did not write, but now writers of Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,
books that do not sell, have published a pair of epics." - THB Ne'er carried a heart-stain awayon its blade; - AUTHOR.
THE OLD MANSE.
HARP of New England Song,
Of poets who like the four winds from thee waken
Which from thy laureled resting place have taken
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
Her heart, and all the stays on which it leant,-
What though its work unfinished lies? Half-bent
The shining cataract half-way down the height
On listeners unaware,
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
Publishers: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston
Such a paragand is woms and
That, gew seo, it must be true
show the bean that the candlo! "
Zelche crep up quite unbeknown I
An' peeled on this the wrider Let us line, Uncle Daw; In there hat tally all alone what's the world to a man with as one nigh to header.
when his wife is a kindly ?