as he uttered this ;-yet still it was uttered with fomething of a Cervantic tone ;

-and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambient fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes;- faint picture of those flashes of his fpirit, which (as Shakspeare said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar!

Eugenius was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broken; he squeezed his hand, and then walked foftly out of the room, weeping as he walked.Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door, he then closed them. -and never open'd them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his churchyard, under a plain marble slab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors,



grave, with no more than these three words of infcription, serving both for his epitaph and elegy,



TËN times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read over with such a vaa siety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him :-A foot-way crossing the church-yard close by his gravem not a passenger goes by without stopping to calt a Icok upon it, ---and sighing as he walks on, Alas! poor YORICK!




ITY the sorrows of

a poor

old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your


These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To seek a fhelter in an humbler ihed.


Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ;
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

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Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repreft.

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Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine ?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see


be foon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery.


A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly haild the morn;
But, ah! Oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ;
Struck with fad anguilh at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your





LADY. WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon- light shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? 'Tis the! --but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ?


Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well ?
To bear too tender, or to firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part ?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
Ambition first sprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods :
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dall fullen pris'ners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem herrace.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood ? See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death ; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses fhall befiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steeld,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whofe breast ne'er learnt to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh, ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ?
No friend's complaini, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier :
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,.
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho'no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face:
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet Mall thy grave with rising flow'ss be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While angels with their filver wings o'er hade
The ground now facred by thy relics made,

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