afield! How bowed the woods beneath their

sturdy stroke!

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless Some frail memorial still erected nigh, sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty,

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run, they look behind;
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possessed;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast.
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigor born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train.

Ah! show them where in ambush
stand,

To seize their prey, the murtherous band;

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame, that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;

And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' altered eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

63

More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand;
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies!
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

[1720-1756.]

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; But female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss and gathered flowers

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempest shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chase upon the plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you 'll allow-
I've seen and sure I ought to know."
So begs you 'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.