His health soon sunk under these habits: he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the following lines in the churchyard of his favourite village.

LINES

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD.

On Recovery from Sickness.

HERE would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in;
Tir'd out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred.

It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the ripling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.
Come, I will sit me down and meditate,
For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest-beneath this sod
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

earth-worm

I would not have my corpse cemented down
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor
Of its predestin'd dues; no, I would lie
Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown,

Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters.
Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;
But there at eve may some congenial soul
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,

The good man's benison no more I ask.
And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubim, inspir'd they sit,
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,

The earth,) then will I cast a glance below
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body,
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond
His narrow verge of being, and provide

A decent residence for its clayey shell,
Endear❜d to it by time. And who would lay
His body in the city burial-place,

To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,
And yield its narrow house another tenant,
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,
Expos'd to insult lewd, and wantonness?
No, I will lay me in the village ground;
There are the dead respected. The poor hind,
Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen

The labourer, returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptur'd rhymes,
And, in his rustic manner, moralize.

I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,
And all the honours which he paid the grave,
And thought on cities, where ev❜n cemeteries,
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,
Are not protected from the drunken insolence
Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heav'n, that here my pilgrimage may close!
Yet, if this be deny'd, where'er my bones

May lie

or in the city's crowded bounds,

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,

Or left a prey on some deserted shore
To the rapacious cormorant,—yet still,

(For why should sober reason cast away

A thought which soothes the soul?)—yet still my spirit
Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew
In solemn rumination; and will smile

With joy that I have got my long'd release.

His friends are of opinion that he never thoroughly recovered from the shock which his constitution then sustained. Many of his poems indicate that he thought himself in danger of consumption; he was not aware that he was generating or fostering in himself another disease little less dreadful, and which threatens intellect as well as life. At this time youth was in his favour, and

his hopes, which were now again renewed, produced perhaps a better effect than medicine. Mr. Dashwood obtained for him an introduction to Mr. Simeon, of King's College, and with this he was induced to go to Cambridge. His friend Almond, who had recently entered at Trinity College, had already endeavoured to interest in his behalf some persons who might be able to assist him in the great object of his desire, that of passing through the University, and qualifying himself for holy orders. It is neither to be wondered at nor censured, that his representations, where he had an opportunity of making them, were for the most part coldly received. They who have been most conversant with youth best understand how little the promises of early genius are to be relied upon: it is among the mortifying truths which we learn from experience; and no common spirit of benevolence is required to overcome the chilling effect of repeated disappointments. He found, however, encouragement from two persons, whose names have since become well known. Mr. Dealtry, then one of the mathematical lecturers at Trinity, was

This gentleman, whom the love of the abstract sciences had not rendered intolerant of other pursuits more congenial to youthful imaginations, consented to look at Henry's poem of “ Time,” a manuscript of which was in Almond's possession. The perusal interested him greatly : he entered with his wonted benignity into the concerns of the author; and would gladly have befriended him, if the requisite assistance had not just at that time been secured from other quarters.

The other person in whom Mr. Almond excited an interest for his friend was Henry Martyn, who has since sacrificed his life in the missionary service; he was then only a few years older than Henry; equally ardent, equally devout, equally enthusiastic. He heard with emotion of this kindred spirit; read some of his letters, and undertook to enter his name upon the boards of St. John's, (of which college he was a fellow,) saying that a friend in London, whose name he was not at liberty to communicate, had empowered him to assist any deserving young man with thirty pounds a year during his stay at the University. To ensure success, one of Henry's letters was transmitted to this unknown friend; and Martyn was not a little surprised and grieved, to learn in reply, that a passage in that letter seemed to render it doubtful whether the writer were a Churchman or a Dissenter; and, therefore, occasioned a demur as to the propriety of assisting him. Just at this time Henry arrived at Cambridge, with an introduction to Mr. Simeon. That gentleman being in correspondence with Martyn's Martyn's friend in London, expressed displeasure at his arrival; but the first interview removed all objection. Mr. Simeon, from Mr. Dashwood's recommendation, and from what he saw of his principles and talents, promised to procure for him a sizarship at St. John's, and, with the additional aid of a friend, to supply him with 30l. annually. His brother Neville promised twenty; and his mother, it was hoped, would be able to allow fifteen or twenty more. With this, it was thought, he could go through college. If this prospect had not been opened to him, he would pro