For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

Large was his bounty, and his soul sin

cere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode:

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey;

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow-
ers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way!

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain:

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,
As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which inthrall?

What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charin no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserved, while now the brighthaired Sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With braid ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weakeyed bat,

With short, shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing;

Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial, loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp,

The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy

scene;

Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;

And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual, dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes,—

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling
Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favorite name!

JAMES MERRICK.

[1720-1769.]

THE CHAMELEON.

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.

Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other mat-
ter,

Of the chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun:
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there," the other quick replies; "T is green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed
Extended in the cooling shade."

"'T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure ye." "Green!" cries the other in a fury; "Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my

eyes?"

Both stared; the man looked wondrous

wise

"My children," the chameleon cries (Then first the creature found a tongue), "You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you; Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own."

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

[1728-1774.]

FROM 46 THE DESERTED VILLAGE."

SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passsed with careless steps and slow,

The mingling notes came softened from below;

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their

young;