inform us what a reader would most probably wish to know; the cause of poor John's fate, and the spot of his interment. Rhyme could never have handled the subject in such a manner; -Reason goes straight to work, and developes the whole catastrophe. And I question whether the shade of John Doley receives not full as much consolation, from this plain, unsophisticated Epitaph, as if his death were recounted at a greater length, together with all the aid of flowery diction, and poetic hyperbole. I will select another :

"Gentle Reader, who standest by, my grave to view,
I was on earth, much the same as you:
And as I am, so you must be ;

Therefore, I say, prepare to follow me."

We shall have some difficulty in resolving such a metre as this, as I believe we cannot meet with it in any of the British Poets. There are, you see, in the first line, twelve feet;—in the second, nine;-in the third, eight;-in the last, ten. À most unwarrantable license of version! Let me see- -I believe I can do it by the Antispastus.* Yes-the first line comes right. Now for the second. Pish! I can make nothing of the second! Is it dactylic? Is it tetrameter catalectic? Is it-by Jove! I must give it up, and console myself with that most infallible resource of all, Poetic License. But observe, Reader, how civilly, and yet how forcibly, he admonishes you of your end. Mark, how he informs you that he has lived, as you do; that he has died, as you will. In these four lines a string of moral precepts is contained, which many elegiac writers would have dilated into a long, uninteresting, unintelligible composition, and dignified with the name of an Epitaph. Mark also the force of the words, "I say." They speak volumes-they banish every shade of doubt from our minds. Scepticism itself would do well to listen to them. Take another extract:

"Here I, the son of John and Mary Brown,

(Who liv'd until Death's scythe did cut I down),
Do lie. But when the trumpet last shall sound,
Then shall I rise above the ground."

Here again appears that amiable brevity, which designates a Country Churchyard Epitaph. It is evident, that the author of it was not a little proud of his family, and was determined that

* I must here inform such of my fair Readers who belong not to the legion of the Blues, that the Antispastus is a figure containing 61 forms-that it is eminently useful in solving all difficulties in metre, and that it enables us to scan Prose itself. I would, however, by no means recommend it in English Poetry.

the passing traveller should know who he was. We can plainly perceive that he was in some measure infected with that most exuberant species of insanity, Genealogical Pride. Nor can we blame him. He tells us at once his origin :-he spares us those efforts of Patience and Labour which we so often must exert, if we take upon ourselves to peruse the inscriptions beneath which the bones of many a more illustrious Personage repose. How often do we, after having laboured to no purpose in discovering the various ancestors and various intermarriages which such an Inscription records, give up our task in disgust! But the son of John and Mary Brown obtains a patient reading from all. Despise not his example, ye Epitaph-Writers. Let us, after a few more specimens of the quaint, proceed to the other branch of our subject.

"Here lies a much-lov'd Son, for whom we cried ;
He only griev'd his parents when he died."

"To the Memory of a faithful Wife, a friend sincere ;
Who died at Kew, and with her Child lies sleeping here."

"My Parents dear, shed not the tear,
Although I am dead and buried;
Give up your sorrows and your fear,
To happier shores I am ferried."

"Death smote me hard; but, though in earth I lie,
Some day he will be conquer'd, just as I."

"To the Memory of Father, Mother, and I,

Who all of us died in one year;

Father lies at Salisbury—

And Mother and I lies here."

"Her temper mild, her manners such;

Her language good, but not too much."

What a variety of sentiment and expression is breathed in these lines! Could Longinus, Scaliger, or Toup, live again, how many beauties would they not discover in them how many dissertations would they not enter into, respecting them? Their inequality of measure, their freedom of system, their multitudinous combination of ideas, are equally entitled to the disquisitions and labours of the most eminent Commentators.

The more elegant Epitaphs which I have met with, and which I truly admire for their sweetness and simplicity, I will present to my readers without further observation. What comment is needed for such as the following?

ON TWO INFANTS.

"The Storm that sweeps the wintry sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
The Summer Ev'ning's latest sigh
That shuts the rose."

"Just to her lips the cup of life she prest;
Found the taste bitter, and refus'd the rest :
She felt averse to Life's returning day,
And softly sigh'd her little soul away."

"Ere Sin could blight, or Sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care
The op'ning bud to Heav'n convey’d,
And bade it blossom there."

"How sweet a thing is Death, to all who know
That all on Earth is vanity and woe?.

Who, taught by sickness, long have ceas'd to dread
The stroke that bears them to this peaceful bed?
Few are our days; yet, while those days remain,
Our Joy must yield to Grief; our Ease to Pain:
Then tell me, weary Pilgrim, which is best,

The toilsome Journey, or the Trav'ller's Rest?"

I will conclude these Extracts with a few beautiful lines which I picked up at an obscure Village in the North of England. They are inscribed by a Husband to the memory of a beloved Wife.

"A tender Plant, borne from the fostring gales
That breathe on Avon's margin, droop'd and died.
Yet Time shall be, sweet Plant, a gale divine-
Shall Thee restore. And Thou, in Health and Youth,
By the pure Streams of Peace shall ever live,
And flourish in the Paradise of God!"

My latest wish will be, that whenever I am no more of this world, my remains may be deposited in a Country Churchyard, and that my Eulogy may be entrusted to a Village Poet. I care not whether my Epitaph be short or long; whether it be elegant or quaint, so that it be divested of those pompous ornaments of Language, those gross effusions of Adulation, which too often disgrace the marble upon which they are engraved. Who can forget that our worldly Glory must end with our Life;-that the Sculptor's art and the Panegyrist's abilities are alike unable to preserve our ashes from Annihilation, or our Fame from Oblivion?

J. H.

Surly Hall.

"Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too, from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here!"-SHAKSPEARE.

THE Sun hath shed a mellower beam,
Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream,
And Air and Water, Earth and Heaven,
Lie in the calm repose of Even.
How silently the Breeze moves on,
Flutters, and whispers, and is gone;
How calmly does the quiet sky
Sleep in its cold serenity!

Alas! how sweet a scene were here
For Shepherd or for Sonneteer;
How fit the place, how fit the time,
For making Love, or making Rhyme !
But though the Sun's descending ray
Smiles warmly on the close of day,
'Tis not to gaze upon his light
That Eton's sons are here to-night;
And though the River, calm and clear,
Makes Music to the Poet's ear,
"Tis not to listen to the sound
That Eton's Sons are thronging round.
The Sun unheeded may decline,
Blue eyes send out a brighter shine;
The wave may cease its gurgling moan,
Glad voices have a sweeter tone;
For, in our Calendar of Bliss,
We have no hour so gay as this,
When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes
Of those we know, and love, and prize,
Are come to cheer the Captive's thrall,
And smile upon his Festival.

Stay, Pegasus, and let me ask,
Ere I go onward in my task,
Pray, Reader,-were you ever here
Just at this season of the year?
No?-then the end of next July
Should bring you, with admiring eye,

To hear us row, and see us row,

go!"

And cry," How fast them boys does go
For Father Thames beholds to-night
A thousand visions of delight;

Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering,
Lame steeds to right and left careering;
Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses,
Ruffling of temper, and of dresses;
Wounds on the heart, and on the knuckles;
Losing of patience, and of buckles.
An interdict is laid on Latin,

And Scholars smirk in silk and satin;
And Dandies start their thinnest pumps,
And Michael Oakley's in the dumps;
And there is nought beneath the Sun
But dash, and splash, and falls, and fun.

Lord! what would be the Cynic's mirth,
If Fate would lift him to the earth,
And set his tub, with magic jump,
Squat down beside the Brocas clump !
What scoffs the Sage would utter there,
From his unpolish'd Elbow-Chair,
To see the Sempstress' handywork,
The Greek confounded with the Turk,
Parisian mix'd with Piedmontese,
And Persian join'd to Portuguese;
And Mantles short, and Mantles long,
And Mantles right, and Mantles wrong,
Misshap'd, miscolour'd, and misplac'd,
With what the Tailor calls,-a taste.
And then the Badges, and the Boats,
The Flags, the Drums, the Paint, the Coats;
But more than these, and more than all,
The Pullers' intermitted call,

"Easy!"" Hard all!"-" Now pick her up!"
"Upon my Life, how I shall sup!"
Would be a fine and merry matter,
To wake the Sage's powers of Satire.
Kind Readers, at my laughing age,
I thank my Stars, I'm not a Sage;
I, an unthinking scribbling Elf,
Love to please others, and myself;
Therefore I fly,a malo joco,
But like desipere in loco.