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Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the palling tribute of a figh. Their name, their years, spelt by th’unletter'd mufe,

The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around he strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to dye.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resignd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
· Nor cast one longing, ling’ring, look behind?
On some fond breast the parting foul relies,

Seme pioris drops the closing eye requires :
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of nature csies,

Ev’n in our alhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoor'd dead,

Doît in these lines their artless tale relate ;
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay, " Oft have we seen him, peep

of dawn, Brushing, with hafty steps, the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wriths its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard ly yon wood, now smiling, as in fcorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he wou'd rove;


at the

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz’d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree :
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,

up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due, in fad array,

Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay,

Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

Τ Η Ε Ε Ρ Ι Τ Α Ρ Η.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'n did a recompence as largely send : He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear;

He gain’d from Heav'n ('twas all he wish’d) a friend. No farther feek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bofom of his father and his God.

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L O N D 0 N.

In Imitation of the Third Satire of


This poem of Mr. Johnson's is the best imitation of

the original that has appeared in our language, being possessed of all the force and fatyrical refentment of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a much truer idea of the ancients than even translation could do.


HO'grief and fondness in my breast rebel,

When injur'd Thales bids the town farewel, Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend, I praise the hermit, but regret the friend ; Who now resolves, from vice and London far, To breathe in distant fields a purer air, And, fix'd on Cambria's folitary shore, Give to St. David one true Briton more. For who wou'd leave, unbrib'd, Hibernia's land, Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand ? There none are swept by sudden fate away, But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay: Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire ; And now a rabble rages, now a fire : Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, And here the fell attorney prowls for prey: D6


Here falling houses thunder on your head,
And here a female atheist talks


While Thales waits the wherry that contains
Of dipated wealth the small remains,
On Thames's bank in filent thought we stood,
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood.
Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth,
We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth;
In pleafing dreams the blissful age renew,
And call Britannia’s glories back to view;
Behold her cross triumphant on the main,
The guard of coin merce and the dread of Spain.
Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress’d,
Or English honour grew a ftanding jeft.

A tranfient calm the happy scenes bestow,
And, for a moment, lull the sense of woe.
At length awaking with contemptuous frown,
Indignant Thales eyes the neighb’riug town.

Since worth, he cries, in these degen’rate days,
Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise ;
In those curst walls, devote to vice and gain,
Since unrewarded science toils in vain;
Since hope but fooths to double my distress,
And ev'ry moment leaves my little less;
While yet my steady steps no ftaff sustains,
And life ftill vig'rous revels in my veins ;
Grant me, kind heaven, to find some happier place,
Where honesty and sense are no disgrace ;
Some pleasing bank, where verdant osiers play,
Some peaceful vale, with nature's painting gay ;


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