How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat,
With thee conversing in hy loved retreat,
I saw the sun go down!-Ah, then 't was thine
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine,
Shakspeare's or Dryden's-through the chequer'd
shade

Borne in thy hand behind thee as we stray'd;
And where we sate (and many a halt we made)
To read there with a fervor all thy own,
And in thy grand and melancholy tone,
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown,
Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has toll'd!
-But in thy place among us we behold
One who resembles thee.

"Tis the sixth hour.
The village-clock strikes from the distant tower.
The plowman leaves the field; the traveller hears,
And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears
Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west
Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest.

And such, his labor done, the calm He knows, Whose footsteps we have follow'd. Round him glows An atmosphere that brightens to the last;

The light, that shines, reflected from the Past,
-And from the Future too! Active in Thought
Among old books, old friends; and not unsought
By the wise stranger-in his morning-hours,
When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers,
He muses, turning up the idle weed;
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead
Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now,
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough,
Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air,
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,
'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.

At night, when all, assembling round the fire,
Closer and closer draw till they retire,
A tale is told of India or Japan,
Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan,
What time wild Nature revell'd unrestrain'd,
And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reign'd:
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail,
Among the snowy Alps of Polar seas
Immovable for ever there to freeze!
Or some great caravan, from well to well
Winding as darkness on the desert fell,

In their long march, such as the Prophet bids,
To Mecca from the land of Pyramids,
And in an instant lost-a hollow wave
Of burning sand their everlasting grave!—
Now the scene shifts to Venice-to a square
Glittering with light, all nations masking there,
With light reflected on the tremulous tide,
Where gondolas in gay confusion glide,
Answering the jest, the song on every side;
To Naples next-and at the crowded gate,
Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement wait,
Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, (26)
Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire!—
Then, at a sign that never was forgot,

A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it not?)
From lute or organ! "T is at parting given,
That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven;
Young voices mingling, as it floats along,
In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song!

And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all; So soon to weave a daughter's coronal, And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears;— So soon to hover round her full of fears, And with assurance sweet her soul revive In child-birth-when a mother's love is most alive. No, 't is not here that Solitude is known. Through the wide world he only is alone Who lives not for another. Come what will, The generous man has his companion still; The cricket on his hearth; the buzzing fly That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky, Still with its note of gladness passes by: And, in an iron cage condemn'd to dwell, The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell, He feeds his spider-happier at the worst Than he at large who in himself is curst.

O thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind (27)
Streams from the depth of ages on mankind,
Streams like the day-who, angel-like, hast shed
Thy full effulgence on the hoary head,
Speaking in Cato's venerable voice,

"Look up, and faint not-faint not, but rejoice!"
From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now
Stamp'd with its signet that ingenuous brow;
And, 'mid his old hereditary trees,

Trees he has climb'd so oft, he sits and sees
His children's children playing round his knees :
Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung,
When side by side the archer's bows are strung;
His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize,
Envying no more the young their energies
Than they an old man when his words are wise;
His a delight how pure-without alloy;
Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy!

Now in their turn assisting, they repay
The anxious cares of many and many a day;
And now by those he loves relieved, restored,
His very wants and weaknesses afford

A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks,
Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks,
While they look up! Their questions, their replies,
Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise,
Gladdening his spirit: and, his theme the past,
How eloquent he is! His thoughts flow fast,
And, while his heart (oh can the heart grow old?
False are the tales that in the World are told!)
Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end;
Like one discoursing of an absent friend.

But there are moments which he calls his own.
Then, never less alone than when alone,
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves-not dead-but gone before,
He gathers round him; and revives at will
Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment still-
That come not now at dreary intervals-
But where a light as from the Blessed falls,
A light such guests bring ever-pure and holy—
Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy.

-Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn) To live with others than to think on them!

And now behold him up the hill ascending,
Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending;
Sustain'd, excited, till his course is run,
By deeds of virtue done or to be done.

When on his couch he sinks at length to rest,
Those by his counsel saved, his power redress'd,
Those by the World shunn'd ever as unblest,
At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate,
But whom he sought out, sitting desolate,
Come and stand round-the widow with her child,
As when she first forgot her tears and smiled!
They, who watch by him, see not; but he sees,
Sees and exults-Were ever dreams like these?
They, who watch by him, hear not; but he hears,
And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears!

"Tis past! That hand we grasp'd, alas, in vain!
Nor shall we look upon his face again!
But to his closing eyes, for all were there,
Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year,
We shall remember with a fond delight
The words so precious which we heard to-night;
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,
Like setting suns or music at the close!

Then was the drama ended. Not till then,
So full of chance and change the lives of men,
Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure
From pain, from grief, and all that we endure,
He slept in peace-say rather soar'd to Heaven,
Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis given
In his right hand to hold the golden key
That opes the portals of Eternity.

-When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone;

Lake those of old, on that thrice-hallow'd night,
Who sate and watch'd in raiment heavenly-bright;
And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,
Says, pointing upward, that he is not here,
That he is risen!

But the day is spent;

And stars are kindling in the firmament,
To us how silent-though like ours perchance
Busy and full of life and circumstance;

Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue,
Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few;
And, as the sun goes round-a sun not ours-
While from her lap another Nature showers
Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire,
Think on themselves, within, without inquire;
At distance dwell on all that passes there,
All that their world reveals of good and fair;
And, as they wander, picturing things, like me,
Not as they are, but as they ought to be,
Trace out the Journey through their little Day,
And fondly dream an idle hour away.

NOTES.

Note 1, page 11, col. 2.
Our pathway leads but to a precipice.
See Bossuet, Sermon sur la Résurrection.

Note 2, page 11, col. 2.

We fly; no resting for the foot we find.

"I have considered," says Solomon, "all the works that are under the sun; and behold, all is vanity and vesation of spirit." But who believes it, till Death tells

to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant. He takes the account of the rich man, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them see therein their deformity; and they acknowledge it.

O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world have flattered, thou only hast cast out and despised: thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet. RALEIGH.

Note 3, page 11, col. 2.

Through the dim curtains of Futurity. Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked his reputation stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous current through fear and silence. I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own merit with steady consciousness, and waiting, without impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, and the impartiality of a future generation.-JOHNSON.

After line 57, col. 2, in the MS.

O'er place and time we triumph; on we go,
Ranging in thought the realms above, below;
Yet, ah, how little of ourselves we know!
And why the heart beats on, or how the brain
Says to the foot, 'Now move, now rest again,'
From age to age we search, and search in vain.

Note 4, page 12, col. 1.

-like the stone

That sheds awhile a lustre all its own.

See "Observations on a diamond that shines in the dark."-BOYLE's Works, i, 789.

Note 5, page 12, col. 1.

Schooled and trained up to Wisdom from his birth. Cicero, in his Essay De Senectute, has drawn his images from the better walks of life; and Shakspeare, in his Seven Ages, has done so too. But Shakspeare treats his subject satirically; Cicero as a Philosopher. In the venerable portrait of Cato we discover no traces of" the lean and slippered pantaloon."

Every object has a bright and a dark side; and I have endeavored to look at things as Cicero has done. By some however I may be thought to have followed too much my own dream of happiness; and in such a dream indeed I have often passed a solitary hour. It was castle-building once; now it is no longer so. But whoever would try to realize it, would not perhaps repent of his endeavor.

Note 6, page 12, col. 1.

The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared. A Persian Poet has left us a beautiful thought on this subject, which the reader, if he has not met with it, will be glad to know, and, if he has, to remember. Thee on thy mother's knees, a new-born child, In tears we saw, when all around thee smiled. So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, Smiles may be thine, when all around thee weep. For my version I am in a great measure indebted

4

C

Note 19, page 15, col. 1.

Soon through the gadding vine, etc.

Mr. Attorney-General. Yes, a Servant. Lord Chief Justice. Any of your Servants shall assist you in writing anything you please for you. Lord Russel. My Wife is here, my Lord, to do

Note 20, page 15, col. 2.

Like Hampden struggling in his Country's cause. Zeuxis is said to have drawn his Helen from an assemblage of the most beautiful women; and many a writer of fiction, in forming a life to his mind, has recourse to the brightest moments in the lives of others.

I may be suspected of having done so here, and of having designed, as it were, from living models; but by making an allusion now and then to those who have really lived, I thought I should give something of interest to the picture, as well as better illustrate my meaning.

Note 21, page 15, col. 2.

On through that gate misnamed.

Note 25, page 15, col. 2.

Her glory now, as ever her delight.

Epaminondas, after his victory at Leuctra, rejoiced most of all at the pleasure which it would give his father and mother; and who would not have envied them their feelings?

Cornelia was called at Rome the Mother-in-law of Scipio. "When," said she to her sons, “shall I be called the mother of the Gracchi ?"

Note 26, page 16, col. 1.

Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire.

An act of filial piety represented on the coins of Catana, a Greek city, some remains of which are still to be seen at the foot of mount Etna. The story is told of two brothers, who in this manner saved both their parents. The place from which they escaped was long called the field of the pious; and public games were annually held there to com

Note 22, page 15, col. 2.

Then to the place of trial.

This very slight sketch of Civil Dissension is taken from our own annals; but, for an obvious reason, not from those of our own Age.

The persons here immediately alluded to lived more than a hundred years ago, in a reign which Blackstone has justly represented as wicked, sanguinary, and turbulent; but such times have always afforded the most signal instances of heroic courage and ardent affection.

Great reverses, like theirs, lay open the human heart. They occur indeed but seldom; yet all men are liable to them; all, when they occur to others, make them more or less their own; and, were we to describe our condition to an inhabitant of some other planet, could we omit what forms so striking a circumstance in human life?

Note 23, page 15, col. 2.

and alone.

In the reign of William the Third, the law was altered. A prisoner, prosecuted for high treason, may now make his full defence by counsel.

Note 24, page 15, col. 2.

Like that sweet Saint who sate by Russel's side Under the Judgment-seat.

Note 27, page 16, col. 2.

Oh thou, all-eloquent, whose mighty mind. Cicero. It is remarkable that, among the comforts of Old Age, he has not mentioned those arising from the society of women and children. Perhaps the husband of Terentia and "the father of Marcus felt something on the subject, of which he was willing to spare himself the recollection."

BEFORE I conclude, I would say something in favor of the old-fashioned triplet, which I have here ventured to use so often. Dryden seems to have delighted in it, and in many of his most admired poems has used it much oftener than I have done, as for instance in the Hind and Panther,' and in Theodore and Honoria, where he introduces it three, four, and even five times in succession.

If I have erred anywhere in the structure of my verse from a desire to follow yet earlier and higher examples, I rely on the forgiveness of those in whose ear the music of our old versification is still sounding.

assist my memory?

of metre.-Johnson.

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