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as he uttered this ;- -yet ftill it was uttered with fomething of a Cervantic tone and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambient fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes;- -faint picture of those flashes of his fpirit, which (as Shakspeare faid of his ancestor) were wont to fet the table in a roar !

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EUGENIUS was convinced from this, that the heart of his friend was broken; he fqueezed his hand,-and then walked foftly out of the room, weeping as he walked.Yorick followed Eugenius with his eyes to the door,-he then clofed them and never open'd them more.

HE lies buried in a corner of his churchyard, under a plain marble flab, which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of infcription, ferving both for his epitaph and elegy,

Alas por YORICK!

TEN times a day has Yorick's ghost the confolation to hear his monumental infcription read over with fuch a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and esteem for him :-A foot-way croffing the church-yard close by his grave not a paffenger goes by without stopping to caft a look upon it, and fighing as he walks on,

--

Alas!

poor YORICK!

STERNE.

CHAP.

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CHAP. III.

THE BEGGAR's PETITION.

PITY the forrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will blefs your store.

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek:
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

Yon house erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a refidence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,'
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To feek a fhelter in an humbler fhed.

Oh! take me to your hofpitable dome ;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold 3
Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miferably old.

Should I reveal the fources of my grief,"

If foft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt.
Q5

Heaven

Heav'n fends misfortunes; why fhould we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you fee
And your condition may be foon like mine,
The child of forrow and of mifery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But, ah! Oppreffion forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in fcanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, fweet foother of my care;
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have born him to your door,

Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and Heav'n will bless

CHAP. IV.

your ftore.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe! but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,

Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword?

Oh

Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or to firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition first fprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breafts of kings and heroes glows.
Most fouls 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood? See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal juftice rules the ball,

Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:

On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearfes fhall befiege your gates.
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whofe breast ne'er learnt to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh, ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face:
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the Morn her earlieft tears beftow,
There the first rofes of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy relics made.

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