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was uttered with something of a Cervantic tone ;—————and as he fpoke it, Eugenius could perceive a ftream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes; faint picture of thofe flashes of his fpirit, which (as Shakspeare faid of his anceflor) were wont to fet the table in a roar !

EUGENIUS was convinced from this that the heart of his friend was broken; he fequeezed 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 closed them,—and never opened them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard, 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, poor YORICK!

TEN times a day has Yorick's ghoft the confolation to hear his monumental inscription read over with fuch a variety of plaintive tones, as denote a general pity and efteem for him a footway croffing the church-yard close by his grave, not a paffenger goes by without ftopping to caft a look upon it.and fighing as he walks on,

Alas, poor YORICK!

STERNE.

CHAP.

CHA P. III.

THE BEGGAR's PETITION.

PITY the forrows of a poor old man,

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

Thefe tatter'd cloaths my poverty befpeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen❜d years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worm 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 residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

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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 shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome ;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
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 touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of Pity would not be repreft..

Heaven fends misfortunes; why should we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you fee ;
And your condition may be foon like mine.
The child of Sorrow and of Mifery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark I fprightly 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 caft 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 anguifh at the ftern decree,.
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to defpair.
And left the world to wretchednefs and me.

Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door,,
Whofe days are dwindled to the shorteft fpan,

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless

CHA P. IV..

your

ftorn..

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN UNFORTUNATE

W

LADY.

HAT beck'ning ghoft, along the Moon-light shade

Invi es my fteps, and points to yonder glade?

'Tis fhe !—but why that bleeding bofom gor'd,

Why dimly gleams the vifionary sword?

Oh

1

Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,,
For thofe who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition firft 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.
Moft 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, fleep.
From thefe perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky,
As into air the purer fpirits 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 blait of death
Cold is that breaft 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

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On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,

And frequent hearfes fhall befiege your gates.
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breafts ne'er learn'd to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever injur❜d fhade !)
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 clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreigns hands thyhumble 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 afnes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ;
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd 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 earliest tears bestow
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

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