Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make interest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he.

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust, And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about,

He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,

Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;

It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found;
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,

So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,

To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear,
He cares not-yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.
Matthew Prior.

CLXIX..

ON HIMSELF.

To me 'tis given to die, to thee 'tis given
To live; alas! one moment sets us even;
Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven!
Matthew Prior.

CLXX.

EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

HEROES and kings! your distance keep,
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you:

Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

Alexander Pope.

CLXXI.

ON TWIN-SISTERS.

FAIR marble tell to future days

That here two virgin-sisters lie,
Whose life employ'd each tongue in praise,
Whose death gave tears to every eye.

In stature, beauty, years and fame,

Together as they grew, they shone ;

So much alike, so much the same,

That death mistook them both for one.

Unknown.

CLXXII.

WIND, gentle evergreen, to form a shade
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid:
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and interwine
With blushing roses and the clustering vine;
Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung;
Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit
Among the Muses and the Graces writ.

Unknown.

CLXXIII.

GAILY I lived as ease and nature taught,
And spent my little life without a thought;
And am annoyed that Death, that tyrant grim,
Should think of me, who never thought of him.

Unknown.

CLXXIV.

To my ninth decade I have totter'd on,
And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady,
She, who once led me where she would, is gone,
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.

Walter S. Landor.

CLXXV.

ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH.

FRIENDS! hear the words my wandering thoughts would

say,

And cast them into shape some other day;
Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone,
And, shatter'd by the fall, I stand alone.

Walter S. Landor.

CLXXVI.

EPITAPH IN CROYLAND ABBEY.

MAN'S life is like unto a winter's day,-
Some break their fast and so depart away.
Others stay dinner, then depart full fed:"
The longest age but sups and goes to bed.
O, reader, then behold and see,
As we are now, so thou must be !

Unknown.

CLXXVII.

TO AN INFANT NEWLY BORN.

ON parent's knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled;
So live, that sinking in thy long last sleep,

Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.

CLYXVIII.

FEATHERS.

Sir William Jones.

THERE falls with every wedding-chime
A feather from the wing of Time.

You pick it up, and say, "How fair
To look upon its colours are!"
Another drops, day after day,
Unheeded; not one word you say:

When bright and dusky are blown past,
Upon the hearse there nods the last.

Walter S. Landor.

CLXXIX.

TO HIS SOUL.

POOR little, pretty fluttering thing,

Must we no longer live together?

And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,

To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ?

Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly
Lie all neglected, all forgot:

And pensive, wavering, melancholy,

Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what.

CLXXX.

Matthew Prior.

DEATH.

O DEATH, thy certainty is such,
The thought of thee so fearful;

That musing, I have wonder'd, much,
How men are ever cheerful.

Henry Luttrell.

CLXXXI.

My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled,
Sat up together many a night, no doubt;
But now I've sent the poor old lass to bed,
Simply because my fire is going out.

George Colman, the Younger.

CLXXXII.

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art;

I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;

It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Walter S. Landor

CLXXXIII.

ON ONE IN ILLNESS.

HEALTH, strength, and beauty, who would not resign, And be neglected by the world, if you

Round his faint neck your loving arms would twine, And bathe his aching brow with pity's dew?

Walter S. Landor.

CLXXXIV.

TO ONE IN GRIEF.

AH! do not drive off grief, but place your hand
Upon it gently; it will then subside.

A wish is often more than a command,
Either of yours would do; let one be tried.

Walter S. Landor.

CLXXXV.

To fix her, 'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric's barren soil,—
Or tempests hold within a toil.

I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare,
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As winter's dreary frost unkind.
She's such a miser too, in love,
It's joys she'll neither share nor prove;
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.

Blushing at such inglorious reign,
I sometimes strive to break my chain;
My reason summon to my aid,
Resolve no more to be betray'd.

Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-lived trance,
Dispell'd by one enchanting glance ;
She need but look, and I confess
Those looks completely curse or bless.