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Through tracț of years in mute oblivion lost,
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
In long and lasting union to attest,

The virtues of the Beggar and the Dog.
It may be noted that Lamb treats Lyciscus,
which was evidently intended merely as a name,
as referring to the species of dog ; Virgil uses
Lycisca as a dog's name in the third Eclogue.
Probably Bourne was thinking of a fox-terrier,
and the term wolf-dog is pompous and incongru-
ous. Lamb's last line but three is a very lame one ;
it is a difficult point to determine, but did not he
mean no ungrateful hand”? The true sense
of the original line is, "the slender gift of a
hand which although poor is not ungrateful."

Bourne shows also a remarkable observation of street life, the quaint water-side manners, the odd obscure life that eddied near the river highway and round about the smoky towers of Wren. Absent-minded he may have been, but observant he was to a peculiar degree, and that not of broad poetical effects, but of the minute detail and circumstance of every-day life. It would be easy to multiply instances, but this extract from the “ Iter per Tamisin," of the bargeman lighting his pipe, will serve to show what I mean. Why does he call tobacco pætum, it may be asked ? The only solution that I can suggest is that Pink-eye, or Squint-eye, was a cant term for some

species of the weed at the time. It can hardly be, I think, the word peat Latinised. The version, as in the case of those which follow, is my own.

His ita dispositis, tubulum cum pyxide magna
Depromit, nigrum longus quem fecerat usus.
Hunc postquam implêrat päto, silicemque pararat,
Excussit scintillam ; ubi copia ponitur atri
Fomitis, hinc ignem sibi multum exugit, et haustu
Accendens crebro, surgentes deprimit herbas
Extremo digito: in cineres albescere pætum
Incipit et naso gratos emittit odores.

This thus disposed, a pipe with ample bowl
He handles, blackened with familiar use;
Stuffs with the fragrant herb, and Aint prepares
To strike the spark; and thence from fuel stored,
Black provender, he spouts a plenteous flame,
Kindling with frequent gusts of breath indrawn :
Meanwhile he tends with cautious finger-tip
The rising fibres; into lightest ash
Whitening, they pour the aromatic fumes.

Vincent Bourne had that passionate sympathy with and delight in youth that is the surest testimony to a heart that does not grow old. The pretty ways and natural gestures of childhood pleased him.

He was fond of his boys, and allowed that fondness to be evident, at a time when brow-beating and insolent severity were too much the fashion. In his epitaphs it is curious to note how many deal with the young, and touch on the immemorial fragrance of early death with a peculiar pathos. There is an epitaph on a Westminster boy of twelve years old, where he most touchingly alludes to the thought that he died both beautiful and innocent; and an epitaph. on a little girl who, he said in quaint phrase, had the modest red of roses and the pure whiteness of lilies in her face. Again the inscription to the memory of the young Earl of Warwick, who died at the age of twenty-four, is full of delicate beauty ; but I will give in full what seems to me the sweetest of all. It is printed among the authentic epitaphs, but it is, I imagine, purely fanciful.



Quam suavis mea Chloris, et venusta,
Vitæ quam fuerit brevis, monebunt
Hic circum violæ rosæque fusæ :
Quarum purpura, vix aperta, clausa est.
Sed nec dura nimis vocare fata,
Nec fas est nimium queri caducæ
De formæ brevitate, quam rependit
Aeterni diuturnitas odoris.

My pretty Chloris-ah, how sweet
The roses o'er your head shall show;
The violets, strewn above your feet
How brief the life that sleeps below.
We must not chide the grudging fates,
Nor say how short a lot was thine,
For, ah, how amply compensates
The eternal fragrance of thy shrine.

I subjoin to these a couple of epigrams which give a good idea of the natural and solemn way


in which he approaches death, as an event not necessarily of a gloomy and forbidding character, but as tending to draw out and develop an intimate and regretful hope in the survivors. There is nothing austere about his philosophy ; it puts aside pompous and formal consolations, and goes right to the heart of the matter, with a child-like simplicity. The first deals with the Pyramids, the second with an incident, real or fancied, connected with the burial of Queen Mary at Westminster.

Pyramidum sumptus, ad coelum et sidera ducti,

Quid dignum tanta mole, quid intus habent ?
Ah! nihil intus habent, nisi nigrum informe cadaver ;

Durata in saxum est cui medicata caro.
Ergone porrigitur monumentum in jugera tota !

Ergo tot annorum, tot manuumque labor!
Integra sit morum tibi vita : hæc pyramis esto,

Et poterunt tumulo sex satis esse pedes.

Aspiring monument of human toil
What lies beneath that's worth so vast a coil ?
A shapeless blackened corpse, set all alone,
Embalmed and mummied into silent stone.
The mighty pile its ponderous circuit rears;
Ah, ingenuity! ah, wasted years !
Pure be thy life; let pompous trappings be!
Six feet of's enough for thee !


Quæ tibi regalis dederant diadematis aurum,

Dant et funereum fana, Maria, tholum.

Quisque suis vicibus, mæsto stant ordine flentes;

Oreque velato femina triste silet.
Parva avis interea, residens in vertice summo,

Emittit tremula lugubre voce melos.
Vespera nec claudit, nec lucem Aurora recludit,

Quin eadem repetat funebre carmen avis,
Tale nihil dederint vel Mausolea; Mariæ

Hæc pietas soli debita vera fuit.
Venales lacrymæ, jussique facessite fletus ;

Sumptibus hic nullis luctus emendus erit.
The ancient fane that crowned thy flashing head,
Oh queen, ob mother! now receives thee dead.
The mourning train, in funeral pomp arrayed,
Weeping adore the venerable shade.
A duteous bird the while, high perched above,
Utters the tremulous notes of tender love.
Each waning eve, each dewy opening day,
That gentle heart repeats his solemn lay.
No lamentable anthem pealing high
Can match the gift of pious minstrelsy.
Tears, venal tears, ye cannot give relief.
No lavished gold can purchase natural grief!

There have been several editions of Vincent Bourne; three of them deserve, bibliographically, a word. The first is the third of his publications, a very rare and beautiful book, which by the kindness of Mr. Austin Dobson I have been privileged to examine. This is Poematia, Latine partim reddita, partim scripta, printed by J. Watts, 1734, and dedicated to the Duke of Newcastle ; it is a small volume printed in italics of the tribe of Aldus, with quaint head and tail pieces, and red lines ruled by hand. The next is the Miscellaneous Poems of 1772, a hand

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