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I'll hold it valid beyond all denial ;
For some of us are brought to take our trial.
Bad symptoms these! but sure, the breast of youth
No inmate knows, fave innocence and truth.
If put on their defence, they foon wou'd say,
That honest fears, which this dread court imparts,
Blanch their young cheeks, and futter at their hearts.
Hear them, however : for they'll come before ye,
E P I.
+ Bishop Porteus, who was presents
E P I L OG U E,
SPOKEN BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO
WAS GOING TO COLLEGE, 1787,
IND friends! I come to pay my last adieu :
For much I owe to you, and || you, and § you.
No more I sportive tread this well-worn floor,
How grammar-concords fit each little part;
And climb with measur'd feet Parnassus' hill.
Hard talk, I ween, to step with native ease
To the soft cadence of Ovidian lays,
And build, by Lily's rules, the founding line !
For how can Lily give the energy divine ?
Yet Yet have the beauties of the classic
* The audience. || The master. The boys.
Oft charm’d the wand'rings of my thoughtless age,
Rapt me from Deva's banks to Mantuan plains,
To hear in beechen shades the loves of fwains;
Oft too, by Homer and by fancy led,
And grew a demi-hero as I read.
Sweet bards, I charge on you no irksome toil :
Your magic strains e’en school-boy-cares beguile : And when in Cambria, or by Isis' stream
I rove, your praises be my constant theme.
Yet, ere I haste these hallow'd seats to leave,
Ye, gen'rous partners of my toil, receive,
What my warm heart will ever aim to prove,
A brother's wishes, and a brother's love.
Go on in virtue's paths; dare to be wise,
So Horace says, and well does he advise :
Mind not the Syren Ease ; her promis’d joy
No more with you I take my station here,
To play the youthful orator once a year;
mind With gaudier views, regret will look behind, Will leave one pray’r for all, that all may know
Each bliss, that heav'n and virtue can bestow.
FROM THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY,
BO E T H I U S.
Who erewhile in sprightly numbers fung,
Now tune my notes to elegiac woe;
In tatter'd plight the Muses prompt my tongue,
While heart-wrung tears in doleful concert flow.
These still are true, nor fear a tyrant's frown,
These still, unaw'd, my lonely steps attend;
Pride of my soul, when youth and fortune shone!
age and grief their foothing aid they lend.
For, urg'd by grief, I feel the blight of Age;
His tyrant-hand hath seiz'd his feeble prey,
his hoary rage ;
Welcome is Death, when life is pain and care,
Who comes, invok'd, to stop the wretch's cries :
But ah ! too oft his ear rejects our pray’r,
Nor deigns his hand to close our weeping eyes.