Hard fate! but often to this blifsful day, Thro' the dull glooms of time, his wishes stray; His gladden'd heart forgets its load of woes. Does the full day-light hurt a school-boy's brain, Why do thofe * envious walls the light exclude ?——— This scene of shame, and fear, and grief defcry. Frown not, my worthy audience, at my prating: This phrase of gaol-deliv'ry, tho' so grating, I'll * Many of the fchool windows have been reduced to less than half of their original fize. I'll hold it valid beyond all denial; For fome of us are brought to take our trial. See there my fellow-culprits in their places: EPI Bishop Porteus, who was prefent. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO WAS GOING TO COLLEGE, 1787. K 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, Or con in order prim the learned lore; Careful to prove, with anatomic art, How grammar-concords fit each little part; And build, by Lily's rules, the founding line! P Yet The audience. The mafter. The boys. Yet have the beauties of the claffic page Oft charm'd the wand'rings of my thoughtless age, Rapt me from Deva's banks to Mantuan plains, Oft too, by Homer and by fancy led, I join'd with heroes at the battle's head, And grew a demi-hero as I read. Sweet bards, I charge on you no irksome toil : Your magic ftrains e'en school-boy-cares beguile : And when in Cambria, or by Ifis' ftream I rove, your praises be my conftant theme. Yet, ere I hafte these hallow'd feats 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 wife, So Horace fays, and well does he advise : Mind not the Syren Eafe; her promis'd joy Is mis'ry; fhe invites, but to destroy. No more with you I take my station here, 23 To play the youthful orator once a year; No more, with ftraining lungs and beating heart, To this fair groupe a labour'd speech impart. Dear youths, farewel! tho' hope may fire my mind With gaudier views, regret will look behind, TRANSLATIONS FROM THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY, I, BY BOETHIUS. Who erewhile in sprightly numbers fung, Now tune my notes to elegiac woe; In |