There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

4. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, But shepherd-lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The red-breast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his gentle aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid When howling winds and beating rain, In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; Or midst the chase on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved, till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

CXC. JAMES MERRICK, 1720-1766.

THE CHAMELEON.

Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.

Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop :
Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-

I've seen-and sure I ought to know.'—
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that;
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Chameleon's form and nature.
'A stranger animal,' cries one,
'Sure never lived beneath the sun.
A lizard's body lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tɔngue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Whoever saw so fine a blue ?'

'Hold there,' the other quick replies,
'Tis green, I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray;
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed,
And saw it eat the air for food.'
'I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed
Extended in the cooling shade.'

'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.' 'Green!' cries the other in a fury : 'Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?' Twere no great loss,' the friend replies; For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use.' So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows •

When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred :
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

'Sirs,' cried the umpire, 'cease your pother;
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candle-light:
I marked it well, 'twas black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it. Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue.'
'And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.'
'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,'
Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out :
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.'
He said; and full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white.
Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-
'My children,' the Chameleon cries,
(Then first the creature found a tongue)
You all are right, and all are wrong :
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you :
Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eye-sight to his own.'

CXCI. TOBIAS SMOLLETT, 1720-1771.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

Sil.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks :
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it then in every clime
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day :
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
O baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their father stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

CXCII. KANE O' HARA, 17**-1782.
APOLLO, SILENUS, &c.

Now, dame and girls, no more let's hear you [grumble At too hard toil;-I chanced just now to stumble On this stout drudge, and hired him fit for labourTo 'em, lad-then he can play, and sing, and caper.

Y

Mysis. Fine rubbish to bring home; a strolling thrummer!

What art thou good for? speak, thou ragged mummer! Nysa. Mother, for shame

Mysis.

Peace, saucebox, or I'll maul you. Apollo. Goody, my strength and parts you undervalue, For his or your work I am brisk and handy.

Daphne. A sad cheat else—

Mysis.

What, you? you jack-a-dandy? Apollo. Pray, goody, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue :

Why flash those sparks of fury from your eyes? Remember, when the judgment's weak, the prejudice is strong;

A stranger why will you despise ?

Ply me, try me, prove ere you deny me:

If you cast me off, you blast me

Never more to rise.

CXCIII. FRANCES BROOKE, 17**—1789

1. SONG: WHEN THE ROSY MORN.

When the rosy morn appearing
Paints with gold the verdant lawn,
Bees, on banks of thyme disporting,
Sip the sweets, and hail the dawn.
Warbling birds, the day proclaiming,
Carol sweet the lively strain;
They forsake their leafy dwelling,
To secure the golden grain.
See, content, the humble gleaner
Take the scatter'd ears that fall!
Nature, all her children viewing,
Kindly bounteous, cares for all.

2. WILLIAM AND PHEBE.

Will. I've kissed and I've prattled to fifty fair maids,
And changed them as oft, d'ye see;

But of all the fair maidens that dance on the green,
The maid of the mill for me.