I'll hold it valid beyond all denial ;

For some of us are brought to take our trial.
See there my fellow-culprits in their places :
Ah! how suspense and terror mark their faces !

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 not their guilt, but you their souls dismay,

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,
Imploring mercy from their + judge and jury.

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 :

K

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;
Or fcorning tense and case, embrace the quill,

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 ?

P

Yet Yet have the beauties of the classic

page

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,
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 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
Is mis’ry; she invites, but to destroy.

No more with you I take my station here,

To play the youthful orator once a year;
No more, with straining 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, Will leave one pray’r for all, that all may know

Each bliss, that heav'n and virtue can bestow.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY,

BY

BO E T H I U S.

I,

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!
In

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,
O'er my poor head he pours

his hoary rage ;
And my shrunk frame now trembles with decay.

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.

Faithless,