Their lot forbade'; nor circumscribed alone' Their growing virtues', but their crimes confined'; With incense kindled at the muse's flame'. Far from the madd'ning crowd's ignoble strife', They kept the noiseless tenour of their way'. Yet even these boncs', from insult to protect', With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculptureb decked' Their name', their years', spelled by th' unlettered muse, For who', to dumb forgetfulness a prey', This pleasing', anxious being e'erd resigned'; Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate'; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say', To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech', For-bad'. Skůlp'tshůre-not, skålp'tshår. Stroze. dare. Nåtshåre. Důst. *Teaches, grammatically. Hard by yon wood', now smiling', as in scorn', Or crazed with care', or crossed in hopeless love'. Nor up the lawn', nor at the wood'.. was he'. The next', with dirges due', in sad array', Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne'; THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth', Large was his bounty', and his soul', sincere': He gave to misery all he had'—a tear', He gained from heaven' ('twas all he wished') a friend' No farther seek his merits to disclose', Or draw his frailties from their dread abode'; (There they', alike', in trembling hope repose';) The bosom of his Father and his God'. SECTION XXV. Stanzas.-DR. PERCIVAL. My heart was a mirror, that showed every treasuree It reflected each beautiful blossom of pleasure,f But the winds and the storms broke the mirror, and severed And the tempest raged on till the fragments were shivered, Få'vår-it. •Trêzh'àre. För'tshåne-not, tshůn. Plêzh'ùre-not, plêzh'er. Sl'ense-not, sl'unse. Um'bl One piece which the storm in its madness neglected, OUR Eagle shall rise 'mid the whirlwinds of war, And ne'era shall the rage of the conflict be o'er, When peace shall disarm war's dark brow of its frown, aNåre. 23 CHAPTER IV. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. SECTION I. Dedications.-LORD BACON. a THE dedication of books to patrons', in this age', is not to be commended for such books as are worthy of the name', ought to have no patrons but truth and reason'. The ancient custom was', to dedicate them only to private and equal friends', or to entitle them with a friend's name'; or', if dedicated to kings or great personages', it was to those only to whose talents and taste the argument of the work was peculiarly suited'. 6 I would not be understood', however', as condemning the applications of the learned to men of fortune', when the occasion renders it proper and expedient'. The answer of Diogenes was just', who', when asked', tauntingly', How it came to pass that philosophers were the followers of rich men', and not rich men', of philosophers'," replied', soberly', and yet', sharply', "Because philosophers know what they need'; but rich men do not'." Equally pointed was the following reply of Aristippus'. On presenting a petition to Dionysius without being able to gain his attention', he fell down at his feet'; whereupon Dionysius was prevailed on to give him a hearing', and to grant his request'. But afterward', some one over-sensitive for the reputation of philosophy', reproved Aristippus for having offered so great an indignity to his profession', as for a philosopher to fall at a tyrant's feet':-to whom Aristippus replied, "It is not my fault', sir', but the fault of Dionysius', that he has his ears in his feet'." Nor was it accounted weakness', but discretion', in him who excused himself for not disputing a point with Adrianus Cesar', by saying', "It is the dictate of reason to yield the argument to one who commands thirty legions'." aPǎ'trůnz. eFê-lôs'o'fürz. håne'tshent-not, ân'shunt. Lêrn'êd. ¿Di-ôj'é-néze. These and the like instances of yielding to the force of circumstances', and of stooping to points of necessity and convenience', are to be accounted submissions', not to the person, but to the occasion'. SECTION II. Reflections on Westminster Abbey.—ADDISON. WHEN I am in a serious humour', I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey'; where the gloominess of the place', and the use to which it is applied', together with the solemnity of the building', and the condition of the people who lie in it', are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy', or', rather', thoughtfulness', that is not disagreeable'. Yesterday I passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard', the cloisters', and the church', amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions which I met with in those several regions of the dead'. Most of them record nothing else of the buried person', but that he was born on one day', and died on another'; two circumstances that are common to all mankind'. I could not but look upon those registers of existence', whether of brass or marble', as a kind of satire upon the departed persons', who had left no other memorial of themselves', than', that they were born', and that they died'. Upon my going into the church', I entertained myself with the digging of a grave', and saw', in every shovelful of it that was thrown up', the fragment of a bone or scull', intermixed with a kind of fresh', mouldering earth', which', some time or other', had held a place in the composition of a human body'. Upon this', I began to consider with myself', what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavementb of that ancient cathedral'; how men and women', friends' and enemies', priests' and soldiers', monks' and prebendaries', were crumbled among one another', and blended together in the same common mass';-how beauty', strength', and youth', with old age', weakness', and deformity', lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter! d After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality', as it were', in the lump', I examined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments',e ¿Påve'ment. Eg-zist'ense-not, unse. cane'tshent-not, ân' shunt. |