in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mother: "All my hopes," said he, " of getting to the university are now blasted; in preparing myself for it, I have lost time in my profession; I have much ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover what I have lost." The consequence was, that he applied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He now allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for his meals, and scarcely any for sleep. He would read till one, two, three o'clock in the morning; then throw himself on the bed, and rise again to his work at five, at the call of a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in his chamber. Many nights he never laid down at all. It was in vain that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destructive application. In this respect, and in this only one, was Henry undutiful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor entreaties, could check his desperate and deadly ardour. At one time she went every night into his room, to put out his candle: as soon as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide it in a cupboard, throw himself into bed, and affect sleep while she was in the room; then, when all was quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful studies. "The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has been every thing to me; and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night images are, as they judge, so ridi I2 culously predominant in my verses." During some of these midnight hours he indulged himself in complaining, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more of them had been found among his papers. ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. .1. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. 2. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 3. Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world: To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 4. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun-a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 5. Oh, what is beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 6. The most belov'd on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 8. Come, Disappointment, come ! Thou art not stern to me; Sad Monitress!! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment. I DREAM no more the vision flies away, There fell my hopes- I lost my all in this, Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. His health soon sunk under these habits; he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the following lines in the churchyard of his favourite village. LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD, On Recovery from Sickness. HERE would I wish to sleep. — This is the spot Tir'd out and wearied with the riotous world, From his meridian height, endeavours vainly |