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.

Tho' 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 tho' the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Tho' from Hope's summit hurl'd,
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,
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.

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So music past is obsolete,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,
But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid.

7.

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,

Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,

And cares and sorrows eat?

Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

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,
And Disappointment ⚫

There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this,

My cherish'd all of visionary bliss.

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;

Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe.
Plunge me in glooms

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 church-yard of his favourite village.

LINES

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD,

On Recovery from Sickness.

HERE would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in;

Tir'd out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,

From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he wanton'd.

Come, I will sit me down and meditate,
For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest-beneath this sod
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth-worm
Of its predestin'd dues; no, I would lie

Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,

Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters.
Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;

But there at eve may some congenial soul

Duly resort and shed a pious tear,
The good man's benizon-no more I ask.
Aud oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubim inspir'd, they sit,
Upon this little dim-discovered spot,

The earth,) then will I cast a glance below
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body,
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond
His narrow verge of being, and provide
A decent residence for its clayey shell,