The Dead.
Of them, who wrapt in earth are cold,

No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time,

Would thus the lettered sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb,

And on the doubtful sculpture pore? Why seeks he with unwearied toil,

Through Death's dim walks to urge his way, Reclaim his long asserted spoil,

And lead Oblivion into day! 'Tis nature prompts by toil or fear,

Unmoved to range through Death's domain ; The tender parent loves to hear

Her children's story told again!

[A Farewell Hymn to the Valley of Irwan.] Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale,

My infant years where Fancy led, And soothed me with the western gale,

Her wild dreams waving round my head, While the blithe blackbird told his tale. Farewell the fields of Irwan’s vale! The primrose on the valley's side,

The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied,

The wilding's blossom blushing red; No longer I their sweets inhale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale! How oft, within yon vacant shade,

Has evening closed my careless eye! How oft, along those banks I've strayed,

And watched the wave that wandered by: Full long their loss shall I bewail. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale! Yet still, within yon vacant grove,

To mark the close of parting day;
Along yon flowery banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away;
Fair Fancy sure shall never fail,
Though far from these and Irwan's vale.

Eternal Providence. Light of the world, Immortal Mind; Father of all the human kind! Whose boundless eye that knows no rest, Intent on nature's ample ortadt, Explores the space of earth and skies, And secs eternal incense rise! To thee my humble voice I raise ; Forgive, while I presume to praise. Though thou this transient being gave, That shortly sinks into the grave; Yet 'twas thy goodness still to give A being that can think and live; In all thy works thy wisdom see, And stretch its towering mind to thee. To thee my humble voice I raise ; Forgive, while I presume to praise. And still this poor contracted span, This life, that bears the name of man, From thee derives its vital ray, Eternal source of life and day! Thy bounty still the sunshine pours, That gilds its morn and evening hours. To thee my humble voice I raise ; Forgive, while I presume to praise. Through error's maze, through folly's night, The lamp of reason lends me light; Where stern affliction waves her rod, My heart confides in thee, my God! When nature shrinks, oppressed with woes, Even then she finds in thee repose. To thee my humble voice I raise; Forgive, while I presume to praise. Amiction flies, and Hope returns; Her lamp with brighter splendour burns; Gay Love with all his siniling train, And Peace and Joy are here again; These, these, I know, 'twas thine to give; I trusted ; and, behold, I live! To thee my humble voice I raise; Forgive, while I presume to praise. O may I still thy favour prove ! Still grant me gratitude and love. Let truth and virtue guard my heart; Nor peace, nor hope, nor joy depart: But yet, whate'er my life may be, My heart shall still repose on theo! To thee my humble voice I raise ; Forgive, while I presume to praise.

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. Few votaries of the muses have had the resolution to abandon their early worship, or to cast off the Dalilahs of the imagination,' when embarked on more gainful callings. An example of this, however, is afforded by the case of SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE (born in London in 1723, died 1780), who, having made choice of the law for his profession, and entered himself a student of the Middle Temple, took formal leave of poetry in a copy of natural and pleasing verses, published in Dodsley's Miscellany. Blackstone rose to rank and fame as a lawyer, wrote a series of masterly commentaries on the laws of England, was knighted, and died a judge in the court of common pleas. From some critical notes on Shakspeare by Sir William, published by Stevens, it would appear that, though he had forsaken his muse, he still (like Charles Lamb, when he had given up the use of the 'great plant,' tobacco) .loved to live in the suburbs of her graces.'

The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse. As, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way. And dreads to go; nor dares to stay; Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu : So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind. Companion of my tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, How blithesome we were wont to rove, By verdant hill or shady grove, Where fervent bees, with humming voice, Around the honied oak rejoice, And aged elms with awful bend, In long cathedral walks extend í Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods,

DR THOMAS PERCY.

How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!
Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded rolled along :
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,
These scenes must charm me now no more;
Lost to the fies, and torn from you,
Farewell !-a long, a last adieu.
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw :
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare ;
Loose Revelry, and Riot bold,
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drowned,
Fell Murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you;
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!
Shakspeare, no more thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self must please :
Instead of these, a formal band
In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore,
And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.
There, in a winding close retreat,
Is justice doomed to fix her seat ;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe ;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queen, is more admired.
Oh let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverent awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where mixed, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end;
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades, and regulates the whole.
Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!
Thus though my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe,
Uncarsed amid the barpy tribe ;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour and my conscience clear.
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend.

DR THOMAS PERCY, afterwards bishop of Dromore, in 1765 published his Reliques of English Poetry, in which several excellent old songs and ballads were revived, and a selection made of the best lyrical pieces scattered through the works of modern authors. The learning and ability with which Percy executed his task, and the sterling value of his materials, recommended his volumes to public favour. They found their way into the hands of poets and poetical readers, and awakened a love of nature, simplicity, and true passion, in contradistinction to that coldly-correct and sentimental style which pervaded part of our literature. The influence of Percy's collection was general and extensive. It is evident in many contemporary authors. It gave the first impulse to the genius of Sir Walter Scott; and it may be seen in the writings of Coleridge and Wordsworth. A fresh fountain of poetry was opened up-a spring of sweet, tender, and heroic thoughts and imaginations, which could never be again turned back into the artificial channels in which the genius of poesy had been too long and too closely confined. Percy was himself a poet. His ballad, 0, Nanny, wilt Thou Gang wi' Me,' the Hermit of Warkworth,' and other detached pieces, evince both taste and talent. We subjoin a cento, The Friar of Orders Gray,' which Percy says he compiled from fragments of ancient ballads, to which he added supplemental stanzas to connect them together. The greater part, however, is his own. The life of Dr Percy presents little for remark. He was born at Bridgnorth, Shropshire, in | 1728, and, after his education at Oxford, entered the church, in which he was successively chaplain to the King, dean of Carlisle, and bishop of Dromore: the

latter dignity he possessed from 1782 till his death in 1811. He enjoyed the friendship of Johnson, Goldsmith, and other distinguished men of his day,

and lived long enough to hail the genius of the most | illustrious of his admirers, Sir Walter Scott.

0, Nanny, wilt Thou Gang wi' Me. 0, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee,

The lowly cot and russet gown? Nae langer drest in silken sheen,

Nae langer decked wi' jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 0, Nanny, when thou’rt far awa,

Wilt thou not cast a look behind ? Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw,

Nor shrink before the winter wind? O can that soft and gentle mien

Severest hardships learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? O Nanny, canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen wi’ me to gae ? Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of wae ? Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear! Nor then regret those scenes so gay,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

• O weep not, lady, weep not so,

Some ghostly comfort scek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

Nor tears bedew thy cheek.'
O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth

That e'er won lady's love.
And now, alas ! for thy sad loss

I'll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wished to live,

For thee I wish to die.'
“Weep no more, lady, weep no more;

Thy sorrow is in vain :
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower

Will ne'er make grow again.
Our joys as winged dreams do fily;

Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is past.'
O say not so, thou holy friar!

I pray thee say not so;
For since my true love died for me,

'Tis meet my tears should flow, And will he never come again

Will he ne'er come again?
Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.
His cheek was redder than the rose

The comeliest youth was he;
But he is dead and laid in his grave,

Alas! and wo is me.'
Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea, and one on land,

To one thing constant never.
Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thce sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy.'
Now say not so, thou holy friar,

I pray thee say not so;
My love he had the truest heart-

O he was ever true!
And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth ?

And didst thou die for me?
Then farewell home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.
But first upon my true lore's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,
And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf

That wraps his breathless clay.' “Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while

Beneath this cloister wall; The cold wind through the hawthorn blows,

And drizzly rain doth fall.'
.O stay me not, thou holy friar,

O stay me not, I pray ;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,

Can wash my fault away.'
“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears ;
For see, beneath this gown of gray,

Thy own true love appears.
Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought;
And here, anid these lonely walls,

To end my days I thought.

The Friar of Orders Gray. It was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar !

I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see.'
And how should I know your true love

From many another one ?'
Oh! by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his sandal shoon:
But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view,
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled,

And eyes of lovely blue.'
"O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone! At his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stone. Within these holy cloisters long

He languished, and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.
Here bore him barefaced on his bier

Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedewed his grave

Within yon kirkyard wall.'
* And art thou dead, thou gentle youth-

And art thou dead and gone? And didst thou die for love of me?

Break, cruel heart of stone!'