After the twenty-fifth stanza, ending with the word "lawn,” was the following stanza:

Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done,
Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song,
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.

And in some of the first editions, immediately before “The Epitaph," was the following stanza :

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS.

THIRD in the labours of the disc came on,

With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon;
Artful and strong he poised the well-known weight
By Phlegyas warn'd, and fired by Mnestheus' fate,
That to avoid, and this to emulate.

His vigorous arm he tried before he flung,

Braced all his nerves, and every sinew strung;

Then, with a tempest's whirl, and wary eye,
Pursued his cast, and hurl'd the orb on high:
The orb on high tenacious of its course,
True to the mighty arm that gave it force,
Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see
Its ancient lord secure of victory.
The theatre's green height and woody wall
Tremble ere it precipitates its fall;

The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving ground,
While vales and woods and echoing hills rebound.
As when from Etna's smoking summit broke,
The eyeless Cyclops heaved the craggy rock;
Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar,
And parting surges round the vessel roar;
'Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm,
And scarce Ulysses 'scaped his giant arm.
A tiger's pride the victor bore away,
With native spots and artful labour gay,
A shining border round the margin roll'd,
And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold.
Cambridge, May 8, 1736.

6

SONG.

THYRSIS, when we parted, swore

Ere the spring he would return— Ah! what means yon violet flower!

And the bud that decks the thorn! 'Twas the lark that upward sprung! 'Twas the nightingale that sung!

Idle notes! untimely green!

Why this unavailing haste? Western gales and skies serene

Speak not always winter past. Cease, my doubts, my fears to move, Spare the honour of my love.

A LONG STORY.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands :
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the power of fairy hands

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,

Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls;
The seals and maces danced before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet,
Moved the stout heart of England's queen,

Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!

Shame of the versifying tribe!

Your history whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other amazon kind heaven

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire; But Cobham had the polish given,

And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; Melissa is her "nom de guerre."

Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long, they hid their armour; And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.