For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, + Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he; "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne; Approach and read - for thou canst read the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 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't was all he wished a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; NATHANIEL COTTON. 1721-1788. Cotron was a physician by profession, and was particularly distinguished for his treatment of insanity. The poet Cowper was, for a time, under his care, for this malady, and speaks in commendatory terms of his humanity and sweetness of temper. Cotton wrote Visions in Verse, for children, and a volume of poetical Miscellanies. THE FIRESIDE. DEAR CHLOE, while the busy crowd, Be called our choice, we 'll step aside, From the gay world we 'll oft retire, Where love our hours employs; If solid happiness we prize, And they are fools who roam; The world has nothing to bestow; And that dear hut-our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When, with impatient wing, she left That safe retreat the ark. Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A Paradise below. Our babes shall richest comforts bring; We'll form their minds with studious care, While they our wisest hours engage, No borrowed joys,—they 're all our own, Monarchs! we envy not your state; Our portion is not large, indeed; For Nature's calls are few; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, We'll therefore relish, with content, Nor aim beyond our power; To be resigned when ills betide, And pleased with favors given; Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long-protracted treat, Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, The relics of our store. Thus, hand in hand, through life we 'll go ; And mingle with the dead. While conscience, like a faithful friend, DR. THOMAS PERCY. 1728-1811. Percy is chiefly known as the compiler of Reliques of English Poetry, in which he has revived many old songs and ballads, and which have had an extensive influence in awakening a love of nature and simplicity. They are said to have given the first impulse to Scott's genius, and to have affected the writings of Coleridge and Wordsworth. The Friar of Orders Gray was made from fragments of ancient ballads, with many additional stanzas, by Percy, and serves as a specimen of the olden song. Johnson and Goldsmith were friends of Percy, and, in his old age, he had the pleasure of seeing the early developments of his admirer, Walter Scott. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.. Walked forth to tell his beads, 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?" And by his sandal shoon; "But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view, "O, lady, he is dead and gone! "Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride. "Here bore him bare-faced on his bier And many a tear bedewed his grave |