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Hark! to the hurried question of Despair "Where is my child?"--An echo answers-- "Where?"

And be the Spartan's epitaph on me-- "Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."

Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee?

Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh; Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph? If such you seek, try Westminister, and view Ten thousand, just as fit for him as you.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure. Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

"Yet doth he live!" exclaims th' impatient heir, And sighs for sables which he must not wear.

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried?

Her eye Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either; and there would arise, A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul, Which struggled through and chansten'd down the whole.

With eyes that look'd into the very soul-- . . . . Bright--and as black and burning as coal.

And her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardoned all, except her face.

And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.

Tempted fate will leave the loftiest star.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.