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KING CHARLES II.

Whose eloquence — brightening whatever it

tried, Here lies our sovereign lord the king,

Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave -· Whose word no man relies on ; He never says a foolish thing,

Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide, Nor ever does a wise one.

As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave !
Lines on the Death of Sheridan.

T. MOORE. Written on the Bedchamber Door of Charles II.

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

Ye men of wit and social eloquence !

He was your brother, — bear his ashes hence ! JAMES THOMSON.

While powers of mind almost of boundless range, A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems Complete in kind, as various in their change, Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,

While eloquence, wit, poesy, and mirth, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,

That humbler harmonist of care on earth, Poured forth his unpremeditated strain :

Survive within our souls, — while lives our sense The world forsaking with a calm disdain, Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence, Here laughed he careless in his easy seat ;

Long shall we seek his likeness, – long in vain, Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous train,

And turn to all of him which may remain, Oft moralizing sage : his ditty sweet

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, He loathèd much to write, ne cared to repeat.

And broke the die -- in moulding Sheridan !

BYROX. Stanza introduced into Thomson's "Castle of Indolence," Cant, i. ! Monody on the Death of Sheridan.

LORD LYTTELTON,

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

AMOS COTTLE. Where slowly winds the stealing wave; Oh! Amos Cottle ! *-- Phoebus ! what a name The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To fill the speaking trump of future fame! To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

Oh ! Amos Cottle! for a moment think

What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! And see, the fairy valleys fade;

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.

BYRON. Dun night has veiled the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek Nature's child, again adieu !

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. Ode on the Death of Thomson.

W. COLLINS.

O good gray head which all men knew,

O voice from which their omens all men drew, WILLIAM HOGARTH.

O iron nerve to true occasion true,

O fallen at length that tower of strength The hand of him here torpid lies

Which stood four-square to all the winds that That drew the essential form of grace ;

blew ! Here closed in death the attentive eyes

Such was he whom we deplore. That saw the manners in the face.

The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er. Epitaph.

DR. S. JOHNSON.

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no

more.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH..
On the Death of the Duke of Wellington.

TENNYSON.
Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices ; - by the source

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence

There in seclusion and remote from men fills

The wizard hand lies cold, The solitude with sound ; for in its course

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part

And left the tale half told.
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Wordsworth.

F. D. HEMANS.

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power,

And the lost clew regain ?
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower

Unfinished must remain !
Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light,

LONGFELLOW. Played round every subject, and shone as it played ; —

| Hawthorne, May 23, 1864.

* "Mr. Cottle, Amos or Joseph, I don't know which, but one or

both, once sellers of books they did not write, but now writers of Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,

books that do not sell, have published a pair of epics." - THE Ne'er carried a heart-stain awayon its blade; - AUTHOR.

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Such a barogon is woman

That, you seo, it must be true
She is always reaably betler

Thaw the best that the can alo! "

Luo L Faro,

Zettle Crefo' up quite udelaars
An' pecked in thon the wrider

en

de

Let us line, Uncle
T

Daw;

Letus live and love, Biody: din' there sot Ituloy all alone what's the world to a man

when his wife is a randoy? with no one nigh to header.

Stowska

HUMOROUS POEMS.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF “O these are hard questions for my shallow witt. CANTERBURY.

Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:

| But if you will give me but three weeks' space, FROM “PERCY'S RELIQUES.”

Ile do my endeavor to answer your grace. An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince that was called King John; “Now three weeks' space to thee will I give. And he ruled England with main and with might, And that is the longest time thou hast to live : For he did great wrong, and maintained little

For if thou dost not answer my questions three, right.

Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury ;

And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford ; How for his house-keeping and high renown,

But never a doctor there was so wise, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

That could with his learning an answer devise. An hundred men the king did heare say,

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, The abbot kept in his house every day ;

| And he met his shepheard a-going to fold : And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt,

“How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

home; “How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,

What newes do you bring us from good King Thou keepest a farre better house than mee ;

John ?
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.”

“Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give,

That I have but three days more to live ; “My liege,” quo' the abbot, “I would it were

For if I do not answer him questions three,
knowne

My head will be smitten from my bodie.
I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere,

" The first is to tell him, there in that stead, For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.”

With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,

Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, “Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, To within one penny of what he is worth. And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, “ The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. How soone he may ride this whole world about ;

And at the third question I must not shrinke, “And first,” quo' the king, "when I'm in this But tell him there truly what he does thinke."

stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, “Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,

yet, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am | That a fool he may le

That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? worthe.

Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your ap

parel, “ Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, And Ile ride to London to answere your quarrel. How soone I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, “Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, But tell me here truly what I do think.” | I am like your lordship, as ever may be ;

And if you will but lend me your gowne,

JOHN BARLEYCORN.* There is none shall know us at fair London towne."

THERE was three kings into the East, “Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, Three kings both great and high, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, And they hae sworn a solemn oath With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,

John Barleycorn should die. Fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope.”

They took a plough and ploughed him down, “Now welcome, sire abbot,” the king he did say,

Put clods upon his head, “'T is well thou 'rt come back to keepe thy day :!

And they hae sworn a solemn oath,
For and if thou canst answer my questions three, John Barleycorn was dead.
Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, “And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, And showers began to fall; With my crowne of golde so fair on my head,

John Barleycorn got up again, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,

And sore surprised them all. Tell me to one penny what I am worth.”

The sultry suns of summer came, “For thirty pence our Saviour was sold

And he grew thick and strong, Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told,

His head well armed wi' pointed spears, And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,

That no one should him wrong. For I thinke thou art one penny worser than he."|

The sober autumn entered mild, The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,

When he grew wan and pale ;

His bending joints and drooping head “I did not think I had been worth so littel!

Showed he began to fail. - Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about.”

His color sickened more and more,

He faded into age ; “You must rise with the sun, and ride with the

And then his enemies began
same

To show their deadly rage.
Until the next morning he riseth againe ;
And then your grace need not make any doubt

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,
But in twenty-four hours you 'll ride it about.”.

And cut him by the knee ;

And tied him fast upon the cart, The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, “I did not think it could be gone so soone !

Like a rogue for forgerie. - Now from the third question thou must not

They laid him down upon his back, shrinke,

And cudgelled him full sore ; But tell me here truly what I do thinke.”

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o'er and o'er. “Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry ;

They filled up a darksome pit You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ;

With water to the brim, But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may

They heaved in John Barleycorn, see,

There let him sink or swim. That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

They laid him out upon the floor, The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, i

To work him further woe, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place !"

And still, as signs of life appeared, “Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,

They tossed him to and fro. For alacke I can neither write ne reade.”

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, Four nobles a week then I will give thee,

The marrow of his bones ; For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me;

But a miller used him worst of all, And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,

For he crushed him between two stones. Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.”

* An improvement on a very old ballad found in a black-letter ANONYMOUS. I volume in the Pepys library, Cambridge University,

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