Danced on the green, or with affected race
Pursued thro' winding walks the wanton chase;
Or sat on banks of flowers, and told some tale
Where hapless lovers o'er their fate bewail;
Or bad soft echo from her mossy seat
The floating music of their songs repeat!
Ye dear companions of my boyish days,
Fair idols of my vows and of my lays,

O whither are ye gone? what varied fate
Has heaven decreed your riper years to wait?
The bloom of youth no longer paints your cheeks;
In your soft eyes gay hope no longer speaks;
Bright as the hyacinthine rays of Morn

Your cheeks no more the auburn locks adorn.
Some in the distant shades of privacy
With watchful looks a mother's care supply;
Some in the realms of fashion feed their pride,
Wafted on dissipation's vapoury tide:
And some alas! ere yet the silver hair
And tottering footsteps warn'd them to prepare,
Of life's vain course have closed the fickle race,
And sudden sunk in chilling death's embrace.

But happy they, who, in the quiet grave,
The world's relentless storms no more must brave;
For here no more had childhood's pure delights
Bless'd their sweet days, and hover'd o'er their nights.

Here cruel fate had early closed the door,

That opens to the voice of joy no more;

And still, wheree'er the wretched exiles strayed,

Black Care had gloom'd their steps, and Fraud betray'd;
And Envy scowl'd upon their fairest deeds,

And Calumny, that cursed fiend who feeds
With most delight on those, who most aspire
To win
pure fame by virtue's holiest fire,

Had

Had damp'd the ardor of the generous breast,
And glory's kindling visions had supprest.-

The grave contains them now: beneath a heap
Of mouldering turf in silent rest they sleep,
Till the dread day when sounds the trump of fate,
And all with trembling hope their doom must wait.

O ye deep shadowy walks; ye forest-dells,

Where solitude with inmost mystery dwells!
Again I hail you! From the leaf strown earth
Visions of happy infancy spring forth

At every step I tread; and to my heart
A momentary ray of joy impart :

But ah! how soon, with present ills combin'd,

The dreadful contrast strikes the wounded mind!

The clock that sent its undulating sounds

With deep-ton'd stroke thro' all your distant bounds
From yonder lofty tower, is silent now;
Silent the horn, that on yon airy brow,

Blew its shrill notes thro' all your calm retreats,
And rouz'd the Nymphs and Dryads from their seats;
And call'd sweet Echo, bidding her prolong

Thro' hill and grove and vale the chearful song:
Still is the breath of him who wak'd the horn;
The master's tongue, who did these scenes adorn,

Is silent in the dust; no more his voice
Bids the deep coverts of your woods rejoice;
No more the rustics' grateful breasts he chears,
Nor wipes from Poverty her bitter tears;
No more around him draws the eager cry
Of prattling childhood, to attract his eye,
From whence the rays of love and kindness fly;
No more his lips pronounce the awful tone
Of wisdom, and instruct the bad to moan
Their guilty course; and virtue still to bear
The load of life with fortitude and prayer.

G 2

}

Beneath

Beneath the pavement of yon humble fane
Low in the earth his mouldering bones remain.
Mem'ry shall o'er the spot her vigils keep,
And Friendship and Affection long shall weep;
And he, who now attempts, in simple lays,
His honour'd fame so weakly to emblaze,
Shall never cease, till life its current stays,
To love, to speak, to view with idol eyes,
His merits kindling as they upward rise!
O what a sudden gloom invests the heaven!
Black clouds across the fair expanse are driven :
No sound is heard; save where a casual breeze
Shakes off the rustling leaves from faded trees.
Hark! what a gust was that! a fearful moan
Along the dark'ning forest seems to groan.
Ye holy spirits of my buried sires,

Still e'en in death survive your wonted fires?
Still hovering round your once lov'd earthly walks,
Is it your voice that in the breezes talks?
To him who sighs o'er all your glories gone,

Who weeps your scatter'd grove, your ruin'd lawn;
Who views with bursting heart your falling towers,
And fills with loud lament your ravag'd bowers;
To him, perchance your guardian cares extend;
O'er him perchance with favouring voice ye bend!

O hear me, sainted beings of the air,

One sign, ye smile upon my efforts, spare
That gust again! louder it seem'd to move,
Rushing across the center of the grove!

Sure 'tis the signal that ye come at last

To calm my breast, and soothe my sorrows past:
For long Misfortune's baleful hand has spread
Her iron tortures round my luckless head.

Cætera desunt.

ART.

ART. XVII. REV. ROBERT POTTER.

Of this very accomplished and venerable scholar, who died in August 1804, the following character appeared in the Newspapers of the day.

"Thursday last died, aged 83, the Rev. Robert Potter, M. A, Prebendary of Norwich, and Vicar of Lowestoff, in Suffolk. Mr. Potter has long been known to the literary world as the translator of three great writers of the Greek drama; of all the translations in our language, this undoubtedly possesses a superior claim to excellence; not merely from the fidelity with which it has been executed, but from the singular fidelity by which the genius and manner of the respective writers are presented to us. When we further consider the magnitude of the undertaking, and that it was the work of one man, we cannot but rank Mr. Potter (not to mention his original publications), among those to whom British literature is especially indebted. In his private character, he exhibited a mind of strong sensibility and elevated sentiments; and his principles and conduct were such as to do honour to his profession and country."

The following article also appeared at the same

time.

"Mr. Potter was one of the best classical scholars of his time. His translations of the Greek dramatic. writers are proofs of poetical energy as well as profound erudition. He distinguished himself by other works of learning and genius; but he was entitled to still higher praise for the benevolence of his disposition and rectitude of his conduct. The living of Lowestoff is in the gift of the Bishop of Norwich, who will

perhaps find it a difficult matter to fill the vacancy left by Mr. Potter, who executed its duties with exemplary piety without ostentatious zeal."

ART. XVIII. JACOB BRYANT.

From the Sun Newspaper, 23 Nov. 1804.

"Jacob Bryant, Esq. We have already stated that this venerable ornament of literature died on Tuesday the 13th instant at Chippenham, Bucks, aged 89, deeply regretted by all who knew him. His death was in consequence of a wound on his shin, occasioned by his foot slipping from a chair, which he had stepped on to reach a book in his library; thus did he die, as E had lived, in search of knowledge. As a small but sincere tribute to his memory, a friend is induced to give a short sketch of his character, which an uninterrupted intercourse with him for the last thirty years enables him to do.

"Jacob Bryant, a man, whose whole life had been devoted to the acquirement of learning, and the goal of whose labours was a firm settlement of conviction in religion. He had by study amassed an erudition, which was paralleled by few and surpassed by none; his piety grew out of his learning, and was only equalled by it. With the mildness of a child, he united the firmness of a stoic; from a mind truly christian, his precepts flowed with milk and honey. Though belonging to the lay part of the community, his efforts in the cause of religion were as unceasing as they were satisfactory. His studies were chiefly directed to one

object,