His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn; till the bright, fiery boy,
That 't was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man.

3. And what is its reward?
Praise-when the ear has

At best, a name!

grown too dull to hear;

Gold-when the senses it should please are dead:
Wreaths-when the hair they cover has grown gray;
Fame-when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb.
All things but love-when love is all we want,
And close behind comes death, and ere we know,

That even these tunavailing gifts are ours,

He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave.

1. Reyno. THE wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over the green hill flies the inconstant sun; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy *murmurs, O stream! But more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood, as a wave on the lonely shore?

for the dead; my

Tall thou art on the

But thou shalt fall

2. Alpin. My tears, O Reyno! are voice for the tinhabitants of the grave. hill ; fair among the sons of the slain. like Morar; and the mourners shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy bow shall lie in the halls, unstrung.

3. Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm; thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun, after rain; like the moon,

in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose. Narrow is thy dwelling, now; dark the place of thine abode. With three steps, I compass thy grave, O thou, who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only *memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass whistling in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye, the grave of mighty Morar.

4. Morar! thou art low indeed: thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is the daughter of Morglan. Who, on his staff, is this? Who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are galled with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. Weep, thou father of Morar, weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men; thou conqueror of the field; but the field shall see thee no more, nor the gloomy wood be lightened by the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son,--but the song shall preserve thy name.

How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all tclattering together!

Second Voice.

How peaceful the grave; its quiet how deep!
Its +zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flow'rets perfume it with ether.

First Voice.

There, triots the †blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in the nettle-weeds hiss.

Second Voice.

How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there; but the nightingales come,
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

First Voice.

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave;
"T is the vulture's abode; 'tis the wolf's dreary cave,
Where they tear up the dead with their fangs.
Second Voice.

There, the *cony, at evening, disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

First Voice.

There, darkness and dampness, with poisonous breath,
And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death;
The trees are all barren and bare.

Second Voice.

O! soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet, with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.

First Voice.

The pilgrim, who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by; and, with trembling and fears,
He is launch'd on the wreck-cover'd river.

Second Voice.

Here, the traveler, worn with life's pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes forever.

JOSEPH ADDISON, an English author, was born in 1672. He contributed largely to the Tatler, a periodical paper, and was also the chief writer of the Spectator. His writings afford the best models of style in our language. He died in 1719.

1. WHEN I am in a serious humor, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity

of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed the whole afternoon in the church-yard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tomb-stones and inscriptions that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another; the whole history of his life being comprehended in these two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons, who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were born, and that they died.

2. Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave, and saw in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull, intermixed with a kind of fresh, +moldering earth, that, sometime or other, had a place in the composition of a human body. Upon this, I began to consider with myself, what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient *cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and *prebendaries, were crumbled among one another, and blended together in the same common mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same *promiscuous heap of matter.

3. After having thus surveyed this *magazine of mortality, as it were in the lump, I examined it more particularly, by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments, which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant tepitaphs, that if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the character of the person departed, in Greek or Hebrew, and, by that means, are not understood once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter I found there were poets who had no monuments, and monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, that the present war had

filled the church with many of those uninhabited *monuments, which had been erected to the memory of persons, whose bodies were, perhaps, buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean.

4. I know, that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations; but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy; and can, therefore, take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure, as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means, I can improve myself with those objects, which others consider with terror.

5. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for them, whom we must quickly follow; when I see kings lying by those who +deposed them, when I see rival wits lying side by side, or holy men that divided the world by their contests and disputes, I reflect, with sorrow and astonishment, on the little *competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, some, six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us, be cotemporaries, and make our appearance together.

LXXXIV. — ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
FROM GRAY.

THOMAS GRAY, an English poet, was born 1716, and was educated at Cambridge. The Elegy, Written in a Country Church-yard, is the most celebrated and popular of his poems. He died in 1771.

1. THE curfew tolls; the +knell of parting day!
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the flea;
The plowman homeward †plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.