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the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby. had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, the son had insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him.The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing, cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back, -The film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy,—and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken.

Nature instantly. ebb’d again---the film returned to its place the pulse flutter'd-stoppid -went on throbb'd -stopp'd again-mur'dstopp'd shall I go on? No.

STERNE.

CHAPTER II.

YORICK'S DEATH.

A few hours before Yorick breathed his last, Eugenius stept in with an intent to take his last sight and last farewell of him. Upon his drawing Yorick's curtain, and asking how he felt himself, Yorick, looking up in his face, took hold of his hand, ---- and after thanking him for the many tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said, if it was their fate to meet hereafter, he would thank hi again and again; he told him, he was within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip for ever.I hope not, answered Eugenius, with tears trickling down his cheeks, and with the tenderest tone that ever man spoke,I hope not, Yorick, said he.--Yorick replied, with a look up, and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius's hand-mand that was all, - but it cut Eugenius to the heart - Come, come, Horiek, Quoth Eugenius, , wiping his eyes, and sum. moving up the man within him,- my dear lad, be comforted,

- let not all thy spirits and fortitude forsake thee at ihis crisis, when thou most wantest them ;-who knows what resources are in store, and what the power

of God may ret do for thee? -Yorick laid his hand upon his heart, "and gently sbook his head; for my pars, continued Evigenius, crying bitterly as he uttered the words, declare. I know not, Yorick, how to part with ther, and wouid gladly fratter my hopes, added Eugenius, cheering np his voice, that there is still enough left of thee to make a bishop,—and that I may live to see it.

I beseech thre, Eugenius, quosh Yorick, taking off his night-cap as well as he could with his left-hand his right being still grasped close in that of Eugenius, beseech thee to take a view of my head.tsee nothing that ails it, replied Ergenius. Then, alas! my friend, said Yorick, tet me tell yon, that it is so bruised and mis shapenect with the blows which have been so unhxudsomely given me in the dark, that I mighi say with Sancho Pancha, that should I recover, and “miires thereupon “ be suffered to rain down from Heaven as thick as hail, « not one of them would fit it.”. Yorick's last breath was hanging upon his trembling lips ready to depart as he uttered this yet still it was uttered with something of a Cervantic tolle; -and as he spoke it, Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire lighted up for a moment in his eyes ;- faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, 'which (as Shakspeare said of his ancestor) were wont to set the table in a roar!

Eugenius was coavinced from this, that the heart of his friend was hruken; he squeezed bis hand,—and then walkerl softly out of the room, weepiny as he walked. Yorick followed Eagenius with his eyes to the door-he then closed thein, and never opened them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard, under a plain marble slab, which his friend. Eugenius, by leave of his executors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these three words of inscription; serving both for his epitaph and elegy,

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Ten times a day has Yorick's ghost the consolation to hear his monumental inscription read over with such a. variety of plaintive tones, as depole a general pity and esteen for bim: a footway crossing the church-yard close by his grave,

--not a passenger goes by without stopping to cast a look upon it--and sighing as he walks on, ALAS! poor YORICK!

STERNE

CHAPTER III.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old

man,
Wiose trembling limbs have borne binı to your doors
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
On! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tatter'd clothes my poverty besprak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel 10. a flood of lears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a maynificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'il a morset of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an hunibler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold !!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not with hold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt.
Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine ?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition máy be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But ah! oppression forc'd me front my cot,
My catile dy'd, and blighted was my coro.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon’d on the world's wide stage,
And dooni'd in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet soother of iny care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

CHAPTER IV.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN

UNFORTUNATE LADY.

What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites any steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!-but why that bleeding bosom gor’u,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?

Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it in Heav'y a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earıh it flows,
And in the br’asts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Most souls, 'i's true, but peep out oncé an age,
Dull sullen pris'isers in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulcbres;
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
Ant; close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade ber die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeein her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on those ruby lips the trembling breatli,
Those cheeks, now fading at the blast of death :
Cold is that breast which warın'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes níust roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your

children fall: On all the line à sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and pointiig say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way,) L!! these were they, whose souls the furies steeld, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how 10 yield. Thus unlaniented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

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