Beneath the gibbet's self, perhaps is laid Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire; Hands which the sword of Nero might have sway'd, And midst the carnage tuned the' exulting lyre. Ambition to their eyes her ample page, Rich with such monstrous crimes,did ne'er unrol; Chill Penury repress'd their native rage, And froze the bloody current of their soul. Full many a youth fit for each horrid scene, The dark and sooty flues of chimneys bear; Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen, And dies unhang'd for want of proper care. Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast Each call of worth and honesty withstood, Some mute inglorious Wilmot here may rest, guiltless of his Some -'s blood. The votes of venal senates to command, And read their curses in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide, Yet e'en these humble vices to correct, Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high; Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck'd, Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry. Their years, their names, their birth,and parentage, Though doubtful all, the Grub Street bard supplies, Prints but what first debauch'd the tender age, And with what words the ripen'd felon dies. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, When to the dreadful tree of death consign'd, But yearns to think upon the fatal day That first seduced to sin his pliant mind? No soul so callous but remorse may sting, For him, the master of the pilfering herd, Haply some hoary headed thief may say, Oft have I seen him with his lighted link There at the foot of yonder column stretch'd, VOL. V. TT Hard by yon hill, where not a lamp appears, Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate. One morn I miss'd him at the' accustom❜d place, The seven-faced pillar and the favorite wall; Another came, nor yet I saw his face, The post, the crossings, were deserted all. At last, in dismal cart and sad array, Backward up Holborn Hill I saw him mount, Here you may read, for you can read you say, His Epitaph in the' Ordinary's account. THE EPITAPH. HERE festering rests a quondam plague of earth, Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark, No pains he spared, and seldom miss'd the mark, If further you his villanies would know, Printed and sold by Simpson, near the Fleet. ANONYMOUS. ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COLLEGE LIBRARY. THE chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound, Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns, And hoarser ravens croak their evening song. Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight, Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows, In peaceful pomp and undisturb'd retreat, The labours of our ancestors repose. No longer sunk in ceaseless fruitless toil, The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore; For them no longer blaze the midnight oil, Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more: For them no more shall booksellers contend, Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim: Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend, While common sense stands wondering at their fame. Oft did the Classics mourn their critic rage, While still they found each meaning but the true; Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page, And give to Virgil words he never knew: Yet ere the partial voice of critic scorn Condemn their memory, or their toils deride, Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn A waste of words, and learning ill applied? Can none remember?-Yes, I know all canWhen readings against different readings jarr'd, While Bentley led the stern scholastic van, And new editions with the old ones warr'd.— Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed, Unmindful of the graver moral part, Contemn these works, if, as you run and read, You find no trophies of the' engraver's art. Can Bartolozzi's all enrapturing power To heavy works the stamp of merit give? Could Grignion's art protract oblivion's hour, Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live? In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrew'd, Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade, Some wondrous legend, fill'd with death and blood, Some monkish history, perhaps, is laid; With store of barbarous Latin at command, Though arm'd with puns, and jingling quibble's might, [hand, Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless Or save their labours from eternal night. |