At length grow cold, and leave their honoured

name

To flourish in the uncertain blast of Fame.
This is the height that glorious mortals can
Attain; this is the highest pitch of man.
The quilted quarters of the earth's great ball,
Whose unconfined limits were too small
For his extreme ambition to deserve,

Six foot of length and three of breadth must serve.
This is the highest pitch that man can fly;
And, after all his triumph, he must die.

Lives he in wealth? Does well-deserved store
Limit his wish, that he can wish no more?
And does the fairest bounty of increase
Crown him with plenty, and his days with peace?
It is a right-hand blessing: but supply
Of wealth cannot secure him; he must die.

Lives he in pleasure? Does perpetual mirth
Lend him a little heaven upon this earth?
Meets he no sullen care, no sudden loss

To cool his joys? Breathes he without a cross?
Wants he no pleasure that his wanton eye
Can crave or hope from Fortune? He must die,

Lives, he in honour? hath his fair desert
Obtained the freedom of his prince's heart?
Or may his more familiar hands disburse
His liberal favours from the royal purse?
Alas! his honour cannot soar too high
For pale-faced Death to follow: he must die.

Lives he a conqueror? and doth Heaven bless
His heart with spirit: that spirit with success.;
Success with glory; glory with a name,
To live with the eternity of fame?
The progress of his lasting fame may vie
With time: but yet the conqueror must die.

Great and good GOD! Thou Lord of life and death,
In whom the creature hath his being, breath;
Teach me to under-prize this life, and I
Shall find my loss the easier when I die.
So raise my feeble thoughts and dull desire,
That, when these vain and weary days expire,
I may discard my flesh with joy, and quit
My better part of this false earth, and it
Of some more sin; and for this transitory
And tedious life enjoy a life of glory.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.-Shirley.

THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:

Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late

They stoop to Fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds, Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds:
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,—

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

TO MRS.

-.-J. Bowdler, Jun.

THINK not, because thy quiet day
In silent goodness steals away;
Think not, because to me alone.
Thy deeds of cheerful love are known;
That in the grave's dark chamber laid,
With thee those gentle acts shall fade :
From the low turf where virtue lies,
Shall many a bloodless trophy rise,
Whose everlasting bloom shall shame
The laurelled conqueror's proudest name.

For there the hoary sire shall come,
And lead his babes to kiss thy tomb;
Whose manlier steps shall oft repair
To bless a parent buried there.
The youth, whose grateful thought reveres
The hand that ruled his wayward years;
The tender maid, whose throbbing breast
Thy gentle wisdom soothed to rest;
And he, who well thy virtues knew,
When fortune failed, and friends were few;
All who thy blameless course approved,
Who felt thy goodness, or who loved,
Shall croud around the honoured shrine,
And weep, and wish an end like thine.

And still, as wintry suns go down,
When winds are loud, and tempests frown,
And blazing hearths a welcome give ;

Thy name in many a tale shall live.
And still, as cheerful May resumes
Her hawthorn sweets and heathy blooms,
By upland bank and mossy lee
Shall many a heart remember thee.
But chief shall Fancy love to trace
Each mental charm, each moral grace;
These, these shall live through many a year,
To Truth, to Love, to Virtue dear;
And pour a mild instructive strain,
When Wisdom lifts her voice in vain ;
Shall Youth's unthinking heart assuage,
And smooth the brow of careful Age.

A FRAGMENT.-J. Bowdler, Jun

CHILDREN of GOD, who, pacing slow,
Your pilgrim path pursue,

In strength and weakness, joy and woe, To GOD's high calling true:

Why move ye thus with lingering tread, A doubtful mournful band?

Why faintly hangs the drooping head,
Why fails the feeble hand?

Was the full orb that rose in light
To cheer your early way,
A treacherous meteor falsely bright,
That blazed and passed away?

Was the rich vale that proudly shone
Beneath the morning, beam,

A soft illusion swiftly gone,,

A fair and faithless dream?

Oh! weak to know a SAVIOUR's power,
To feel a Father's care:

A moment's toil, a passing shower,
Is all the grief ye share.

The lord of light, though veiled awhile
He hide his noontide ray,

Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile
To gild the closing day;