Where are those honours? IDA, once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne; As ancient Rome fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a Barbarian in her Caesar's place; So you degenerate share as hard a fate, And seat _Pomposus_, where your _Probus_ sate. Of narrow brain, but of a narrower soul, Pomposus, holds you in his harsh controul; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense, and new fangled rules, (Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools,) Mistaking _pedantry_, for _learning's_ laws, He governs, sanctioned but by self applause. With him, the same dire fate attending Rome, Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom; Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name. HARROW, _July_, 1805. * * * * * EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND. Oh Boy! forever lov'd, for ever dear, What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier; What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death. Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course, Could sighs have check'd his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey. Thou still had'st liv'd, to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight: Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer, was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live, (Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive) Heart broken now, I wait an equal doom, Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb; Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest, I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast; That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head, Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead; This life resign'd without one parting sigh, Together in one bed of earth we'll lie! Together share the fate to mortals given, Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven. HARROW, 1803. * * * * * ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN DYING. Animula! vagula, Blandula, Hospes, comesque, corporis, Quoe nunc abibis in Loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec ut soles dabis Jocos. _TRANSLATION_. Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite! Friend and associate of this clay, To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 1806. * * * * * TO MARY. Rack'd by the flames of jealous rage, By all her torments deeply curst, Of hell-born passions far the worst, What hope my pangs can now assuage? 2.