“The next in dreary hearse, with sad array, “Slow to th’ uncypress’d church-yard he was borne, “Approach and read (if thou hast time) the lay, “Grav’d on the stone, that no proud lies adorn.” ――――:o:―――― EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon a folio terse, An Author, once to wits and patrons known; The Critics frown’d not on his humble verse, Nor did the world his labours quite disown. Large his editions, but his readers few; Fate did a recompence as largely send, He wisely bade to Booksellers adieu, And (in their stead) each Chandler found a friend. No longer now pil’d up in useless state, His pages freely circulate thro’ town: Perhaps, at last, doom’d by capricious fate To kindle pipes, or curl some crazy crown. From _The Morning Post and Gazetteer_: Thursday, November 28, 1799. ――――:o:―――― NIGHTLY THOUGHTS IN THE TEMPLE. St. Dunstan’s bells proclaim departing day, The weary hacks slow drag the axle-tree, The ’prentice homeward runs his hasty way, And leaves the Town to dulness and to me. Now fades the glimm’ring lamps upon the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the watchman bawls “A cloudy night,” And tipsy rev’ller the shut tavern scolds. Save that yon victim of a ruffian’s pow’r Does loudly to the street-patrole complain Of such, as lurking at this silent hour, Molest the king of midnight’s ancient reign. Within those gates that iron strong has made, Where rooms o’er rooms arise in many a heap, Each in his chamber on a pillow laid, The law-learn’d Benchers of the Temple sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The sheriff’s trumpet, or the postman’s horn No more shall rouse them from their feather bed. In them no more the muse’s fire shall burn, Or metaphysics be their ev’ning care; No school-boy’s classic triumphs shall return, Or dulness pine the envied praise to share. Oft did the grammar to their patience yield, The Latin oft and stubborn Greek they spoke; How jocund hied they to the cricket field! How flew the ball before their sturdy stroke! Let not a Wakefield mock their plodding toil, Their text corrupt and pedagogue obscure; Nor Porson hear, with a disdainful smile, What stripes a slow-pac’d tyro must endure. The boast of critic skill may worms devour, And all that study, all that wit e’er gave, Await alike th’ inevitable hour: The backs of Russia cannot always save. Nor you, ye fam’d, impute to these the fault If learning o’er those shelves no volumes raise, Where oft the book-collector loves to halt And Lackington[15] yet swells with his own praise.