“There, where a whisper from the stage can reach, “Though for the gaudy Pantomime too nigh, “At pompous nothings would he yawn and stretch, “But mark the eloquence of Siddons’ eye.” Hard by yon band, now fiddling as in scorn, Musing on Godwin would his fancy rove: Now, drooping, when he thought of men forlorn, For public weal now slighting private love. One eve I miss’d him o’er th’ accustom’d pit, Along the Critics’ seat, near twiddle dee; Another came, nor where the Gods do sit, Nor up the slips, nor at half price was he. Next morn, ’twixt lawyers two, in black array, Slow through the hall of Rufus was he borne; Approach and read (if thou can’st read) the lay Engrav’d on parchment from an old deed torn. THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon a page of Coke, A youth, to foplings and to flirts unknown; Fair science frown’d not on the words he spoke, And metaphysics mark’d him for their own. Sound was his judgment and his soul sincere, Fortune a recompense did largely send; He wrote at Colchester full many a year, He gain’d from Witham, all he wish’d――a Friend. Nor Patisson, his civic faith disclose, Nor draw his frailties in a wordy brief; For you, alike in trembling hope repose, To be admitted by my Lord the Chief. J. T. R. 1806. ――――:o:―――― NOCTURNAL CONTEMPLATIONS IN BARHAM DOWNS CAMP. The moon slow setting sends a parting ray, The topers to the mess-room march with glee; To bed the sober shape their quiet way, And leave the lines to pensiveness and me. Now scarce a candle glimmers on the sight, And o’er the camp at length soft stillness reigns; Save where the dice are dash’d with desp’rate might, Or braying asses wake the distant plains. Save that from yonder show’r-sheltering box, The sentry’s rough voice does the ear assail Of such who, trusting to the gloom of _Nox_ Steal to the well-known booth to tipple ale. Within each tent of flimsy canvas made, Where knapsacks rise in many a scatter’d heap, Twelve men on narrow beds, till morning laid, Refresh their senses with the dews of sleep. The cannon’s roar that through the vale resounds, The _reveillée’s_ harsh echoing in their ears, The sergeant’s voice that ever rudely sounds, Again shall wake them to their humble cares. For them again the kitchen fires shall burn, And busy matrons their saloop prepare, The butcher’s loaded wain from town return, And quarter-masters loaves and mutton share. Oft do their hardy hands the hatchet wield, And vig’rous knees the stubborn faggot break; How steadily they tread the rugged field, How quick a column, or a square they make!