1 Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening gray, Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way. 2 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, Scarce repress'd the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.' * * * * * ONE AND TWENTY. 1 Long-expected one-and-twenty, Lingering year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * *, are now your own. 2 Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell. 3 Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir. 4 All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly; There the lender, grave and sly. 5 Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill. 6 When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high-- What are acres? what are houses? Only dirt, or wet, or dry. 7 Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste: Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother, You can hang or drown at last. [Footnote 1: Supposed to be Percy.] * * * * * END OF JOHNSON'S POEMS. * * * * * THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS PARNELL. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER. Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung, Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld, and lost! admired, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd, Blest in each science, blest in every strain, Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear--in vain! For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit. Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims--the dead, a tear) Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays: Who careless, now, of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall. And sure if ought below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine: A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all anger, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.