Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, Marked with his weight, the mighty horns are spread: Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, Where the vast master with the vast sirloin Vied in round magnitude--Respect I bear To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair. These, and such antique tokens that record The manly spirit, and the bounteous board, Me more delight than all the gewgaw train, The whims and zigzags of a modern brain, More than all Asia's marmosets to view, Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew. Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou strayed, By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, And seen with lionest, antiquated air, In the plain hall the magistratial chair? There Herbert sat--The love of human kind, Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind, In the free eye the featured soul displayed, Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade: Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, Bend o'er her urn with many a generous fear, Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear; Fair equity, and reason scorning art, And all the sober virtues of the heart-- These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail Where statutes order, or where statutes fail. Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan: Firm be your justice, but be friends to man. He whom the mighty master of this ball We fondly deem, or farcically call, To own the patriarch's truth, however loth, Holds but a mansion crushed before the moth. Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, Born but to err, and erring to bewail, Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, And give to life one human weakness more? Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; Still mark the strong temptation and the need: On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy justice fall. For him who, lost to every hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree. Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore; Who then, no more by golden prospects led, Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed. Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery, baptized in tears! GIPSIES. FROM THE SAME. The gipsy-race my pity rarely move; Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love: Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more; Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore.