Too late!--his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delayed! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assigned the gaol, Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale. SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry, but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame. THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. As, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind Oft stop, and often look behind. Companion of my tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, How blithesome were we wont to rove By verdant hill, or shady grove, Where fervent bees, with humming voice, Around the honeyed oak rejoice, And aged elms with awful bend In long cathedral walks extend! Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods, How blessed my days, my thoughts how free, In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded rolled along: But now the pleasing dream is o'er, These scenes must charm me now no more. Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- Farewell!--a long, a last adieu. Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: There selfish faction rules the day, And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose Revelry and Riot bold In frighted streets their orgies hold; Or, where in silence all is drowned, Fell Murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you, Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: Instead of these a formal band, In furs and coifs, around me stand; With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony, Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways That lead me to the thorny maze.