Lavater, Lawrence, Camper, here Philosophy new light had caught: Judged by your doctrines 'twould appear The facial line denoted thought.{1} But say, what system e'er shall trace By scalp or visage mental worth? The ideot's form, the maniac's face, Are shared alike by all on earth. "Comparative Anatomy--" If, Stockhore, 'twas to thee apply'd, 'Twould set the doubting Gallist free, And Spurzheim's idle tales deride. But hence with visionary scheme, Though Bell, or Abernethy, write; Be Herbert Stockhore all my theme, The laureate's praises I indite; He erst who sung in Montem's praise, And, Thespis like, from out his cart Recited his extempore lays, On Eton's sons, in costume smart, Who told of captains bold and grand, Lieutenants, marshals, seeking _salt_; Of colonels, majors, cap in hand, Who bade e'en majesty to halt; 1 It is hardly possible to conceive a more intelligent, venerable looking head, than poor Herbert Stockhore presents; a fine capacious forehead, rising like a promontory of knowledge, from a bold outline of countenance, every feature decisive, breathing serenity and thoughtfulness, with here and there a few straggling locks of silvery gray, which, like the time-discoloured moss upon some ancient battlements, are the true emblems of antiquity: the eye alone is generally dull and sunken in the visage, but during his temporary gleams of sanity, or fancied flights of poetical inspiration, it is unusually bright and animated. According to professor Camper, I should think the facial line would make an angle of eighty or ninety degrees; and, judging upon the principles laid down by Lavater, poor Herbert might pass for a Solon. Of his bumps, or phrenological protuberances, I did not take particular notice, but I have no doubt they would be found, upon examination, equally illustrative of such visionary systems. ~61~~ Told how the ensign nobly waved The colours on the famous hill; And names from dull oblivion saved, Who ne'er the niche of fame can fill: Who, like to Campbell, lends his name.{2} To many a whim he ne'er did write; When witty scholars, to their shame, 'Gainst masters hurl a satire trite.{3} But fare thee well, Ad Montem's bard,{4} Farewell, my mem'ry's early friend 2 The author of "the Pleasures of Hope," and the editor of the New Monthly; but-"_Tarde, quo credita lodunt, credimus_."