Around the winter fire (When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, And shrill the skater's irons on the pool Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs His graceful evolutions) they not long Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats Of early youth, but silent, one by one, Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age, Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me, And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn, Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, And dwell with me, a happy family. And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse And say that I was gentle, and deserved A better lover, and I shall forgive All, all thy wrongs;--and then do thou forget The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd As wish can make thee--Laugh, and play, and sing With thy dear choice, and never think of me. Yet hist, I hear a step.--In this dark wood-- * * * * * Footnotes: [1] With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and how wan a face! _Sir P. Sidney._ TO A FRIEND. WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, And many another noble Grecian, Who wealth and palaces resigned, In cots the joys of peace to find; Maximian's meal of turnip-tops (Disgusting food to dainty chops) I've also read of, without wonder; But such a cursed egregious blunder, As that a man of wit and sense Should leave his books to hoard up pence,-- Forsake the loved Aonian maids For all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since, Have heard of such a peace of nonsense; That one who learning's joys hath felt, And at the Muse's altar knelt, Should leave a life of sacred leisure To taste the accumulating pleasure; And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, Grovel in loads of kindred muck. Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension! A courtier throwing up his pension,-- A lawyer working without a fee,-- A parson giving charity,-- A truly pious methodist preacher,-- Are not, egad, so out of nature. Had nature made thee half a fool, But given thee wit to keep a school, I had not stared at thy backsliding: But when thy wit I can confide in, When well I know thy just pretence To solid and exalted sense; When well I know that on thy head Philosophy her lights hath shed, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, I wonder what this world will come to! Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine That thou alone dost singly shine? Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known? LINES ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN. Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell, Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, Where the brook runs babbling by, For ever I could listening lie; And catching all the muses' fire, Hold converse with the tuneful quire.