'As speakers, each supports a rival name, Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame, Pomposus sits, unequal to decide, With youthful candour, we the palm divide.'-- ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote xiv: 'Yet in the retrospection finds relief, And revels in the luxury of grief.'-- ['P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote xv: 'When, yet a novice in the mimic art, I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart; When, as the Royal Slave, I trod the stage, To vent in Zanga, more than mortal rage; The praise of Probus, made me feel more proud, Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd. Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain To soothe the woes of which I thus complain! What can avail this fruitless loss of time, To measure sorrow, in a jingling rhyme! No social solace from a friend, is near, And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. I seek not joy in Woman's sparkling eye, The smiles of Beauty cannot check the sigh. Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream, Thy virtue, but a visionary theme; Thy years of vice, on years of folly roll, Till grinning death assigns the destin'd goal,' 'Where all are hastening to the dread abode, To meet the judgment of a righteous God; Mix'd in the concourse of a thoughtless throng, A mourner, midst of mirth, I glide along; A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting; But not that mental sting, which stabs within, The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin; The silent shaft, which goads the guilty wretch Extended on a rack's untiring stretch: Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies-- His mind the rack, from which he ne'er can rise, For me, whatever my folly, or my fear, One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here. No dread internal, haunts my hours of rest, No dreams of injured innocence infest; Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left. Slander's empoison'd breath, may blast my name, Envy delights to blight the buds of fame: Deceit may chill the current of my blood, And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood; Presaging horror, darken every sense, Even here will conscience be my best defence; My bosom feeds no "worm which ne'er can die:" Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile; No more with former bliss, my heart is glad; Hope yields to anguish and my soul is sad; From fond regret, no future joy can save; Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.' ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote xvi: 'The song might perish, but the theme must live.' ['Hours of Idleness.']] [Footnote xvii: '----his venom'd tooth.' ['Hours of Idleness'.]] ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND," ETC., ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." [1] 1.