Heav'n gave him passions, as she virtue gave, But gave not pow'r those passions to suppress: By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave-- The soul's last refuge from terrene distress. IV Around his tomb, the sweetest grass shall spring; And annual flowers shall ever blossom here; Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring, And passing strangers shed the pitying tear. _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila. [Dr. Ladd, _Werter's Epitaph_.] DESCENT OF ODIN. AN ODE. _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven. [Thomas Gray, _Poems_. Publ. by Dodsley--London, July 1768. Publ. by Foulis--Glasgow, Sept. 1768. Both editions contain the _Descent of Odin_. "The poem was written at Cambridge in 1761. It is a paraphrase of the ancient Icelandic lay called _Vegtams Kvida_, and sometimes _Baldrs draumar_. The original is to be found in Bartholinus, _de causis contemnendæ mortis_; Hafniæ, 1689, quarto. Gray has omitted to translate the first four lines." Cf. _Works of Thomas Gray_, ed. by Edmund Gosse. N. Y., 1885. I-60.] CHARACTERISTIC SKETCH OF THE LONG ISLAND DUTCH. Still on those plains their num'rous race survive, And, born to labour, still are found to thrive; Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs, They hold no nation on this earth like theirs. Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around-- Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground; No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen; Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean; No idle fancy dares its whims apply, Or hope attention from the master's eye. All tends to something that must pelf produce, All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use. Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat, Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat. The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,-- These all their pleasure, these their darling joy. The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move, No nice ideas of romantic love; He to her heart the readiest path can find, Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind. She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth, Minds not the swain--but asks him, what he's worth? No female fears in her firm breast prevail, The helm she governs, and she trims the sail; In some small barque the way to market finds, Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds: While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will, Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill. Health to their toils--thus may they still go on-- Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn! Is this the gen'ral taste? No--truth replies-- If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise, See (where the social circle meant to grace) The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face; She, early led to happier talks at home,