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How blest, who thus by added years improved,

With cautious s'eps their lengthen'd journey tread : And, from the task of sultry life remov'd,

Converse with wisdom in it's ev'ning shade.

Such, gracious heav'n! be Pult'ney's setting day,

And cheerful peace it’s various labours close : May no dark cloud obscure it's soften'd ray,

Nor ruffling tempest shake it's calm repose :

Amidst the waste of years, preserve entire

The undecaying spirit's nobler part, The vivid spark of intellectual fire,

And all the gentler graces of the heart.

When late he sinks beneath the common doom,

May sacred hope attend his parting breath: ! ; May virtue gild his passage to the tomb,

And pow'rful faith disarm the dart of death.

TO MRS. VESEY.

Silent and cool the dews of evining fall,

Hush'd is the vernal music of the groves, From yon thick boughs the birds of darkness call,

And mark the walk that contemplation loves.

In shapeless grandeur through the dubious shade,

That Gothic structure rises unconfin'd: Imagination feels a sacred dread,

And awes to sober thought th' astonish'd mind.

Successive seasons, as they roll, survey

Still unimpair'd these solid columns stand, While cold and senseless moulder in decay The limbs which rais'd them, and the head which

plan'd.

Not for themselves the toiling artists build,

Not for himself contrives the studious sage: To distant views by mystic force compellid,

All give the present to the future age. Beneath the shelter of this reverend pile

The various schemes of busy care repose : O'er the dark tombs, along each peopl’d aisle,

The moon's pale beam a faint reflection throws. Here death his melancholy pomp displays,

And all his terrors strike on fancy's eye: To fancy's ear each hollow gale conveys,

In chilling sounds, the last expiring sigh.

Mute is each syren passion's faithless song,

Check'd and suspended by the solemn scene: Mute the wild clamours of the giddy throng,

And only heard the “ still small voice" within.

Ambition sick’ning views the laureld bust,

The weak reward for years of rival strife: While pleasure's garland with'ring in the dust,

Confutes the gayer hope of frolic life.

While folly dictates, and while reason scoros

The vain regrets of disappointed art,
E'en virtue sighs, while poor affection mouros

The blasted comforts of the desert heart,

Yet check that impious thought, my gentle friend,

Which bounds our prospects by our fleeting breath, Which hopeless sees unfinish'd life descend

And even bars the prison gates of death.

Ah! what is friendship, if at once disjoin'd,

The sympathetic tie unites no more? Ah! what is virtue, if below confin’d?

The fruitless struggle of a toilsome hour.

To perfect good, through each progressive stage

The pow'rs of intellectual being tend, Nor raging elements, nor wasting age,

Shall e'er defeat their heav'n-appointed end.

To perfect joy, from pain and chance secure,

The sighing heart springs upward from the dust, Where safe from suff'ring, and from frailty pure,

Unite the social spirits of the just.

O'er the sad relics of our mortal clay,

No more let fancy sink in hopeless grief: But, rais’d by faith to happier views, survey

The blooming forms of renovated life.

To nature rescu'd from corruption's pow'r,

The glad Archangel lifts his awful voice; He swears that time and change shall be no more; Hear earth and heav'n!_and earth and hear'n re

joice!

JAMES CAWTHORN.

BORN 1721.-DIED 1761.

This poet was born in or near Sheffield, and demands a place in our catalogue in consequence of his having been master of a Kentish grammar school.-By the inscription on his monument we are assured that he had been a graduate at one of the universities, though Dr. Johnson in the short account he has given of his life, does not appear to have known which. He seems to have devoted himself to the employment of tuition, and the earliest notice we have of him is as an usher in a private school in London ; he married the sister of his employer, whose name was Clare; this lady died before him. The foundation school of Tunbridge is in the patronage of the Skinner's Company, and he was elected to the mastership in the year 1743, IR conjunction with his patrons he afterwards founded a library which is annexed to the school. In his conduct as master he is said to have been singularly harsh and severe, though in the common intercourse of life, generous and friendly.

He appears to have indulged in some eccentric habits. He had a passion for music, thougla unacquainted with the science, and has been known to ride from Tunbridge to London, to be present at an evening's musical entertainment, though obliged to return to his duties so early as seven o'clock the next morning. He

also delighted in hunting, and severe horse exercise, though little skilled in horsemanship; and to this propensity he fell a victim, for he lost his life by a fall from his horse, April 15th, 1761. He was buried in Tun- bridge church, where a monument erected by his sister, with a latin inscription, is devoted to his memory.

In 1746 he published a poem of considerable merit on the subject of the romantic history of Abelard and Eloisa ; this, with two sermons, constitute all the compositions he printed in his life time. His poems were afterwards collected and inserted in the series published in the name of Dr. Johnson.

The poetry of Cawthorn though deficient in originality, is very good of its kind; few writers have reasoned better, or more elegantly, in verse. In his graver pieces he imitated with effect the style and manner of Pope ; and in his lighter compositions Swift was his model. We will select a specimen of each kind, which is all our limits will admit, and will be sufficient to indicate his poetic talent.

OF TASTE.

An Essay.

Well-though our passions riot, fret, and rave,
Wild and capricious as the wind and wave,
One common folly, say whate'er we can,
Has fix'd at last the mercury of man ;
And rules, as sacred as his father's creed,
O'er

every native of the Thames and Tweed.
Ask ye what pow'r it is that dares to claim
So vast an empire, and so wide a fame?

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