in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mother: "all my hopes," said he, "of getting to the University are now blasted: in preparing myself for it, I have lost time in my profession; I have much -ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover what I have lost." The consequence was, that he applied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He now allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for his meals, and scarcely any for sleep. He would read till one, two, three o'clock in the morning; then throw himself on the bed, and rise again to his work at five, at the call of a Larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in his chamber. Many nights he never laid down at all. It was in vain that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destructive application. In this respect, and in this only one was Henry undutiful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor intreaties could check his desperate and deadly ardour. At one time she went every night into his room, to put out his candle; as soon as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide it in cupboard, throw himself into bed, and affect sleep while she was in the room; then when all was quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful studies. "The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has been every thing to me: and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night-images are, as they judge, so ridi culously predominant in my verses." During some of these midnight hours he indulged himself in complaining, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more of them had been found among his papers. ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 1. COME, Disappointment, come! Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. 2. Tho' Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation in her cell, Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring kuell, That tells her hopes are dead; And tho' the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile and say, my all was not laid here. 3. Come, Disappointment, come! Tho' from hope's summit hurl'd, For thou severe wert sent from heaven, To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 6. The most belov'd on earth, Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, Thus does the shade, In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid, 7. Then since this world is vain, And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat! Why fly from ill, With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. 8. Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun, My race will run, I only bow and say, My God, thy will be done! On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment. I DREAM no more- And Disappointment * * * * There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this, Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. His health soon sunk under these habits; he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery, he wrote the following lines in the church-yard of his favourite village. LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD, On recovery from Sickness, Here would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot |