The morning of my life in adding figures
With accurate monotony; that so

The good things of the world may be my lot,
And I may taste the blessedness of wealth:
But, oh! I was not made for money getting;
For me no much respected plum awaits,
Nor civic honour, envied. For as still
I tried to cast with school dexterity

The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts
Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt,
Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen
Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured,
In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent
I erewhile wandered with my early friends
In social intercourse. And then I'd think

How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide,
One from the other, scattered o'er the globe;
They were set down with sober steadiness,
Each to his occupation. I alone,

A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries,
Remained unsettled, insecure, and veering
With every wind to every point of the compass.
Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge
In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid
The busy bustling crowds could meditate,
And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away
Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.
Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth
I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk
A weary way when all my toils were done,

To lay myself at night in some lone wood,
And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.
Oh, those were times of happiness, and still
To memory doubly dear; for growing years
Had not then taught me man was made to mourn;
And a short hour of solitary pleasure,
Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense
For all the hateful bustles of the day.

My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic,
And soon the marks of care were worn away,
While I was swayed by every novel impulse,
Yielding to all the fancies of the hour.
But it has now assumed its character;
Marked by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,
Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend.
Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love

To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same,
With thee alone I know to melt and weep,
In thee alone delighting. Why along
The dusky track of commerce should I toil,
When, with an easy competence content,
I can alone be happy; where with thee
I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature,
And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus alone
Can I partake of happiness on earth;
And to be happy here is man's chief end,
For to be happy he must needs be good.
9

MY OWN CHARACTER.

ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY.

DEAR Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, To give you a sketch ay, a sketch of myself. 'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, And one it would puzzle a painter to dress; But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun; For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, She wont be a cynical father confessor.

Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow

down;

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, breast is a chaos of all contradiction;

That my

Religious

deistic-now loyal and warm;

Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;

Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle
Then vexed to the soul with impertinent tattle;
Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,
To all points of the compass I veer in a day.
I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild;

As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;
Then as for politeness -oh! dear -I'm a brute!
I show no respect where I never can feel it;
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it.
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel That this proud heart of mine is not fashioned of steel.

It can love (can it not?) it can hate, I am sure; And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be

poor.

For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds;
And though far from faultless, or even so-so,
I think it may pass as our worldly things go.

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss
Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!
I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,
But in process of time I may get the wrong way.
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,
And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination.
But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,
In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;
So as for the good, why, if I possess it,

I am not yet learned enough to express it.
You yourself must examine the lovelier side,
And after your every art you have tried,
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,
Hypocrisy never will come in your way.

I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear!
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere,
And if ever sincerity glowed in my breast,
'Tis now when I swear

LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD.

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

HERE would I wish to sleep.

This is the spot

Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in.
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this
yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,

From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wantoned.
Come, I will sit me down and meditate,
For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My harassed soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest- beneath this sod
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down