Till Virtue's self shall fade away,

And share awhile the common doom;
Then rise to universal day

Resplendent in immortal bloom*.

"The republic of letters, in the death of Mr. Potter," observed an ingenious correspondent in a printed account which accompanied the affecting tidings," has lost one of its best and most unassuming ornaments. His manners were simple, and his life exemplary. He was a scholar of the old school, and nothing tempted him to relinquish divine and polite literature. His works are not numerous; but they are valuable, and will find their way to posterity."

The only temporary effusion of his pen was a pamphlet in defence of his brother poet, Gray, against the criticisms of Johnson. A great portion of his life was dedicated to the translating of the three Greek tragic poets, to whom he is the first who has done ample justice in our language. He has the peculiar felicity of transfusing their loftiness, and preserving their simplicity, without running into bombast, or descending to servility.

His translations are justly admired by those who are well versed in the originals, of the charms of which they convey the most gratifying idea to the English reader.-It was not till after he had completed his last translation, that of Sophocles, that Mr. Potter obtained any preferment in the church higher than that of vicar of Lowestoft.

He had been a schoolfellow of Lord Thurlow, and had constantly sent his publications to that great man without ever soliciting a favour from him.

On receiving a copy of the Sophocles, however, his Lordship wrote a short note to Mr. Potter, acknowledging the receipt of his books from time to time, and the pleasure they had afforded him, and requesting Mr. Potter's acceptance of a prebendai stall in the cathedral of Norwich; which, with his vicarage, rendered him comfortable for the remainder of a life honourably devoted to those pursuits which best become a profound scholar and a true Christian,

To the correctness of most of the circumstances herein mentioned I can vouch, on a personal knowledge of the facts. And by means of a letter received from one of the daughters, to whom the above verses are inscribed, I am able and permitted to give such particulars as the friend is ever eager to gather respecting the last moments of a great and good man. I shall present them in the feeling words of the affectionate communicator.

« You

"You ask particulars concerning the late illness which preceded the death of our dear departed parent, and your long-loved friend. He had, in effect, no illness, but a slow, regular, and, I bless God, an almost imperceptible decline. He was as cheerful and well amongst his friends the evening before his death as ever I remember him. I left his bedside at twelve o'clock, my usual time of retiring from my dear charge; he was then very comfortable. Alas! the next morning I found him a corpse, cold and stiff. The faculty were of opinion he went off in his sleep, for he Jay exactly in the position I placed him when I withdrew, and his venerable countenance indicated a sweet repose. You, who for so many years had experience of his blameless life, will not be surprised to hear he was perfectly resigned to the awful summons, and that he expected it long be fore, and met death, as I am persuaded every good Christian must, with undisturbed resignation. It would be needless to tell one who knew him so well and so long as yourself, that he was an affectionate friend, and a most excellent parent.-Can I say more? With regard to

But he

his genius and learning, the world has but one opinion. has left no poetry or papers intended for the eye of the public. I acknowledge I was a little surprised, when I could endure the idea of examining his papers, not to find any thing of a general nature. His picture, done by Romney, and that of my brother, and his Sermons in manuscript, he left to my cousin. As soon as my domestic affairs are settled at Lowestoft, I mean to visit some relations who live in North Wales, and with them I shall most likely end my days. Every earthly comfort seems buried in the grave with my dear, dear father. This you would not wonder at hearing, could you have seen and known how truly happy and comfortable we lived together the last eight years of his life. I always told him he would spoil me-so it has happened. It is impossible I should ever meet with such a friend and protector.

The public are wrongly informed as to some matters respecting him. The late Bishop Bagot was the friend who presented my father with Lowestoft and Kessingland, Lord Thurlow with the prebendary of Norwich. My father never saw Lord Thurlow, nor did any one make the least interest with his lordship. Some of the newspapers mentioned their having been school-fellows. His preferment to the prebendal chair was ewing solely to my father's merit, and Lord Thurlow's liberal sense of it. The favour was conferred in a manner highly honourable to both.

P.S. "We do not mean to have any inscription, as it was our dear parent's particular desire not to have any memorial of that kind, but merely the date of his birth, death, and burial, on a simple and unor. namented' stone,

SYMPATHY.

BOOK I.

O'ER yon fair lawn, where oft in various talk
The fav'ring Muses join'd our evening walk,
Up yonder hill that rears its crest sublime,
Oft were we wont with gradual steps to climb,
To hear the lark her earliest matin sing,
And woo the dew-bath'd zephyrs on the wing.

Fast by yon shed, of roots and verdure made,
How oft we paus'd, companions of the shade
In yonder cot just seated on the brow,
Whence, unobserv'd, we view'd the world below!
Well pleas'd we cull'd fit objects for our song,
From land or ocean widely stretch'd along:
The morning vapours passing thro' the vale,
The distant turret, or the lessening sail,
The pointed cliff which overhangs the main,
The breezy upland, or the opening plain,
The misty traveller yet dimly scen,
And every hut which neighbours on the green.
Or down yon foot-way we explor❜d the stream,
Whose little rills ran tinkling to the theme,
Which seem'd to sympathize with Hammond's lay,
Or lapse responsive to the lyre of Gray ;

O'er these dear bounds like one forlorn I roam,
O'er these dear bounds, I fondly call'd my home.

Langford-Court, in Somersetshire, the seat of the Rev. Mr. WHALLEY.

And

And yet to touch me various powers combine
Where summer revels with a warmth divine;

The glowing season here each charm supplies,
From earth's rich harvest crown'd with cloudless skies,
Or future plenty bursting through the grain,
From golden sheaves that circle round the swain.

Here as I stop, beneath Eliza's tree,
Far, oh belov'd associate! far from thee,
Some 1 ttle CHANGE thy absence to declare
I pray to find, and friendship forms the pray'r:
Less bright the sun-beams, or less soft the show'rs,
Some essence wanting to the fruits or flow'rs:
Those fruits and flow'rs, alas! more ripe appear,
And the lawn smiles as tho' my friend were here;
From the soft myrtle brighter blossoms spring,
In mellower notes the plumy people sing.

Near yonder church, where we retired to pray,
The good man's modest cottage I survey;
Our pious Pastor, who each sabbath taught
The listening rustic's noblest reach of thought:
That modest cottage and its garden still
Seek the soft shelter of the friendly hill;

The column'd smoke still curls its wreaths around,
And not one lessen'd beauty marks the bound.

As near yon bower with pensive steps I go,
To view the shrubs your culture taught to grow,
The fair exotics boast a happier bloom
Than when their patron shar'd the rich perfume:

The