5.

THE LOST LOVER.

BENEATH this stone her ashes rest,
Whose memory fills my aching breast!
She sleeps unconscious of the tear
That tells the tale of sorrow here;
But still the hope allays my pain
That we may live and love again :
Love with a pure seraphic fire,

That never, never, shall expire.

6.

Wm. Coombe.

THE GOOD PASTOR.

FOR fifty years the pastor trod
The way commanded by his God;
For fifty years his flock he fed
With that divine celestial bread
Which nourishes the better part,
And fortifies man's failing heart.
His wide, his hospitable door,
Was ever open to the poor;
While he was sought, for counsel sage,
By ev'ry rank and ev'ry age.
That counsel sage he always gave,
To warn, to strengthen, and to save:
He sought the sheep that went astray,
And pointed out the better way:
But, while he with his smiles approved
The virtue he so dearly loved,

He did not spare the harsher part,
To probe the ulcer to the heart:
He sternly gave the wholesome pain
That brought it back to health again.
Thus, the commands of Heaven his guide,
He lived-and then in peace he died.

Wm. Coombe.

7.

113

ON WATSON, BISHOP OF LLANDAFF."

BESIDE the grave where Llandaff sleeps,
Religion bends her head and weeps;
And science plants the Cypress round,
To deck the consecrated ground;
While learning doth the tablet give,
On which his sculptured name will live.

Wm. Coombe.114

113 Bishop Watson, after distinguishing himself at Cam bridge in various ways, published, in five volumes, "Chemical Essays;" but he is chiefly remembered now for his "Apology for Christianity," in answer to Gibbon's fifteenth and sixteenth chap. of the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," and for his "Apology for the Bible," in reply to Paine's “ Age of Reason." Besides these, he published Sermons, Theological Essays, papers in the Philosophical Transactions, and Memoirs, written by himself, in which appear his Speeches in opposition to Mr. Pitt.

114 Coombe was a miscellaneous author of great talent. His most voluminous work is "The Devil upon Two Sticks in England,” 4 vols. 12mo., a continuation of Le Sage's work. Coombe's fame now chiefly rests upon his "Dr. Syntax's

ON A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A Carrier, who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more,—so was carried at last; For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off, so he's now carrion.

Lord Byron.

The

"I have just escaped from a physician and a fever. English consul forced a physician upon me. In this state I made my epitaph-take it."

Byron's Letter to Mr. Hodgson, Oct. 1810.

YOUTH, Nature, and relenting Jove,

To keep my lamp in strongly strove;
But Romanelli was so stout,

He beat all three-and blew it out.

Lord Byron.

IN HARROW CHURCHYARD.

BENEATH these green trees, rising to the skies,
The planter of them, Isaac Greentree, lies;

A time shall come when these green trees shall fall,
And Isaac Greentree rise above them all.

Lord Byron.

Tour in Search of the Picturesque" (1810), a poem overflowing with humour, and which on its appearance met from the public with the applause it so well merits.

ON A BELOVED FRIEND.

OH, friend! for ever loved, for ever dear,

What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,

Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none!—a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,

While solitary friendship sighs alone. Lord Byron.

ON PITT, SECOND SON OF THE GREAT EARL
CHATHAM.115

WITH death doom'd to grapple,

Beneath this cold slab, he

Who lied in the Chapel,

Now lies in the Abbey.

Lord Byron.

115 The sting of this epitaph, "thrown off," no doubt, “in a moment of bitterness," and which very likely in after life was regretted by its author as having ever been written, was somewhat reversed in Lord Byron's reply to the impromptu which appeared in the “Morning Post” on Fox's death. See Byron's Poems, vol. v. p. 39,-Murray. "The memory of Pitt has been assailed, times innumerable, often justly, often unjustly; but it has suffered much less from his assailants than from his eulogists. For, during many years, his name was the rallying cry of a class of men with whom, at one of those terrible conjunctures which confound all ordinary distinctions, he was accidentally and temporarily connected, but to whom, on almost all great questions of principle, he was diametrically opposed." During his career, "he made three motions for Parliamentary Reform;" "he resigned office because he could not carry Catholic Emancipation;" "he laid before George III. unanswerable reasons for abolishing the Test Act;" "he was far more deeply imbued with the doctrines of Adam Smith than either Fox or Grey;" "he formed great designs for the benefit of Ireland, and had he been able to do all that he wished, it is probable that a wise and liberal policy would have averted the Rebellion of 1798;" "his eloquence was never more conspicuously displayed than when he spoke of the wrongs of the negro." "History will vindicate the real man from calumny disguised under the semblance of adula