Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear, Minerva's flock longtime was wont t'obey, Although thyself an herald, famous here, The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away....
At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home, They come, at length, from Deva's[2] Western side, Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.[3]...
Who sent the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to f...
Here Johnson lies'a sage by all allow'd, Whom to have bred may well make England proud, Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;...
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chace'...
Farewell! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age! In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;
Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past; Deprived of every joy I valued most, My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost;...
Time was when I was free as air, The thistle's downy seed my fare, My drink the morning dew; I perch'd at will on every spray, My form genteel, my plumage gay, My strains for ever new.
Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed, O share Maria's grief! Her favourite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassin'd by a thief. ...
My lids with grief were tumid yet, And still my sullied cheek was wet With briny dews profusely shed For venerable Winton dead,[2] When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound Alas! are ever truest found,...
Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st' midst many a thorn, Thy friend, though to a cloister's shade consign'd, Can e'er forget the charms he left behind, Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!...
Ah, how the Human Mind wearies herself With her own wand'rings, and, involved in gloom Impenetrable, speculates amiss! Measuring, in her folly, things divine By human, laws inscrib'd on adamant...