On his wan cheek, will soon sweep over him
In solemn music, a funereal dirge,

Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale,
The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom,
It canker'd green on his.-Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution.-Mary, soon,

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.

MY STUDY,

A Letter in Hudibrastic Verse.

YOU bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,

And wanton with the muse in glory.

Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the houses topmost height,
A closet, just six feet by four,

With white-wash'd walls, and plaster floor.
So noble large, 'tis scarcely able

To admit a single chair and table:
And (lest the muse should die with cold)

A smoky grate my fire to hold;

So wonderous small, 'twould much it pose

To melt the ice-drop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er

Full half the spacious room and more.

A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim,
That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture, I sure may crack-
A broken chair without a back;

A table, wanting just two legs,
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;
A desk-of that I am not fervent,

The work of, Sir, your humble Servant;
(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler)
A glass decanter, and a tumbler,

From which, my night-parched throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.

A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And saw'd by me, in all directions;
So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em,

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store,

Of oddities upon the floor,

A pair of globes, electric balls,

Scales, quadrants, prisms and coblers' awls, And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.
But stay,-I nearly had left out

My bellows destitute of snout;

And on the walls,-Good Heavens! why there I've such a load of precious ware,

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,

And organ works, and broken pedals,
(For I was once a building music,

Though soon of that employ I grew sick)
And skeletons of laws which shoot
All out of one primordial root;

That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.

There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,

A neck, on which by logic good

I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master,
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it ought of a misnomer

To christen Chaucer's busto, Homer,

Because they both have beards, which you know

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)

For some great man, I could not tell
But NECK might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham, and with Cicero.

Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men, and eke of women
Who are no wit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret, classic ground.
For though confin'd, 'twill well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confin'd,
Can cramp the energies of mind!

Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these, it will no longer hold,

No more may Heaven her blessings give ;
I shall not then be fit to live.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nurs'd in whirling storms

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dar'd the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale.
Unnoticed, and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life, she rears her head

Obscure and unobserv'd;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.