MRS. THRALE.

"However, you still keep your eyes,
And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms must make amends."
"Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might.
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith:
But there's some comfort still," says Death.
"Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news."

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"There's none," cried he: " and if there were I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."

"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
"Cease, prythee, cease these foolish yearnings;
If you are deaf, and lame, and blind,

You've had your three sufficient warnings;
So come along! no more we'll part:"
He said, and touch'd him with his dart:
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. So ends my tale.

Mrs. Thrale, who was born in January, 1740 or 1741, it is not certain which, became acquainted with Dr. Johnson, in the year 1764. She was at that time the wife of Mr. Thrale, the eminent brewer of Southwark. Johnson and the Thrales were mutually pleased with each other. Mr. Thrale invited him frequently to sce them; until at last he became one of the family, and an apartment was appropriated to him both in their house at Southwark and Streatham. After Mr. Thrale's death, the widow became Mrs. Piozzi, and died at an advanced age.

F

APOPHTHEGMS.

Ir ought always to be steadily inculcated, that virtue is the highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness; and that vice is the natural consequence of narrow thoughts; that it begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy.

No habit is acquired with more difficulty than that of acknowledging our errors; and yet this habit is the best feature in an amiable character, and the strongest proof of a sound understanding.

He that judges, without informing himself to the utmost that he is capable of, cannot acquit himself of judging amiss.

Honour and justice, reason and equity, go a very great way in securing prosperity to those who use them; and, in case of failure, they secure the best retreat, and the most honorable consolations.

Solon being asked, why, among his laws, there was not one against personal affronts; answered, that he could not believe the world so fantastical as to regard them.

The richest endowments of the mind, are temperance, prudence, and fortitude; prudence, is an universal virtue which enters into the composition of all the rest, and where that is not present, fortitude loses its name and nature.

The greater the difficulty, the more glory there is in surmounting it; skilful pilots gain their reputation from storms and tempests.

That which men are deficient in reason, they usually make up in rage.

To be able to bear provocation is an argument of great wisdom; and to forgive it, is a proof of a great mind.

Mark Antony, after the battle of Actium, challenged Augustus, who took no further notice of the insult than by sending back this answer: "If Antony is weary of his life, there are other ways of despatch; I shall not trouble myself to be his executioner."

A passionate temper renders a man unfit for advice, deprives him of his reason, robs him of all that is great or noble in his nature, makes him unfit for conversation, destroys friendship, changes justice into cruelty, and turns all order into confusion.

It is not the height to which men are advanced that makes them giddy; it is the looking down with contempt upon those beneath.

To be angry about trifles, is mean and childish; to rage and be furious, is brutish; and to maintain perpetual wrath, is akin to the practice and temper of demons; while, on the contrary, to prevent or sup press rising resentment, is wise and glorious, manly and divine.

THOMAS GRAY.

BOEN, 1716; DIED, 1771.

Principal Works.—Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard, Ode to Eton College, The Progress of Poetry, The Bard, On Spring, On Adversity.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

THOMAS GRAY.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

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Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: