But O! beyond description happiest he,

Who ne'er must roll on Life's tumultuous sea;

Who, with bless'd freedom, from the general doom
Exempt, must never force the teeming womb!

Nor see the sun, nor sink into the tomb!

Who breathes, must sutier; and who thinks, must mourn; And he alone is bless'd, who ne'er was born.

EPITAPH ON KEATS.

The first line was written by Keats for his own tomb.

"Here lieth one whose name was writ on water!"
But ere the breath that could erase it blew,
Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,
Death, the immortalizing winter flew,

Athwart the stream, and Time's monthless torrent grew
A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name

Of Adonais!

Hartley Coleridge has some lines on the same subject, taking as his text the words of Keats, "I have written my name on water":

And if thou hast, where could'st thou write it better
Than on the feeder of all lives that live?

The tide, the stream, will bear away the letter,

And all that formal is and fugitive:

Still shall thy Genius be a vital power,

Feeding the root of many a beauteous flower.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

Son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Born 1797. Died 1849.

WRITTEN ON THE FLYLEAF OF SWIFT'S WORKS, IN TH
AUTHOR'S COPY OF ANDERSON'S “BRITISH POETS."
First in the list behold the caustic Dean,
Whose muse was like himself compact of spleen;
Whose sport was ireful, and his laugh severe,
His very kindness cutting, cold, austere.

Swift glorie in his power of satire, as may be seen in his "Dialogue between an Eminent Lawyer and Dr. Jonathan Swift," in which he asks:

Since there are persons who complain
There's too much satire in my vein;
That I am often found exceeding
The rules of raillery and breeding;
With too much freedom treat my betters,
Not sparing even men of letters:
You who are skill'd in lawyers' lore,
What's your advice? Shall I give o'er?
Nor ever fools or knaves expose

Either in verse or humorous prose;
And, to avoid all future ill,

In my scrutoire lock up my quill?

The third line of Coleridge's epigram recalls the celebrated Latin one on Erasmus, thus translated by T. Corbett ("Notes and Queries," 1st S. IV. 437):

There is so much of kindred feeling in the first part of this and some stanzas by Wordsworth, that Coleridge may have been indebted for the thought to his father's friend. "To (No. XV. of the "Poems

Founded on the Affections"):

Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;

But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!

EPITAPH ON A MOTHER AND THREE INFANTS.

From God they came, to God they went again;
No sin they knew, and knew but little pain:
And here they lie, by their fond mother's side,
Who lived to love and lose them, then she died.

The simplicity of the close of this epitaph cannot fail to be admired, so finely expressive of the love of the mother, who could not live after her children's death. A beautiful epigram on maternal love, by Wernicke, is translated from the German in Hone's "Table-Book," ed. 1831, II. 479 :

Ere yet her child has drawn its earliest breath
A mother's love begins-it glows till death-
Lives before life-with death not dies-but seems
The very substance of immortal dreams.

The last stanza recalls some pretty lines, translated from the Arabic by Professor Carlyle, addressed "To Youth, by Ebn Alrabia, in his Old Age" ("Specimens of Arabian Poetry," 1796, 165):

Yes, youth, thou'rt fled, and I am left,
Like yonder desolated bower,
By winter's ruthless hand bereft
Of every leaf and every flower.

With heaving heart and streaming eyes,
I woo'd thee to prolong thy stay,
But vain were all my tears and sighs,
Thou only fled'st more fast away.

Yet tho' thou fled'st away so fast,
I can recall thee if I will;
For I can talk of what is past,

And while I talk, enjoy thee still.

Byron says ("Childe Harold," Canto II. xxiii.):

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

THE HEART COMPARED TO A WATCH.

My heart's wound up just like a watch,
As far as springs will take-

It wants but one more evil turn,

And then the cords will break!

Herrick long ago compared, not the heart, but the life, to a watch:
Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never
Wound up again: once down, he's down for ever.
The watch once downe, all motions then do ceasc;
And man's pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace.

HONOURABLE SIR GEORGE ROSE.

Master in Chancery; Bencher of the Inner Temple; and a Judge of the Court of Review. Born 1781. Died 1873.

None of the following epigrams have, it is believed, appeared in print, with the exception of the "Record of a Case." They have been obtained through an intimate friend of the late Sir George Rose.

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE HOTEL AT ROSS, THE
MOTTO OF WHICH IS " ICI L'ON RAJEUNIT.”

"Ici l'on rajeunit!"-"Tis true,
I'll prove to any man alive;
For I came here at sixty-two,
And found myself at forty-five.
Presuming on my spring of life,
I made a sad mistake indeed,
For, oh! I ventur'd on a wife,

And found that I was rajeuni'd:
"Ici l'on rajeunit," I ween,

Has only made a Grey-goose, green!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

O thou who read'st what's written here,
Commiserate the lot severe,

By which, compell'd, I write them.-
In vain Sophia I withstand,

For Anna adds her dread command;
I tremble- and indite them.

Blame Eve, who, feeble to withstand
One single devil, rais'd her hand,
And gather'd our damnation;
But do not me or Adam blame,
Tempted by two, who did the same-
His Wife-and her Relation.

THE VEILED LADY.

A morning visitor, having been shown into Sir George Rose's drawingroom, retired on seeing a lady sitting there. whom he mistook for a stranger. The lady was a near relation of Sir George, and one of his family; and on afterwards learning his mistake, the visitor addressed some verses to her, begging pardon for his apparent rudeness, and ascribing his error to her wearing a thick veil. Sir George, seeing the verses, sent him the following:

Dear Duby! I've pleaded in vain for your crime,
I've urg'd every reason, I've tried every rhyme;