20 When the gray morn illumed the mountain's side, To hear the sweet birds' earliest song he hied; When meekest eve to the fold's distant bell Listened, and bade the woods and vales farewell, Musing in tearful mood, he oft was seen The last that lingered on the fading green.
The waving wood high o'er the cliff reclined, The murmuring waterfall, the winter's wind, His temper's trembling texture seemed to suit; 29 As airs of sadness the responsive lute.
Yet deem not hence the social spirit dead, Though from the world's hard gaze his feelings fled: Firm was his friendship, and his faith sincere, And warm as Pity's his unheeded tear, That wept the ruthless deed, the poor man's fate, By fortune's storms left cold and desolate.
Farewell! yet be this humble tribute paid To all his virtues, from that social shade Where once we sojourned.[23] I, alas! remain To mourn the hours of youth, yet mourn in vain, 40 That fled neglected.

Wisely thou hast trod The better path; and that High Meed, which GOD Ordained for Virtue towering from the dust, Shall bless thy labours, spirit pure and just! [22] Alluding to the _Beauties of Ancient Poetry_, published by Mr Headley, a short time before his death.

He was also the author of some pleasing original poetry.
[23] Trinity College, Oxford.

Among my contemporaries were several young men of literary taste and talent, Headley, Kett, Benwell, Dallaway, Richards, and Dornford; Thomas Warton was one of the Senior Fellows.
ON MR HOWARD'S ACCOUNT OF LAZARETTOS.
Mortal! who, armed with holy fortitude, The path of good right onward hast pursued; May HE, to whose eternal throne on high The sufferers of the earth with anguish cry, Be thy protector! On that dreary road That leads thee patient to the last abode Of wretchedness, in peril and in pain, May HE thy steps direct, thy heart sustain! 'Mid scenes, where pestilence in darkness flies; In caverns, where deserted misery lies; 10 So safe beneath His shadow thou may'st go, To cheer the dismal wastes of human woe.
O CHARITY! our helpless nature's pride, Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside, Is there in morning's breath, or the sweet gale That steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale, Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame, Aught like the incense of thy sacred flame?
Is aught in all the beauties that adorn The azure heaven, or purple lights of morn; 20 Is aught so fair in evening's lingering gleam, As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam That falls like saddest moonlight on the hill And distant grove, when the wide world is still! Thine are the ample views, that unconfined Stretch to the utmost walks of human kind: Thine is the spirit that with widest plan Brother to brother binds, and man to man.
But who for thee, O Charity! will bear Hardship, and cope with peril and with care! 30 Who, for thy sake, will social sweets forego For scenes of sickness, and the sights of woe! Who, for thy sake, will seek the prison's gloom, Where ghastly Guilt implores her lingering doom; Where Penitence unpitied sits, and pale, That never told to human ears her tale; Where Agony, half-famished, cries in vain; Where dark Despondence murmurs o'er her chain; Where gaunt Disease is wasted to the bone, And hollow-eyed Despair forgets to groan! 40 Approving Mercy marks the vast design, And proudly cries--HOWARD, the task be thine! Already 'mid the darksome vaults profound, The inner prison deep beneath the ground, Consoling hath thy tender look appeared: In horror's realm the voice of peace is heard! Be the sad scene disclosed; fearless unfold The grating door--the inmost cell behold! Thought shrinks from the dread sight; the paly lamp Burns faint amid the infectious vapours damp; 50 Beneath its light full many a livid mien, And haggard eye-ball, through the dusk are seen.
In thought I see thee, at each hollow sound, With humid lids oft anxious gaze around.
But oh! for him who, to yon vault confined, Has bid a long farewell to human kind; His wasted form, his cold and bloodless cheek, A tale of sadder sorrow seem to speak: Of friends, perhaps now mingled with the dead; Of hope, that, like a faithless flatterer, fled 60 In the utmost hour of need; or of a son Cast to the bleak world's mercy; or of one Whose heart was broken, when the stern behest Tore him from pale affection's bleeding breast.
Despairing, from his cold and flinty bed, With fearful muttering he has raised his head: What pitying spirit, what unwonted guest, Strays to this last retreat, these shades unblest?
From life and light shut out, beneath this cell Long have I bid the cheering sun farewell.

70 I heard for ever closed the jealous door, I marked my bed on the forsaken floor, I had no hope on earth, no human friend: Let me unpitied to the dust descend! Cold is his frozen heart--his eye is reared To Heaven no more--and on his sable beard The tear has ceased to fall.