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Ile shouted: nor his friends had faild

To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevaild,

That, pitiless per force, .
They left their out-cast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delay'd not 10 bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

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At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,

Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank,

No poet wept him: but the page

Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed,
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

Descanting on his fate!
To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date,
But misery still delights to trace
Its 'semblance in another's case,

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

No light propitious shone; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish’d, each alone ; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulphs than he. In August he translated this poem into Latin verse. In October he went with Miss Perowne, and Mr. Johnson, to survey a larger house in Dereham, which he preferred to their present residence, and in which the family were settled in the following December.

Though his corporeal strength was now evi : dently declining, the tender persuasion of Mr. Johnson induced him to amuse his mind with frequent composition. Between August and December, he wrote all the translations from various Latin and Greek epigrams, which the reader will find in the Appendix.

In his new residence, he amused himself with translating a few fables of Gay into Latin verse. The fable which he used to recite. when a child—” The Hare and many Friends”—became one of his latest amusements.

The perfect ease, and spirit, with which his translations from Gay are written, induce me to print not only those, which he left entire, but even the two verses (for they are excellent) with which he was beginning to translate another, when encreasing maladies obliged him to relinquish for ever this elegant occupation.

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These Latin fables were all written in January 1800. Towards the end of that month I had requested him to new model a passage in his Homer, relating to some figures of Dædalus ; on the thirtyfirst of January I received from him his improved version of the lines in question, written in a firm and delicate hand.

The sight of such writing from my long silent friend, inspired me with a lively, but too sanguine hope, that I might see him once more restored.

Alas! at this period a complication of new maladies began to threaten his inestimable life; and the neat transcript of his improved verses on the curious monument of antient sculpture, so gracefully described by Homer, verses, which I surveyed as a delightful omen of future letters from a correspondent so inexpressibly dear to me, proved the last efsort his pen.

On the very day that this endearing mark of his kindness reached me, a dropsical appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson to have recourse to fresh medical assistance. The beloved invalide was with great difficulty persuaded to take the remedies prescribed, and to try the exercise of a post-chaise,

an exercise, which he could not bear beyond the twenty-second of February. . In March, when his decline became more and more striking, he was visited by Mr. Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure on the arrival of a friend, whom he had so long and so tenderly regarded, yet he shewed evident signs of regret on his departure, the sixth of April.

The long calamitous illness, and impending death of a darling child, precluded me from sharing with Mr. Rose the painful gratification of seeing, once more, the man, whose genius, and virtues, we had once contemplated together, with mutual veneration and delight; whose approaching dissolution we felt, not only as an irreparable loss to ourselves, but as a national misfortune. On the nineteenth of April the close of a life so wonderfully chequered, and so universally interesting, appeared to be very near.

On Sunday the twentieth, he seemed a little revived.

On Monday he appeared dying, but recovered so much as to eat a slight dinner.

Tuesday and Wednesday he grew apparently weaker every hour.

On Thursday he sat up as usual in the evening.

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