From Beaumont and Fletcher's Play of Bonduca.

[The Prince Hengo, who has been wounded, asks where he shall go when he dies.]

Inscius ipse adeò lethi, sortisque futuræ,

Regius instanti lapsus ab hoste puer,

Has præfert patriis, dum palmas tendit inermes,
Numinibus, fausto non satìs ore, preces.

Quænam adeunda mihi longâ dum in nocte quiescam,
Quæ loca, cum mihi mors clauserit atra diem?
Numquid in Elysiâ tum demùm valle morari
Non licet, et proavûm me sociare choris ?
Uror enim dum me invicti Caractaci imago
Sollicitat secum gloriæ inire viam.

Ergone tempus erit cum me Bonduca nepotem,

Et cui supremo in lumine frater ego
Oscula figi, iterùm agnoscant? dehinc alter ab illis
Umbra lubens vestros Hengus adibo locos.

H. H.

The envious snows came down in haste
To prove her neck less fair-

But when they found themselves surpass'd,
Dissolv'd into a tear.

Invida nix alpina Chloes candoris in ipsum
Descendit nudum præcipitata sinum,

Tum victæ aspectu, quin! O! quin cedimus, aiunt,
Et simul in lacrymas dissoluere nives.

H. H.

The following Latin inscription was given by Dr. Jortin as an antique, to try the criticism of the learned.

Quæ te sub tenerâ rapuerunt Pæta juventâ
Ah! utinàm me crudelia fata vocent,
Ut linquam terras invisaque lumina Solis,
Utque tuus rursùm corpore sim posito.
Tu cave Lethæo continguas ora liquore,
Et citò venturi sis memor, oro, viri.
Te sequar obscurum pèr iter, dux ibit eunti
Fidus amor tenebras lampade discutiens.

Dr. Jortin.

Ah Pæta, would but fate, whose cruel doom
Condemns thy charms so early to the tomb,
Let me be number'd with the silent dead,
And mine be re-united with thy shade!
O, let no drop of that oblivious sea
Approach thy lips, nor cease to think on me.
I come! I come! Love shall his torch display,
Lead where thou art, and light the gloomy way.
H. H.

Inscription-for a Mausoleum.

Stranger! by curious contemplation led,
Whoe'er thou art, this solemn scene to tread,
May no compunctious visitings annoy,
No unrepented sins thy peace destroy,—
No passing day wound with a Parthian dart,-
But ev'ry hour fresh blessedness impart !
Yet, should some vice, indulg'd without control,

Peril thy future bliss, enthral thy soul,

O! go not hence 'till thou hast sternly vow'd

To sin no more-to thy Creator bow'd

In contrite sorrow, and His aid implor'd,

Who died-that sinful man to God might be restor`d!

H. H.

London: Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES and SONS, Stamford Street.