Who in this sketchey wonder does not trace
The fire, the spirit, and the living grace,
That mark the hand of genius and of taste?
Who does not recognize in such a head
Truth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred,
Sagacity that's human, and a waste
Of those high qualities, and virtues rare,
Which poor humanity has not to spare?

Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is cast
In pleasant places--and thy life has pass'd
In the dear service of a Master--whom
The world's concurrent voice has yielded now
The meed of highest praise--and on whose brow
Th' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom;
Nor is this fate less happy than the rest,
That _he_ should paint thee, _who can paint thee best!_



SONNET.

TO HOPE.


How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue,
While sad experience, from his aching sight
Sweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight,
Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew.