For by my soul's last sigh,
That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.'
Too late!--his life the generous robber paid,
Lost by that pity which his steps delayed!
No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear,
No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear;
No liberal justice first assigned the gaol,
Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale.
SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE.
This is not the place for writing the life of the great lawyer whose
awful wig has been singed by the sarcasm of Junius. He was born in
London in 1723, and died in 1780. He had early coquetted with poetry,
but on entering the Middle Temple he bade a 'Farewell to his Muse' in
the verses subjoined. So far as lucre was concerned, he chose the better
part, and rose gradually on the ladder of law to be a knight and a judge
in the Court of Common Pleas. It has been conjectured, from some notes
on Shakspeare published by Stevens, that Sir William continued till the
end of his days to hold occasional flirtations with his old flame.
THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.
As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemned to roam
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way,
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:
So I, thus doomed from thee to part,
Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind
Oft stop, and often look behind.
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