[Footnote 1:  By John Williams, Esq.—­The following translation of this inscription will not be unacceptable to my readers:—­

  “Not length of life—­not an illustrious birth,
  Rich with the noblest blood of all the earth;—­
  Nought can avail, save deeds of high emprize,
  Our mortal being to immortalise.

  “Sweet child of song, thou deepest!—­ne’er again
  Shall swell the notes of thy melodious strain: 
  Yet, with thy country wailing o’er thy urn,
  Pallas, the Muse, Mars, Greece, and Freedom mourn.”

H.H.  JOY.]

“CHILDE HAROLD’S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

“BY THE REV.  W.L.  BOWLES.

  “SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE!—­
    Upon the shores of Greece he stood, and cried
    ‘LIBERTY!’ and those shores, from age to age
    Renown’d, and Sparta’s woods and rocks replied
    ‘Liberty!’ But a Spectre, at his side,
    Stood mocking;—­and its dart, uplifting high,
    Smote him;—­he sank to earth in life’s fair pride: 
    SPARTA! thy rocks then heard another cry,
  And old Ilissus sigh’d—­’Die, generous exile, die!’

  “I will not ask sad Pity to deplore
    His wayward errors, who thus early died;
    Still less, CHILDE HAROLD, now thou art no more,
    Will I say aught of genius misapplied;
    Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride:—­
    But I will bid th’ Arcadian cypress wave,
    Pluck the green laurel from Peneus’ side,
    And pray thy spirit may such quiet have,
  That not one thought unkind be murmur’d o’er thy grave.

  “SO HAROLD ENDS, IN GREECE, HIS PILGRIMAGE!—­
    There fitly ending,—­in that land renown’d,
    Whose mighty genius lives in Glory’s page,—­
    He, on the Muses’ consecrated ground,
    Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
    With their unfading wreath!—­To bands of mirth,
    No more in TEMPE let the pipe resound! 
    HAROLD, I follow to thy place of birth
  The slow hearse—­and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE on earth.

  “Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train,—­
    I mark the sad procession with a sigh,
    Silently passing to that village fane,
    Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie;—­
    There sleeps THAT MOTHER, who with tearful eye,
    Pondering the fortunes of thy early road,
    Hung o’er the slumbers of thine infancy;
    Her son, released from mortal labour’s load,
  Now comes to rest, with her, in the same still abode.

  “Bursting Death’s silence—­could that mother speak—­
    (Speak when the earth was heap’d upon his head)—­
    In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,
    She thus might give the welcome of the dead:—­
    ’Here rest, my son, with me;—­the dream is fled;—­
    The motley mask and the great stir is o’er: 
    Welcome to me, and to this silent bed,
    Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar
  Of life, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.’”