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DEATH S DOINGS.

There in his day-dreams, blest, he musing sits,

And roams o'er every by-gone age by fits ;

Pores o'er the forms heraldic labours tend,

Or pens a prosing letter to a friend:

For Anno Domini writes A. U. C,

Or heads his letter with a kind S. D.

In fancy o'er the Via Sacra walks,

Or with a Pliny or a Strabo talks ;

At Horace' Villa culls his early beans,

Or in Etruscan kettles boils his greens.

With rising pride he views his swelling storeOf wonders never mortal owned before ;Strange relics of all tribes that spoke or speak—Assyrian, Turkish, Jewish, Roman, Greek.Busts, statues, images, involved in dust,—Swords, helmets, javelins, precious in their rust;Black-letter books, some grass from Trojan's park,An ephod, and a piece of Noah's ark.Whatever useless rarity you nameOf ancient date, look here, you find the same :These he collects, these gathers night and day,—For these, pounds, shillings, pence, he flings away;And though reputed in his senses sound,He for a Roman penny gives a pound.