A Character, and Eulogium of STERNE, and his Writings; in a familiar Epistle from a Gentleman in Ireland to…

What trifle comes next?—Spare the censure, my friend, This letter's no more from beginning to end: Yet, when you consider (your laughter, pray, stifle) The advantage, the importance, the use, of a trifle— When you think too beside—and there's nothing more clear— That pence compose millions, and moments the year, You surely will grant me, nor think that I jest, That life's but a series of trifles at best. How wildly digressive! yet could I, O STERNE, Digress with thy skill, with thy freedom return! The vain wish I repress—Poor YORICK! no more Shall thy mirth and thy jests "set the table on a roar;" No more thy sad tale, with simplicity told, O'er each feeling breast its strong influence hold, From the wise and the brave call forth sympathy's sigh, Or swell with sweet anguish humanity's eye: Here and there in the page if a blemish appear, (And what page, or what life, from a blemish is clear?) TRIM and TOBY with soft intercession attend; LE FEVRE intreats you to pardon his friend; MARIA too pleads, for her favourite distress'd, As you feel for her sorrows, O grant her request! Should these advocates fail, I've another to call, One tear of his MONK shall obliterate all. Favour'd pupil of Nature and Fancy, of yore, Whom from Humour's embrace sweet Philanthropy bore, While the Graces and Loves scatter flow'rs on thy urn, And Wit weeps the blossom too hastily torn; This meed too, kind spirit, unoffended receive From a youth next to SHAKESPEARE's who honours thy grave!