o a base and
barbarous enemy, a design was formed to relieve it; and the
intelligence was conveyed to the citizens by a letter which was tied
under the wing of a pigeon.
THUANUS, lib. lv, c. 5.

The same messenger was employed at the siege of Mutina, as we are
informed by the elder Pliny.
Hist. Nat. x. 37.

NOTE u.

_Hark! the lee, &c_.

This little animal, from the extreme convexity of her eye, cannot see
many inches before her.

NOTES ON THE SECOND PART.

NOTE x.

_These still exist, &c_.

There is a future Existence even in this world; an Existence in the
hearts and minus of those who shall live after us. It is in reserve
for every man, however obscure; and his portion, if he be diligent,
must be equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance can we wish to
hold a place, but such as know, and are known by us? These are within
the sphere of our influence, and among these and their descendants we
may live evermore.

It is a state of rewards and punishments; and, like that revealed to
us in the Gospel, has the happiest influence on our lives. The latter
excites us to gain the favour of GOD; the former to gain the love and
esteem of wise and good men; and both lead to the same end; for, in
framing our conceptions of the DEITY, we only ascribe to Him exalted
degrees of Wisdom and Goodness.

NOTE y.

_Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art!_

The astronomer chalking his figures on the wall, in Hogarth's view
of Bedlam, is an admirable exemplification of this idea.
See the RAKE'S PROGRESS, plate 8.

NOTE z.

_Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh!_ The following stanzas
are said to have been written on a blank leaf of this Poem. They
present so affecting a reverse of the picture, that I cannot resist
the opportunity of introducing them here.

Pleasures of Memory!--oh supremely blest,
And justly proud beyond a Poet's praise;
If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast
Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays!
By me how envied!--for to me,
The herald still of misery,
Memory makes her influence known
By sighs, and tears, and grief alone:
I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong
The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funeral song.

She tells of time mispent, of comfort lost,
Of fair occasions gone for ever by;
Of hopes too fondly nurs'd, too rudely cross'd,
Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die;