Oru 
 
 €in 
 
 Ulrich Middeldorf 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/minorpoemsofwillOOcowp 
 
COWPER'S 
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 PART I. 
 

 
THE 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 OF THE INKER TEMPLE. 
 
 LOKDOH. 
 
 P1EMTED FOt JOHN swatr-ip tr wr r ATn>Tnr.Tr: v- 
 
 Tky hands their Tittle force resign. 
 
 Yet yentLy prefs'd pre/s gently mine . 
 
 MyMary. 
 
 1818. 
 

ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In the present edition of the Minor Poems of 
 Cowper, it will be perceived that some regard 
 has been paid, both to selection and classification. 
 The whole of the Poems hitherto arbitrarily dis- 
 tributed at the end of the fiist two volumes, with 
 the exception of the Translations and the Latin 
 Poems, together with a copious selection from 
 his posthumous Poetry, (which from its 
 bulk, seems to have been received with less favour 
 by the public than was expected,) are included 
 in this arrangement. The rejected pieces, though 
 they might deserve insertion in a biographical 
 memoir, as illustrative of the Author's character, 
 did not, for the most part, appear to the Editor 
 
IV 
 
 worthy of permanently occupying a place among 
 the productions of the Poet. The Translations 
 are omitted for a different reason ; as belonging, 
 together with the Homer, to a distinct portion of 
 Cowper’s Works. An exception has, however, 
 been made in favour of the elegant Versions of 
 Vincent Bourne's Poems, of which the entire 
 collection will be found in the present volume. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Page 
 
 Yardley Oak ......... 7 
 
 On the Receipt of my Mother’s Picture . 13 
 
 Heroism 18 
 
 Friendship „ 21 
 
 Ode to Peace i 31 
 
 Boadicea, an Ode 32 
 
 Ode to Apollo 34 
 
 Horace. Book II. Ode X 35 
 
 A Reflection on the foregoing Ode 36 
 
 The Rose 37 
 
 The Winter Nosegay 38 
 
 To the Nightingale 39 
 
 The Poplar Field 40 
 
 The Shrubbery .. 41 
 
 Homan Frailty 42 
 
 A Comparison 43 
 
 Another to a young Lady 43 
 
 Song on Peace 44 
 
 Song 45 
 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 46 
 
 Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq 48 
 
VI 
 
 Page 
 
 Sonnet to Henry Cowper, Esq .. 48 
 
 — — — to John Johnson 49 
 
 — to William Hayley, Esq. 50 
 
 ■ to Dr. Austin 50 
 
 to George Romney, Esq 51 
 
 • to Mrs. Unwin 52 
 
 To Mary. 53 
 
 On the Death of Mrs. Throckmorton’s Bulfinch 55 
 
 The Poet's New Year’s Gift, to Mrs. Throckmorton.. 58 
 To Mrs. Throckmorton, on her Transcript of Horace 59 
 
 Catharina, to Miss Stapleton 60 
 
 Catharina, the Second Part 65 
 
 Gratitude. To Lady Hesketh 65 
 
 To my Cousin Anne Bodham 67 
 
 To Mrs. King 68 
 
 To Lady Austen 70 
 
 On Mrs. Montagu's Feather-hangings 74 
 
 To an Afflicted Protestant Lady in France 76 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq 78 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Newton 81 
 
 To the same 82 
 
 To the Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 82 
 
 To a Young Friend 84 
 
 On the Binning of Lord Mansfield’s Library 84 
 
 On the same 85 
 
 On the Promotion of Lord Thurlow 86 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 87 
 
 The Yearly Distress 98 
 
 On the Queen’s Visit to London, 1789 102 
 
 Annus Memorabilis, 1789 106 
 
MINOR POEMS 
 
 PART L 
 
 YARDLEY OAK. 
 
 [ 1791 .] 
 
 Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 
 That once liv’d here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
 (Since which I number threescore winters past) 
 A shatter’d vet’ran, hollow-trunk’d perhaps, 
 
 As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 
 
 Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued 
 With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, 
 
 I might with rev’rence kneel, and worship thee. 
 
 It seems idolatry with some excuse, 
 
 When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
 Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet 
 Unpurified by an authentic act 
 Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 
 
 Lov’d not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
 Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
 Of fruit proscrib’d, as to a refuge, fled. 
 
8 
 
 Thou wast a bauble once ; a cup and ball, 
 
 Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jay. 
 Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d 
 The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
 Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
 And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
 
 But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains 
 Beneath thy parent tree mellow’d the soil 
 Design’d thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 
 
 With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 
 The soft receptacle, in which, secure, 
 
 Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 
 
 So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, 
 
 Ye reas’ners broad awake, whose busy search 
 Of argument, employ’d too oft amiss, 
 
 Sifts half the pleasures of short life away! 
 
 Thou fell’st mature ; and in the loamy clod 
 Swelling with vegatative force instinct 
 Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, 
 Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair’d exact ; 
 
 A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, 
 
 And, all the elements thy puny growth 
 Fost’ring propitious, thou becam’st a twig. 
 
 Who liv’d, when thou wast such ? Oh, couldst thou 
 As in Dodona once thy kindred trees [speak. 
 
 Oracular, I would not curious ask 
 The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth 
 Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 
 
 By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
 
 The clock of history, facts and events 
 
9 
 
 Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
 Recovering, and mistated setting right — 
 
 Desp’rate attempt, till trees shall speak again ! 
 
 Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods ; 
 And Time hath made thee what thou art- — a cave 
 For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
 O’erhung the champaign; and the numrous flocks, 
 That graz’d it, stood beneath that ample cope 
 Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter’d from the storm. 
 
 No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast out liv’d 
 Thy popularity, and art become 
 (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
 Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 
 
 While thus through all the stages thou hast push’d 
 Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
 
 Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent’ry roll’d 
 Slow after century, a giant-bulk 
 Of girth enormous, with moss-cusbion’d root 
 Upheav’d above the soil, and sides emboss’d 
 With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
 The rottenness, which time is charg’d to inflict 
 On other mighty ones, found also thee. 
 
 What exhibitions various hath the world 
 Witness’d of mutability in all 
 That we account most durable below! 
 
 Change is the diet, on which all subsist, 
 
 Created changeable, and change at last 
 Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
 Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
 Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds,— 
 
10 
 
 Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought. 
 Invigorate bv turns the springs of life 
 In all that live, plant, animal, and man, 
 
 And in conclusion mar them. Nature’s threads, 
 Fine passing thought, e’en in her coarsest works, 
 Delight in agitation, yet sustain. 
 
 The force, that agitates, not unimpair’d ; 
 
 But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause 
 Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 
 
 Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
 The great and little of thy lot, thy growth 
 From almost nullity into a state 
 Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
 Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
 
 Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
 Could shake thee to the root — and time has been 
 When tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
 Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents, 
 
 That might have ribb’d the sides and plank’d the deck 
 Of some flagg’d admiral; and tortuous arms, 
 
 The shipwright’s darling treasure, didst present 
 To the four-quarter d winds, robust and bold, 
 Warp’d into tough knee-timber, many a load !® 
 
 But the axe spar’d thee. In those thriftier days 
 Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply 
 The bottomless demands of contest, wag’d 
 For senatorial honours. Thus to Time 
 
 * Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by 
 reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where 
 the deck and the ship’s sides meet. 
 
11 
 
 The task was left to whittle thee away 
 With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, 
 Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
 
 Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv’d, 
 
 Achiev’d a labour, which had far and wide, 
 
 J3y man perform’d, made all the forest ring. 
 
 Embowell’d now, and of thy ancient self 
 Possessing nought but the scoop’d rind, that seems 
 An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, 
 Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, 
 
 Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd’st 
 The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. 
 
 Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
 
 A quarry of stout spurs, arid knotted fangs, 
 
 Which, crook’d into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
 The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 
 
 So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet 
 Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, 
 
 Though all the superstructure, by the tooth 
 Pulveriz’d of venality, a shell 
 
 Stands now, and semblance only of itself! joff 
 
 Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them 
 Long since, and rovers of the forest wild 
 With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left 
 A splinter’d stump, bleach’d to a snowy white ; 
 
 And some, memorial none, w here once they grew. 
 Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
 Proof not contemptible of what she can, 
 
 Even where death predominates. The spring 
 Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force, 
 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb’ring wood* 
 
 So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv’d 
 Haifa millenium since the date of thine. 
 
 But since, although well qualified by age 
 To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
 May be expected from thee* seated here 
 On thy distorted root, with hearers none* 
 
 Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
 Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
 In my own ear such matter as I may. 
 
 One man alone, the father of us all, 
 
 Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz’d, 
 
 With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, 
 
 On all around him; learn’d not by degrees, 
 
 Nor ow’d articulation to his ear; 
 
 But, moulded by his Maker into man 
 At once, upstood intelligent, survey’d 
 All creatures, with precision understood 
 Their purport, uses, properties, assign’d 
 To each his name significant, and, fill’d 
 With love and wisdom, render’d back to Heav’n 
 In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
 
 He was excus’d the penalties of dull 
 Minority. No tutor charg’d his hand 
 With the thought-tracing quill, or task’d his mind 
 With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
 
 Loan’d on her elbow, watching Time, w hose course, 
 Eventful, should supply her with a theme. 
 
0 that those lips had. language ! life "has pafs cL 
 TOth me hut roughly- sine e I saw thee Ja.st. 
 
 Those lips are thine ,_thy own.' sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in. childhood solaccLme; 
 
 D1AWN BY RICHAI ID 1/VES TALL R.A.EN CRAVED BY XDWAltD PORTBHRY: 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY, 
 
 OCT, 1 1817. ■ 
 
 MOTHERS' 1?I€TUS,1S< 
 
■ 
 
ON THE 
 
 RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER’S PICTURE 
 OUT OP NORFOLK. 
 
 THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM. 
 
 O that those lips had language ! Life has pass’d 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine— thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 c Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!’ 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, 
 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
 
 The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim 
 To quench it), here shines on me still the same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 0 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 
 Who bidd’st me honour with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
 
 PART I. B 
 
14 
 
 My mother! when I team’d that thou wast dead 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
 Hover’d thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son, 
 
 Wretch ev’n then, life’s journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; ) 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — C 
 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. \ 
 
 I heard the bell toll’d on thy burial day, 
 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 
 But was it such? — It was — where thou art gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 
 What ardently I wish’d, I long believed, 
 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 
 I learn’d at last submission to my lot, 
 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 
15 
 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
 
 ? Tis now become a history little known, 
 
 That once we call'd the pastoral house our own* 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
 
 Ne'er roughen’d by those cataracts and breaks, 
 
 That humour interposed too often makes; 
 
 All this still legible in memory’s page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 
 Not scorn’d in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
 The violet, the' pink, and jessamine, 
 
 I prick’d them into paper with a pin, 
 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), 
 B 2 
 
16 
 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
 
 But no — what here we call our life is such, 
 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast, 
 
 (The storms all weather’d and the ocean cross’d), 
 Shoots into port at some well-haven’d isle, 
 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below’, 
 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach’d the shore 
 4 Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,’ * 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life long since has anchor’d by thy side. 
 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
 
 Always from port withheld, always distress’d — 
 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss’d, 
 Sails ripp’d, seams opening wide, and compass lest, 
 And day by day some current’s thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 
 Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
 
 That thought is joy, arrive w hat may to me. 
 
 * Garth. 
 
17 
 
 My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
 The son of parents pass’d into the skies. 
 
 And now farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wish’d is done. 
 By Contemplation’s help, not sought in vain, 
 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again; 
 To have renew’d the joys that once Avere mine, 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 
 And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 
 
HEROISM. 
 
 There was a time when ^Etna’s silent fire 
 Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire : 
 
 When, conscious of no danger from below, 
 
 She tower’d a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. 
 
 No thunders §hook with deep intestine sound 
 The blooming groves that girdled her around. 
 
 Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines, 
 
 (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines), 
 
 The peasant’s hopes, and not in vain, assured, 
 
 In peace upon her sloping sides matured : 
 
 When on a day, like that of the last doom, 
 
 A conflagration labouring in her womb, 
 
 She teem’d and heaved with an infernal birth 
 That shook the circling seas and solid earth, 
 
 Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, 
 
 And hang their horrours in the neighbouring skies. 
 While through the Stygian veil that blots the day, 
 In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. 
 
 But oh ! what Muse, and in w hat powers of song, 
 Can trace the torrent as it burns along? 
 
 Havoc and devastation in the van. 
 
 It marches o’er the prostrate works of man ; 
 
 Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, 
 
 And all the charms of a Sicilian year. 
 
 Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, 
 
 See it an uninform’d and idle mass ; 
 
 Without a soil to invite the tiller’s care, 
 
 Or blade 4bat might redeem it from despair. 
 
 Yet Time at length (what will not time achieve ?) 
 Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. 
 
w 
 
 Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, 
 
 And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. 
 
 O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, 
 
 O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets ! 
 
 The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round, 
 Brings to the distant year a sullen sound: 
 
 Again the mountain feels the imprison’d foe, 
 
 Again pours ruin on the vale below. 
 
 Ten thousand swains the vrasted scene deplore, 
 That only future ages can restore. 
 
 Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, 
 Who write in blood the merits of your cause, 
 
 Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, 
 Glory your aim, but justice your pretence, 
 
 Behold in ^Etna’s emblematic fires 
 
 The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! 
 
 Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, 
 And tells you where ye have a right to reign, 
 
 A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, 
 Studious of peace, their neighbours’, and their own. 
 Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue 
 Their only crime, vicinity to you ! 
 
 The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad. 
 Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road ; 
 
 At every step beneath their feet they tread 
 The life of multitudes, a nation’s bread ! 
 
 Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress 
 Before them, and behind a wilderness. 
 
 Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, 
 
 Attend to finish what the sword begun; 
 
20 
 
 And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, 
 And Folly pays, resound at your return, 
 
 A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train 
 Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, 
 
 And years of pining indigence must show 
 What scourges are the gods that rule below. 
 
 Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, 
 (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease), 
 
 Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, 
 
 Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, 
 Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, 
 And the sun gilds the shining spires again. 
 
 Increasing commerce and reviving art 
 Renew the quarrel on the conqueror’s part ; 
 
 And the sad lesson must be learn’d once more 
 That wealth within is ruin at the door. 
 
 What are ye, monarchs, laurell’d heroes, say, 
 But iEtnas of the suffering world ye sway? 
 Sweet Nature, stripp’d of her embroider’d robe. 
 Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; 
 
 And stands a witness at Truth’s awful bar. 
 
 To prove you there destroyers as ye are. 
 
 O place me in some Heaven-protected isle, 
 Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; 
 Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, 
 
 No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; 
 Where Power secures what Industry has won: 
 Where to succeed is not to be undone; 
 
 A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, 
 
 In Britain’s isle, beneath a George’s reign ! 
 
21 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest. 
 
 Cicero . 
 
 1782. 
 
 What virtue, or what mental grace, 
 But men unqualified and base 
 Will boast it their possession ? 
 Profusion apes the noble part 
 Of liberality of heart, 
 
 And dulness of discretion. 
 
 If every polish’d gem we find, 
 Illuminating heart or mind, 
 
 Provoke to imitation ; 
 
 No wonder Friendship does the same, 
 That jewel of the purest flame, 
 
 Or rather constellation. 
 
 No knave but boldly will pretend 
 The requisites that form a friend, 
 
 A real and a sound one ; 
 
 Nor any fool he would deceive, 
 
 But prove as ready to believe, 
 
 And dream that he had found one. 
 b 3 
 
22 
 
 Candid, and generous, and just, 
 
 Boys care but little whom they trust, 
 An errour soon corrected — 
 
 For who but learns in riper years, 
 
 That man, when smoothest he appears. 
 Is most to be suspected? 
 
 But here again, a danger lies, 
 Lest, having misapplied our eyes, 
 And taken trash for treasure, 
 We should unwarily conclude 
 Friendship a false ideal good, 
 
 A mere Utopian pleasure. 
 
 An acquisition rather rare 
 Is yet no subject of despair ; 
 
 Nor is it wise complaining, 
 
 If either on forbidden ground, 
 
 Or where it was not to be found, 
 We sought without attaining. 
 
 No friendship will abide the test, 
 That stands on sordid interest, 
 Or mean self-love erected ; 
 
 Nor such as may awhile subsist 
 Between the sot and sensualist, 
 For vicious ends connected. 
 
Who seeks a friend, shook! come disposed 
 To exhibit in full bloom disclosed 
 The graces and the beauties 
 That form the character he seeks ; 
 
 For kis a union that bespeaks 
 Reciprocated duties. 
 
 Mutual attention is implied, 
 
 And equal truth on either side, 
 
 And constantly supported: 
 
 Mis senseless arrogance to accuse 
 Another of sinister views, 
 
 Our own as much distorted. 
 
 But will sincerity suffice? 
 
 It is indeed above all price, 
 
 And must be made the basis; 
 
 But every virtue of the soul 
 Must constitute the charming whole, 
 
 All shining in their places. 
 
 A fretful temper will divide 
 The closest knot that may be tied, 
 By ceaseless sharp corrosion; 
 
 A temper passionate and fierce, 
 May suddenly your joys disperse 
 At one immense explosion. 
 
24 - 
 
 In vain tne talkative unite 
 In hopes of permanent delight— 
 
 The secret just committed, 
 
 Forgetting its important weight, 
 
 They drop through mere desire to prate,, 
 And by themselves outwitted. 
 
 How bright soe’er the prospect seems, 
 
 All thoughts of friendship are but dreams. 
 If envy chance to creep in ; 
 
 An envious man, if you succeed, 
 
 May prove a dangerous foe indeed. 
 
 But not a friend worth keeping. 
 
 As Envy pines at good possess’d, 
 
 So Jealousy looks forth distress’d 
 On good that seems approaching; 
 
 And, if success his steps attend, 
 
 Discerns a rival in a friend, 
 
 And hates him for encroaching. 
 
 Hence authors of illustrious name, 
 
 (Unless belied by common fame,) 
 
 Are sadly prone to quarrel, 
 
 To deem the wit a friend displays 
 A tax upon their own just praise, 
 
 And pluck each other’s laureL 
 
25 
 
 A man renown’d for repartee 
 Will seldom scruple to make free 
 With Friendship’s finest feeling, 
 Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
 And say he wounded you in jest, 
 
 By way of balm for healing. 
 
 Whoever keeps an open ear 
 For tattlers, will be sure to hear 
 The trumpet of Contention : 
 Aspersion is the babbler’s trade, 
 
 To listen is to lend him aid, 
 
 And rush into dissension. 
 
 A friendship that in frequent fits 
 Of controversial rage emits 
 The sparks of disputation, 
 
 Like Hand-in-Hand insurance plates, 
 Most unavoidably creates 
 The thought of conflagration. 
 
 Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
 True as the needle to the pole, 
 
 Their humour yet so various— 
 
 They manifest their whole life through 
 The needle’s deviations too, 
 
 Their love is so precarious. 
 
28 
 
 The great and small but rarely meet 
 On terms of amity complete ; 
 
 Plebeians must surrender 
 And yield so much to noble folk, 
 
 It is combining fire with smoke, 
 Obscurity with splendour. 
 
 Some are so placid and serene, 
 
 (As Irish bogs are always green), 
 They sleep secure from waking; 
 And are indeed a bog that bears 
 Your unparticipated cares 
 
 Unmoved and without quaking. 
 
 Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
 Their heterogeneous politics, 
 
 Without an effervescence, 
 
 Like that of salts with lemon juice, 
 Which does not yet like that produce 
 A friendly coalescence. 
 
 Religion should extinguish strife, 
 
 And make a calm of human life; 
 
 Rut friends that chance to differ 
 On points which God has left at large, 
 How freely will they meet and charge 
 No combatants are stiffer. 
 
n 
 
 To prove at last my main intent 
 Needs no expense of argument, 
 
 No cutting and contriving— 
 
 Seeking a real friend we seem 
 To adopt the chymist’s golden dream, 
 With still less hope of thriving. 
 
 Sometimes the fault is all our own, 
 
 Some blemish in due time made known 
 By trespass or omission ; 
 
 Sometimes occasion brings to light 
 Our friend's defect long hid from sight, 
 And even from suspicion. 
 
 Then judge yourself, and prove your man 
 As circumspectly as you can, 
 
 And having made election, 
 
 Beware no negligence of yours, 
 
 Such as a friend but ill endures, 
 
 Enfeeble his affection. 
 
 That secrets are a sacred trust, 
 
 That friends should be sincere and just, 
 That constancy befits them, 
 
 Are observations on the case 
 That savour much of common-place, 
 And all the world admits therm 
 
28 
 
 But ? tis not timber, lead, and stone, 
 An architect requires alone, 
 
 To finish a fine building; 
 
 The palace were but half complete 
 If he could possibly forget 
 The carving and the gilding. 
 
 The man that hails you Tom or Jack, 
 And proves by thumps upon your back 
 How he esteems your merit, 
 
 Is such a friend, that one had need 
 Be very much his friend indeed, 
 
 To pardon or to bear it. 
 
 As similarity of mind. 
 
 Or something not to be defined, 
 First fixes our attention ; 
 
 So manners decent and polite, 
 
 The same we practised at first sight, 
 Must save it from declension. 
 
 Some act upon this prudent plan, 
 
 * Say little, and hear all you can.’ 
 Safe policy, but hateful — 
 
 So barren sands imbibe the shower, 
 But render neither fruit nor flower. 
 Unpleasant and ungrateful. 
 
29 
 
 The man I trust, if shy to me, 
 
 Shall find me as reserved as he; 
 
 No subterfuge or pleading 
 Shall win my confidence again, 
 
 I will by no means entertain 
 A spy on my proceeding. 
 
 These samples— for alas ! at last 
 These are but samples, and a taste 
 Of evils yet unmention’d— 
 
 May prove the task a task indeed, 
 In which ? tis much if we succeed, 
 However well-intention’d. 
 
 Pursue the search, and you will find 
 Good sense and knowledge of mankind 
 To be at least expedient, 
 
 And, after summing all the rest, 
 
 Religion ruling in the breast 
 A principal ingredient. 
 
 The noblest friendship ever shown, 
 
 The Saviour’s history makes known, 
 Though some have turn’d and turn’d it 
 And whether being crazed or blind, 
 
 Or seeing with a biass’d mind, 
 
 Have not, it seems, discern’d it. 
 
30 
 
 O Friendship ! if my soul forego 
 Thy dear delights while here below ; 
 
 To mortify and grieve me, 
 
 May I myself at last appear 
 Unworthy, base, and insincere, 
 
 Or may my friend deceive me! 
 
31 
 
 ODE TO PEACE. 
 
 Come, peace of mind, delightful guest ! 
 Return and make thy downy nest 
 Once more in this sad heart: 
 
 Nor riches I nor power pursue, 
 
 Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 
 
 We therefore need not part. 
 
 Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, 
 From avarice and ambition free, 
 
 And pleasure’s fatal wiles? 
 
 For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
 The sweets that I was wont to share, 
 The banquet of thy smiles ? 
 
 The great, the gay, shall they partake 
 The. heaven that thou alone canst make? 
 
 And wilt thou quit the stream 
 That murmurs through the dewy mead, 
 The grove and the sequester’d shed, 
 
 To be a guest with them? 
 
 For thee I panted, thee I prized, 
 
 For thee 1 gladly sacrificed 
 Whatever I loved before ; 
 
 And shall I see thee start away, 
 
 And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say— 
 Farewell ! we meet no more? 
 
32 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 When the British warrior queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods, 
 
 Sought, with an indignant mien, 
 Counsel of her country’s gods ; 
 
 Sage beneath a spreading oak 
 Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 
 
 Every burning word he spoke 
 Full of rage, and full of grief. 
 
 Princess ! if our aged eyes 
 
 Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
 
 'Tis because resentment ties 
 All the terrours of our tongues. 
 
 Rome shall perish— write that word 
 In the blood that she has spilt; 
 
 Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d, 
 
 Deep in ruin as in guilt. 
 
 Rome, for empire far renowned, 
 Tramples on a thousand states ; 
 
 Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
 Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 
 
38 
 
 Other Romans shall arise, 
 
 Heedless of a soldier’s name ; 
 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
 Harmony the path to fame. 
 
 Then the progeny that springs 
 From the forests of our land, 
 
 Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings, 
 Shall a wider world command. 
 
 Regions Caesar never knew 
 Thy posterity shall sway ; 
 
 Where his eagles never flew, 
 
 None invincible as they. 
 
 Such the bard’s prophetic words, 
 Pregnant with celestial fire, 
 
 Bending as he swept the chords 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre. 
 
 She, with all a monarch’s pride, 
 
 Felt them in her bosom glow : 
 
 Rush’d to battle, fought, and died ; 
 Dying hurl’d them at the foe ; 
 
 Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 
 
 Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
 
 Empire is on us bestow’d, 
 
 Shame and ruin wait for you. 
 
ODE TO APOLLO. 
 
 ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. 
 
 Patron of all those luckless brains, 
 That, to the wrong side leaning, 
 
 Indite much metre with much pains, 
 
 And little or no meaning; 
 
 Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 
 That water all the nations, 
 
 Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, 
 
 In constant exhalations; 
 
 Why, stooping from the noon of day, 
 
 Too covetous of drink, 
 
 Apollo, hast thou stolen away 
 A poet’s drop of ink ? 
 
 Upborne into the viewless air, 
 
 It floats a vapour now, 
 
 Impelled through regions dense and rare, 
 By all the winds that blow ; 
 
 Ordain’d perhaps ere summer flies, 
 Combined with millions more, 
 
 To form an Iris in the skies, 
 
 Though black and foul before. 
 Illustrious drop? and happy then 
 Beyond the happiest lot, 
 
 Of all that ever pass’d my pen, 
 
 So soon to be forgot ! 
 
 Phoebus, if such be thy design, 
 
 To place it in thy bow, 
 
 Give wit, that what is left may shine 
 With equal grace below. 
 
35 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 BOOK II. ODE X. 
 
 Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach. 
 
 So shalt thou live beyond the reach 
 Of adverse Fortune’s power: 
 
 Not always tempt the distant deep, 
 
 Nor always timorously creep, 
 
 Along the treacherous shore. 
 
 He that holds fast the golden mean, 
 
 And lives contentedly between 
 The little and the great, 
 
 Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
 
 Nor plagues that haunt the rich man’s door, 
 Xmbittering all his state. 
 
 The tallest pines feel most the power 
 Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower 
 Comes heaviest to the ground ; 
 
 The bolts that spare the mountain’s side, 
 His cloud-capt eminence divide, 
 
 And spread the ruin round. 
 
 The well-inform’d philosopher 
 Rejoices with a wholesome fear, 
 
 And hopes in spite of pain : 
 
 If Winter bellow from the north, 
 
 Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth, 
 And Nature laughs again. 
 
36 
 
 What if thine heaven be overcast? 
 The dark appearance will not last ; 
 
 Expect a brighter sky. 
 
 The God that strings the silver bow, 
 Awakes sometimes the Muses too, 
 And lays his arrows by. 
 
 If hinderances obstruct thy way, 
 Thy magnanimity display, 
 
 And let thy strength be seen ; 
 
 But O ! if Fortune fill thy sail 
 With more than a propitious gale, 
 Take half thy canvass in. 
 
 A REFLECTION 
 
 ON 
 
 THE FOREGOING ODE. 
 
 And is this all ? Can Reason do no more 
 Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore 
 Sweet moralist ! afloat on life’s rough sea, 
 
 The Christian has an art unknown to thee. 
 
 He holds no parley with unmanly fears ; 
 
 Where Duty bids he confidently steers, 
 
 Faces a thousand dangers at her call, 
 
 And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all. 
 
This elegant hose had I shaken it lefs, 
 Might have hloomed with its owner awhile; 
 And the tear, that is wip’d, with a little addrefs , • 
 May he follow’d perhaps with a -smile. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WE STALL.B..A. ENGRAVED BY EDWARD PORTBURY: 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY.' 
 
 OCT 1,1817. 
 
 rrrsi 
 

 
37 
 
 THE ROSE, 
 
 The rose had been wash'd, just wash’d in a shower. 
 Which Mary to Anna convey’d, 
 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 
 
 And weigh’d down its beautiful head. 
 
 The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet, 
 And it seem’d, to a fanciful v iew, 
 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 
 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown’d, 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas 1 
 I snapp’d it, it fell to the ground. 
 
 And such, I exclaim’d, is the pitiless part 
 Some act by the delicate mind, 
 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 Already to sorrow resign’d. 
 
 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 
 Might have bloom’d with its owner awhile, 
 
 And the tear that is wiped with a little address, 
 
 May be follow’d perhaps by a smile. 
 
 PART i. 
 
 c 
 
38 
 
 THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 What Nature, alas! has denied 
 To the delicate growth of our isle, 
 
 Art has in a measure supplied, 
 
 And Winter is deck’d with a smile. 
 
 See, Mary, what beauties I bring 
 From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
 
 Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, 
 Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 
 
 5 Tis a bower of Arcadian sw eets, 
 
 Where Flora is still in her prime, 
 
 A fortress, to which she retreats 
 
 From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
 
 While Earth wears a mantle of snow, 
 
 These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
 As the fairest and sweetest, that blow 
 On the beautiful bosom of May. 
 
 See how they have safely survived 
 The frowns of a sky so severe ; 
 
 Such Mary’s true love, that has lived 
 Through many a turbulent year. 
 
 The charms of the late-blowing rose 
 Seem graced with a livelier hue, 
 
 And the winter of sorrow best show s 
 The truth of a friend such as you. 
 
39 ' 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, 
 
 1792. 
 
 Whence is it, that amazed I hear 
 From yonder wither’d spray, 
 
 This foremost morn of all the year, 
 
 The melody of May ? 
 
 And why, since thousands would be proud 
 Of such a favour shown, 
 
 Am I selected from the crowd, 
 
 To witness it alone? 
 
 Sing’st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 
 
 For that I also long 
 Have practised in Ihe groves like thee, 
 
 Though not like thee in song? 
 
 Or sing’st thou rather under force 
 Of some divine command, 
 
 Commission’d to presage a course 
 Of happier days at hand? 
 
 Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 
 And joyless year have I, 
 
 As thou today, put forth my song 
 Beneath a wintry sky. 
 
 But thee no wintry skies can harm, 
 
 Who only need’st to sing, 
 
 To make e’en January charm, 
 
 And every season Spring. 
 
 c 2 
 
40 
 
 THE POPLAR FIELD. 
 
 The poplars are fell’d, farewelfio the shade, 
 
 And the whispering sound of the cool colonade : 
 
 The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse in his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
 Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew ; 
 And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
 
 And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
 
 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, 
 And the scene where his melody charm’d me before, 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
 
 And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
 
 With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
 
 The change both my heart and my fancy employs, 
 
 I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys ; 
 Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
 Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 
 
41 
 
 THE SHRUBBERY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. 
 
 Oh, happy shades — to me unbless’d! 
 Friendly to peace, but not to me ! 
 
 How ill the scene that offers rest, 
 
 And heart that cannot rest, agree! 
 
 This glassy stream, that spreading pine, 
 Those alders quivering to the breeze, 
 
 Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, 
 
 And please, if any thing could please. 
 
 Eut fix’d unalterable Care 
 
 Foregoes not what she feels within, . 
 
 Shows the same sadness every where, 
 
 And slights the season and the scene. 
 
 For all that pleased in wood or lawn, 
 
 While Peace possess’d these silent bowers, 
 
 Her animating smile withdrawn, 
 
 Has lost its beauties and its powers. 
 
 The saint or moralist should tread 
 This moss-grown alley musing slow ; 
 
 They seek like me the secret shade, 
 
 But not like me to nourish wo! 
 
 Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 
 Alike admonish not to roam ; 
 
 These tell me of enjoyments past, 
 
 And those of sorrow's yet to come. 
 
42 
 
 HUMAN FRAILTY. 
 
 Weak and irresolute is man ; 
 
 The purpose of to-day, 
 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 To-morrow rends away. 
 
 The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 
 Vice seems already slain ; 
 
 But Passion rudely snaps the string, 
 
 And it revives again. 
 
 Some foe to his upright intent 
 Finds out his weaker part; 
 
 Virtue engages his assent, 
 
 But Pleasure wins his heart. 
 
 7 Tis here the folly of the wise 
 Through all his art we view; 
 
 And, while his tongue the charge denies, 
 His conscience owns it true. 
 
 Bound on a voyage of awful length 
 And dangers little known, 
 
 A stranger to superior strength, 
 
 Man vainly trusts his own. 
 
 But oars alone can ne'er prevail, 
 
 To reach the distant coast: 
 
 The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, 
 Or all the toil is lost. 
 
43 
 
 A COMPARISON. 
 
 The lapse of time and rivers is the same, 
 
 Both speed their journey with a restless stream; 
 The silent pace, with which they steal away, 
 
 No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay ; 
 Alike irrevocable both when past, 
 
 And a wide ocean swallows both at last 
 Though each resemble each in every part, 
 
 A difference strikes at length the musing heart; 
 Streams nevfer flow in vain; where streams abound 
 How laughs the land with various plenty crown’d ! 
 But Time, that should enrich the nobler mind, 
 Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, 
 Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 
 
 Silent and chaste she steals along, 
 
 Far from the world’s gay busy throng; 
 
 With gentle yet prevailing force, 
 
 Intent upon her destined course : 
 
 Graceful and useful all she does, 
 
 Blessing and bless’ d where’er she goes, 
 Pure-bosom’d as that watery glass, 
 
 And Heaven reflected in her face. 
 
44 
 
 SONG ON PEACE. 
 
 Air — “ My fond shepherds of late ” Sfc. 
 
 No longer I follow a sound ; 
 
 No longer a dream I pursue ; 
 
 0 Happiness ! not to be found, 
 Unattainable treasure, adieu! 
 
 1 have sought thee in splendour and dress, 
 In the regions of pleasure and taste; 
 
 I have sought thee, and seem’d to possess, 
 But have proved thee a vision at last. 
 
 An humble ambition and hope 
 
 The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 
 
 5 Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope 
 And the summit of all our desires. 
 
 Peace may be the lot of the mind 
 That seeks it in meekness and love: 
 
 But rapture and bliss are confined 
 To the glorified spirits above. 
 
45 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air — ■“ The Lass of Patie’s Mill” 
 
 When all within is peace, 
 
 How nature seems to smile! 
 
 Delights that never cease, 
 
 The live-long day beguile. 
 
 From morn to dewy eve, 
 
 With open hand she showers 
 
 Fresh blessings to deceive 
 And soothe the silent hours. 
 
 It is content of heart 
 
 Gives nature power to please ; 
 
 The mind that feels no smart 
 Enlivens all it sees ; 
 
 Can make a wintry sky 
 
 Seem bright as smiling May, 
 
 And evening’s closing eye 
 As peep of early day. 
 
 The vast majestic globe, 
 
 So beauteously array’d 
 
 In nature’s various robe, 
 
 With wondrous skill display’d, 
 
 Is to a mourner’s heart 
 A dreary wild at best ; 
 
 It flutters to depart, 
 
 And longs to be at rest. 
 
 c 3 
 
43 
 
 ON THE 
 
 LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, 
 
 sept. 1782. 
 
 To the March in Scipio . 
 
 Toll for (be brave ! 
 
 The brave that are no more ! 
 
 All sunk beneath the wave. 
 
 East by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, 
 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel, 
 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land breeze shook the shrouds, 
 
 And she was overset ; 
 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
 
 His last sea-fight is fought ; 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
47 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 
 She sprang no fatal leak ; 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath ; 
 
 His lingers held the pen, 
 
 When Kempenfelt went down, 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 
 And mingle with our cup 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound, 
 
 And she may float again, 
 
 Full charged with England’s thunder, 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone, 
 
 His victories are o’er; 
 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 
48 
 
 SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 
 1792. 
 
 Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 
 
 Hears thee by cruel men and impious call’d 
 Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall’d 
 From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. 
 
 Friend of the poor, the wrong’d, the fetter-gall’d, 
 Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain. 
 
 Thou hast achieved a part ; hast gain’d the ear 
 Of Britain’s senate to thy glorious cause ; 
 
 Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho’ cold caution pause 
 And weave delay, the better hour is near 
 That shall remunerate thy toils severe 
 By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. 
 
 Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
 From all the Just on earth, and all the Blest above. 
 
 SONNET TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 On his Emphatical and Interesting Delivery of the 
 Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House 
 of Lords . 
 
 Cowper, whose silver voice, task’d sometimes hard, 
 Legends prolix delivers in the ears 
 (Attentive when thou read’st) of England’s peers, 
 Let verse at length yield thee t4iy just reward. 
 
49 
 
 Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, 
 Expending late on all that length of plea 
 Thy generous powers, but silence honour’d thee, 
 Mute as e’er gazed on orator or bard. 
 
 Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside 
 
 Both heart and head : and couldst with music sweet 
 Of attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
 
 Like thy renown’d forefathers, far and wide 
 
 Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet 
 Of others' speech, but magic of thy own , 
 
 SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON. 
 
 On his Presenting me with an Antique Bust of Homer , 
 1793 . 
 
 Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me! 
 
 When I behold this fruit of thy regard, 
 
 The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, 
 
 I reverence feel for him, and love for thee. 
 
 Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be 
 Wise men and learn’d, who grudge not to reward 
 With some applause my bold attempt and hard, 
 Which others scorn: critics by courtesy. 
 
 The grief is this, that sunk in Homer’s mine, 
 
 I lose my precious years now soon to fail, 
 Handling his gold, which howsoe’er it shine, 
 
 Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. 
 Be wiser thou— like our forefather Donne, 
 
 Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. 
 
50 
 
 SONNET TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 1793 . 
 
 Dear architect, of fine Chateaux in air, 
 
 Worthier to stand for ever if they could, 
 
 Than any built of stone, or yet of wood, 
 
 For back of royal elephant to bear! 
 
 O for permission from the skies to share, 
 
 Much to my own, though little to thy good, 
 
 With thee, (not subject to the jealous mood!) 
 
 A partnership of literary ware ! 
 
 But I am bankrupt now ; and doom’d henceforth 
 To drudge, in descant dry, on others’ lays; 
 
 Bards, I acknowledge, of unequali’d worth! 
 
 But what is commentator’s happiest praise? 
 
 That he has furnish’d lights for other eyes, 
 
 Which they, who need them, use, and then despise. 
 
 SONNET TO DR. AUSTIN. 
 1792 . 
 
 Austin ! accept a grateful verse from me, 
 The poet’s treasure, no inglorious fee. 
 
 Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind 
 Pleasing requital in my verse may find ; 
 
 Verse oft has dash’d the scythe of Time aside, 
 Immortalizing names which else had died. 
 
51 
 
 And oh ! could I command the glittering wealth 
 With which sick kings are glad to purchase health ; 
 Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, 
 
 Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 
 
 I would not recompense his art with less, 
 
 Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 
 
 Friend of my friend! * I love thee, though unknown, 
 And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. 
 
 On his Picture of me in Crayons , drawn at Eartham , in 
 the 61 st Year of my Age, in the Months of August 
 and September . 
 
 1792. 
 
 Romney, expert infallibly to trace 
 
 On chart or canvas, not the form alone 
 And semblance, but, however faintly shown, 
 
 The mind’s impression too on every face — 
 
 With strokes that time ought never to erase 
 Thou hast so pencill’d mine, that though I own 
 The subject worthless, I have never known 
 
 The artist shining with superior grace. 
 
 * Hay ley. 
 
52 
 
 But this I mark — that symptoms none of woe 
 In thy incomparable work appear. 
 
 Well — I am satisfied it should be so, 
 
 Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; 
 
 For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see 
 When I was Hayley’s guest, and sat to Thee ? 
 
 SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN. 
 
 1793 . 
 
 Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, [drew, 
 Such aid from Heaven as some have feign’d they 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
 And undebased by praise of meaner things, 
 
 That ere through age or wo I shed my wings, 
 
 I may record thy worth with honour due, 
 
 In verse as musical as thou art true, 
 
 And that immortalizes whom it sings. 
 
 But thou hast little need. There is a book 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 
 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
 
 A chronicle of actions just and bright ; 
 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
 
 And, since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine. 
 
53 
 
 .TO MARY. 
 
 AUTUMN OF 1793. 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past, 
 
 Since first our sky was overcast, 
 
 Ah would that this might be the last ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 
 I see thee daily weaker grow— - 
 ; Twas my distress that brought thee low. 
 
 My Mary! 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still, 
 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, 
 And all thy threads with magic art 
 Have wound themselves about this heart, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 Like language utter’d in a dream ; 
 
 Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
54 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For could I view nor them nor thee, 
 
 What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
 
 The sun would rise in vain for me, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 
 Yet gently press’d, press gently mine, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
 
 That now at every step thou movest 
 Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, 
 
 My Mary.! 
 
 And still to love, though press’d with ill, 
 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
 
 How oft the sadness that I show, 
 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
55 
 
 ON 
 
 THE DEATH 
 
 OF 
 
 MRS. THROCKMORTON’S BULFINCH. 
 
 Ye nymphs! if e’er your eyes were red 
 With tears' o'er hapless favourites shed, 
 
 O share Maria’s grief! 
 
 Her favourite, even in his cage, 
 
 (What will not hunger’s cruel rage ?) 
 
 Assassin’d by a thief. 
 
 Where Rhenus strays his vine among, 
 
 The egg was laid from which he sprung, 
 
 And though by nature mute, 
 
 Or only with a whistle bless’d, 
 
 Well-taught he all the sounds express’d 
 Of flagelet or flute. 
 
 The honours of his ebon poll 
 Were brighter than the sleekest mole, 
 
 His bosom of the hue 
 With which Aurora decks the skies, 
 
 When piping winds shall soon arise, 
 
 To sweep away the dew. 
 
56 
 
 Above, below, in all the house, 
 
 Dire foe alike of bird and mouse, 
 
 No cat had leave to dwell ; 
 
 And Bully’s cage supported stood 
 On props of smoothest-shaven wood, 
 Large-built and latticed well. 
 
 Well-latticed — but the grate, alas! 
 
 Not rough with wire of steel or brass, 
 
 For Bully's plumage sake, 
 
 But smooth with wands from Ouse’s side, 
 With which, when neatly peel’d and dried, 
 The swains their baskets make. 
 
 Night veil’d the pole : all seem’d secure : 
 When led by instinct sharp and sure, 
 Subsistence to provide, 
 
 A beast forth sallied on the scout, 
 Long-back’d, long* tail’d, with whiker’d snout, 
 And badger-colour’d hide. 
 
 He, entering at the study-door, 
 
 Its ample area ’gan explore ; 
 
 And something in the wind 
 Conjectured, sniffing round and round, 
 
 Better than all the books he found, 
 
 Food chiefly for the mind. 
 
57 
 
 Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, 
 A dream disturb'd poor Bully’s rest ; 
 
 In sleep he seem'd to view 
 A rat fast- clinging to the cage, 
 
 And, screaming at the sad presage, 
 Awoke and found it true. 
 
 For, aided both by ear and scent, 
 
 Right to his mark the monster went— 
 
 Ah, muse ! forbear to speak 
 Minute the horrours that ensued; 
 
 His teeth were strong, the cage was wood 
 He left poor Bully’s beak. 
 
 O had he made that too his prey ! 
 
 That beak, whence issued many a lay 
 Of such mellifluous tone, 
 
 Might have repaid him well, I wote, 
 
 For silencing so sweet a throat, 
 
 Fast stuck within his own. 
 
 Maria weeps-— the Muses mourn— 
 So, when by Bacchanalians tom, 
 On Thracian Hebrus' side 
 The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, 
 His head alone remain’d to tell 
 The cruel death he died. 
 
58 / 
 
 THE 
 
 POET’S NEW-YEAR’S-GIFT. 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
 
 Maria ! I have every good 
 For thee wish'd many a time, 
 
 Both sad and in a cheerful mood, 
 
 But never yet in rhyme. 
 
 To wish thee fairer is no need, 
 
 More prudent or more sprightly, 
 
 Or more ingenious, or more freed 
 From temper-flaws unsightly. 
 
 What favour then not yet possess’d 
 Can I for thee require, 
 
 In wedded love already bless’d, 
 
 To thy whole heart’s desire ? 
 
 None here is happy but in part; 
 
 Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
 
 There dwells some wish in every heart, 
 And doubtless one in thine. 
 
 That wish, on some fair future day, 
 Which Fate shall brightly gild, 
 
 (’Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 
 
 I wish it ail fulfill’d. 
 

 TO 
 
 MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
 
 ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE S ODE 
 
 AD LIBRUM SUUM. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1790. 
 
 Maria, could Horace have guess’d 
 What honour awaited his ode, 
 
 To his own little volume address’d, 
 
 The honour which you have bestow’d : 
 
 Who have traced it in characters here, • 
 
 So elegant, even, and neat, 
 
 He had laugh’d at the critical sneer 
 
 Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 
 
 And sneer, if you please, he had said, 
 
 A nymph shall hereafter arise, 
 
 Who shall give me, when you are all dead, 
 The glory your malice denies ; 
 
 Shall dignity give to my lay, 
 
 Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
 
 And even a poet shall say, 
 
 Nothing ever was written so well. 
 
60 
 
 CATHARINA. 
 
 TO MRS. STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNAY.) 
 
 She came — she is gone — we have raet- 
 And meet perhaps never again ; 
 
 The sun of that moment is set, 
 
 And seems to have risen in vain, 
 
 Catharina has fled like a dream 
 
 (So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
 
 But has left a regret and esteem 
 That will not so suddenly pass. 
 
 The last evening ramble we made, 
 Catharina, Maria, and J, 
 
 Our progress was often delay’d 
 By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
 
 We paused under many a tree, 
 
 And much she was charm’d Avith a tone 
 
 Less sweet to Maria arid me, 
 
 Who so lately had witness’d her own. 
 
 My numbers that day she had sung. 
 
 And gave them a grace so divine, 
 
 As only her musical tongue 
 
 Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
 
61 
 
 The longer I heard, I esteem’d 
 The work of iny fancy the more, 
 
 And e’en to myself never seem’d 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
 Though the pleasures of London exceed 
 In number the days of the year, 
 Catharina, did nothing impede. 
 
 Would feel herself happier here; 
 
 For the close-woven arches oflimes 
 On the banks of our river, I know. 
 
 Are sweeter to her many times 
 
 Thau aught that the city can show. 
 
 So it is, when the mind is endued 
 With a well-judging taste from above, 
 Then, whether embellish’d or rude, 
 
 ’Tis nature alone that we love. 
 
 The achievements of art may amuse, 
 
 May even our wonder excite, 
 
 But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 
 A lasting, a sacred delight. 
 
 Since then in the rural recess 
 Catharina alone can rejoice, 
 
 May it still be her lot to possess 
 The scene of her sensible choice ! 
 
 To inhabit a mansion remote 
 From the clatter of street-pacing steeds 
 And by Philomel’s annual note 
 To measure the life that she leads. 
 
 part i. 
 
62 
 
 With her book, and her voice, and her lyre. 
 To wing all her moments at home, 
 
 And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 
 As oft as it suits her to roam, 
 
 She will have just the life she prefers, 
 
 With little to hope or to fear, 
 
 And ours would be pleasant as hers, 
 
 Might we view her enjoying it here. 
 
63 
 
 CATHARINA: 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 On her Marriage to George Coart nay, Esq . 
 1792. 
 
 Believe it or not, as you chuse, 
 
 The doctrine is certainly true^ 
 
 That the future is known to the muse, 
 
 And poets are oracles too. 
 
 I did but express a desire 
 To see Catharina at home, 
 
 At the side of my friend George’s fire, 
 
 And lo — she is actually come. 
 
 Such prophecy some may despise, 
 
 But the wish of a poet and friend 
 Perhaps is approved in the skies, 
 
 And therefore attains to its end. 
 
 ’Twas a wish that flew ardently forth 
 From a bosom effectually w arm’d 
 With the talents, the graces, and w orth 
 Of the person for whom it was form’d. 
 
 Maria * would lea ve us, I knew, 
 
 To the grief and regret of us all, 
 
 Bpt less to our grief, could we view 
 Catharina the queen of the hall : 
 
 * Lady Throckmorton. 
 
 D 2 
 
64 
 
 And therefore l wish’d as I did, 
 
 And therefore this union of hands; 
 Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 
 
 But ail cry — Amen — to the bans. 
 
 Since therefore I seem to incur 
 No danger of wishing in vain, 
 
 When making good wishes for her, 
 
 I will e'en to my wishes again — 
 With one I have made her a wife. 
 
 And now I will try with another, 
 Which I cannot suppress for my life — 
 How soon I can make her a mother. 
 
65 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 1786. 
 
 This cap, that so stately appears, 
 With ribbon-bound* tassel on high, 
 Which seems by the crest that it rears 
 Ambitious of brushing the sky : 
 
 This cap to my cousin I owe ; 
 
 She gave it, and gave nie beside, 
 Wreathed into an elegant bow, 
 
 The ribbon with which it is tied. 
 
 This wheel-footed studying chair, 
 Contrived both for toil and repose, 
 Wide-elbow’d, and wadded with hair, 
 In which I both scribble and doze, 
 Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, 
 
 And rival in lustre of that 
 In which, or Astronomy lies, 
 
 Fair Cassiopeia sat: 
 
 These carpets, so soft to the foot, 
 Caledonia’s traffic and pride ! 
 
 Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot, 
 Escaped from a cross-country-ride! 
 This table and mirror within, 
 
 Secure from collision and dust, 
 
 At which I oft shave cheek and chin, 
 And periwig nicely adjust: 
 
66 
 
 This moveable structure of shelves, 
 
 For its beauty admired and its use, 
 
 And charged with octavos and twelves, 
 The gayest I had to produce ; 
 
 Where, flaming in scarlet and gold, 
 
 My poems enchanted I view, 
 
 And hope, in due time, to behold 
 My Iliad and Odyssey too : 
 
 This china, that decks the alcove, 
 
 Which here people call a boufet, 
 
 But what the gods call it above 
 Has ne’er been reveal’d to us yet : 
 These curtains, that keep the room warm, 
 Or cool, as the season demands, 
 
 Those stoves, that for pattern and form, 
 Seem the labour of Mulciber’s hands : 
 
 All these are not half that I owe 
 To one, from our earliest youth 
 To me ever ready to show 
 
 Benignity, friendship, and truth ; 
 
 For Time, the destroyer, declared. 
 
 And foe of our perishing kind, 
 
 If even her face he has spared, 
 
 Much less could he alter her mind. 
 
 Thus compass’d about with the goods 
 And chattels of leisure and ease, 
 
 I indulge my poetical moods 
 In many such fancies as these ; 
 
67 
 
 And fancies I fear they will seem— 
 Poets’ goods are not often so hne ; 
 
 The poets will swear that I dream, 
 When I sing of the splendour of mine. 
 
 TO MY COUSIN, 
 
 ANNE BODHAM, 
 
 ON 
 
 RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, 
 MADE BY HERSELF. 
 
 1793. 
 
 My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
 When I was young, and thou no more 
 Than plaything for a nurse, 
 
 I danced and fondled on my knee, 
 
 A kitten both in size and glee, 
 
 I thank thee for my purse. 
 
 Gold pays the worth of all things here ; 
 But not of love ; — that gem 7 s too dear 
 For richest rogues to win it; 
 
 I, therefore, as a proof of love, 
 
 Esteem thy present far above 
 
 The best things kept within it. 
 
68 
 
 TO MRS. KING. 
 
 On her hind Present to the Author, a Patch-work 
 Counterpane of her own making . 
 
 1790. 
 
 The Bard, if e’er he feel at all, 
 
 Must sure be quicken’d by a call 
 Both on his heart and head, 
 
 To pay with tuneful thanks the care 
 And kindness of a lady fair 
 
 Who deigns to deck his bed. 
 
 A bed like this, in ancient time, 
 
 On Ida’s barren top sublime, 
 
 (As Homer’s epic shows,) 
 
 Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, 
 Without the aid of sun or showers, 
 
 For Jove and Juno rose. 
 
 Less beautiful, however gay, 
 
 Is that which in the scorching day 
 Receives the weary swain, 
 
 Who, laying liis long scythe aside, 
 
 Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, 
 
 Till roused to toil again. 
 
69 
 
 What labours of the loom I see! 
 
 Looms numberless have groan’d for me ! 
 
 Should every maiden come 
 To scramble for the patch that bears 
 The impress of the robe she wears, 
 
 The bell would toll for some. 
 
 And oh, what havoc would ensue ! 
 
 This bright display of every hue 
 All in a moment fled ! 
 
 As if a storm should strip the bowers 
 Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers— 
 Each pocketing a shred. 
 
 Thanks, then, to every gentle fair, 
 
 Who will not come to peck me bare 
 As bird of borrow’d feather, 
 
 And thanks to one, above them all, 
 
 The gentle fair of Pertenhall, 
 
 Who put the whole together. 
 
 d 3 
 
70 
 
 TO LADY AUSTEN. 
 
 1781 . 
 
 Dear Anna — between friend and friend, 
 Prose answers every common end; 
 
 Serves, in a piain and homely way, 
 
 To express the occurrence of the day; 
 
 Our health, the weather, and the news; 
 
 What walks we take, what books we chuse ; 
 And all the floating thoughts we find 
 Upon the surface of the mind. 
 
 But when a poet takes the pen, 
 
 Far more alive than other men, 
 
 Fie feels a gentle tingling come 
 * Down to his finger and his thumb, 
 
 Derived from nature’s noblest part, 
 
 The centre of a glowing heart : 
 
 And this is what the W orld, who knows 
 No flights above the pitch of prose, 
 
 Flis more sublime vagaries slighting, 
 Denominates an itch for writing. 
 
 No wonder I, who scribble rhyme 
 To catch the triflers of the time, 
 
 And tell them truths divine aiid clear, 
 Which, couch’d in prose, they will not hear ; 
 Who labour hard to allure and draw 
 The loiterers I never saw, 
 
 Should feel that itching, and that tingling, 
 With all my purpose intermingling, 
 
71 
 
 To your intrinsic merit true, 
 
 When call'd to address myself to you. 
 
 Mysterious are His ways, whose power 
 Brings fortli that unexpected hour, 
 
 When minds, that never met before, 
 
 Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
 
 It is the allotment of the skies, 
 
 The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
 
 That guides and governs our affections, 
 And plans and orders our connexions; 
 Directs us in our distant road, 
 
 And marks the bounds of our abode. 
 
 Thus we were settled when you found us, 
 Peasants and children all around us, 
 
 Not dreaming of so dear a friend, 
 
 Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.* 
 
 Thus Martha, e’en against her will, 
 Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
 
 And you, though you must needs prefer 
 The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,f 
 Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
 A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
 
 This page of Providence quite new, 
 
 And now just opening to our view, 
 Employs our present thoughts and pains, 
 To guess and spell what it contains ; 
 
 * An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of Cowper, 
 which faced the market-place. 
 
 f Lady Austen’s residence in France. 
 
72 
 
 Eat day by day, and year by year, 
 
 Will make the dark enigma clear ; 
 
 And furnish us, perhaps, at last. 
 
 Like other scenes already past, 
 
 With proof, that we and our affairs 
 Are part of a Jehovah’s cares : 
 
 For God unfolds, by slow degrees, 
 
 The purport of his deep decrees ; 
 
 Sheds every hour a clearer light 
 In aid of our defective sight ; 
 
 And spreads, at length, before the soul, 
 
 A beautiful and perfect whole, 
 
 Which busy man’s inventive brain 
 Toils to anticipate in vain. 
 
 Say, Anna, had you never known 
 The beauties of a rose full blown, 
 
 Could you, though luminous your eye> 
 By looking on the bud, descry, 
 
 Or guess, with a prophetic power, 
 
 The future splendour of the flower ? 
 
 Just so the Omnipotent, who turns 
 The system of a world’s concerns, 
 
 From mere minutiae can educe 
 Events of most important use ; 
 
 And bid a dawning sky display 
 The blaze of a meridian day. 
 
 The works of man, tend, one and all, 
 
 As needs they must, from great to small ; 
 
 And vanity absorbs at length 
 
 The monuments of human strength. 
 
73 
 
 But who can tell how vast the plan 
 Which this day’s incident began ? 
 
 Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion 
 For our dim-sighted observation ; 
 
 It pass’d unnoticed, as the bird 
 That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
 And yet may prove, when understood, 
 An harbinger of endless good. 
 
 Not that I deem, or mean to call 
 Friendship a blessing cheap or small ; 
 But merely to remark, that ours, 
 
 Like some of nature’s sweetest flowers, 
 Rose from a seed of tiny size, 
 
 That seem’d to promise no such prize ; 
 A transient visit intervening, 
 
 And made almost without a meaning, 
 (Hardly the effect of inclination, 
 
 Much less of pleasing expectation,) 
 Produced a friendship, then begun, 
 That has cemented us in one ; 
 
 And placed it in our power to prove, 
 By long fidelity and love, 
 
 That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
 
 4 A threefold cord is not soon broken.* 
 
74 
 
 ON 
 
 MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS. 
 
 The Birds put off tlieir every hue, 
 
 To dress a room for Montagu. 
 
 The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes, 
 
 His rainbows and his starry eyes ; 
 
 The Pheasant plumes, which round infold 
 His mantling neck with downy gold ; 
 
 The Cock his arch’d tail’s azure show; 
 
 And, river blanch’d, the Swan his snow. 
 
 All tribes beside of Indian name, 
 
 That glossy shine, or vivid flame, 
 
 Where rises and where sets the day, 
 
 Whate’er they boast of rich and gay, 
 
 Contribute to the gorgeous plan, 
 
 Proud to advance it all they can. 
 
 This plumage neither dashing shower, 
 
 Nor blasts that shake the dripping bower, 
 
 Shall drench again or discompose, 
 
 But screen’d from every storm that blows, 
 
 It boasts a splendour ever new, 
 
 Safe with protecting Montagu, 
 
 To the same patroness resort, 
 
 Secure of favour at her court, 
 
 Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought 
 Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, 
 
 Which, though new-born, with vigour move, 
 Tike Pallas springing arm’d from Jove — 
 
75 
 
 Imagination scattering round 
 Wild roses over furrow’d ground, 
 
 Which Labour of his frown beguile, 
 
 And teach Philosophy a smile — 
 
 Wit flashing on Religion’s side, 
 
 Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, 
 
 The gem, though luminous before, 
 Obtrudes on human notice more, 
 
 Like sunbeams on the golden height 
 Of some tall temple playing bright — 
 Well-tutor’d Learning, from his books 
 Dismiss’d with grave, not haughty, looks, 
 Their order on his shelves exact, 
 
 Not more harmonious or compact 
 Than that, to which he keeps confined * 
 The various treasures of his mind — 
 
 All these to Montagu’s repair, 
 
 Ambitious of a shelter there. 
 
 There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, 
 Their ruffled plumage calm reft, 
 
 (For stormy troubles loudest roar 
 Around their flight who highest soar,) 
 And in her eye, and by her aid, 
 
 Shine safe without a fear to fade. 
 
 She thus maintains divided sway 
 With yon bright regent of the day ; 
 
 The Plume and Poet both we know, 
 Their lustre to his influence owe ; 
 
 And she the works of Phoebus aiding, 
 Roth Poet saves and Plume from fading. 
 
76 
 
 TO AN 
 
 AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY 
 
 IN FRANCE. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 A Stranger’s purpose in these lays 
 Is to congratulate and not to praise. 
 
 To give the creature the Creator’s due, 
 
 Were sin in me, and an offence to you. 
 
 From man to man, or e’en to woman paid, 
 
 Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, 
 
 A coin by Craft for folly’s use design’d, 
 
 Spurious, and only current with the blind. 
 
 The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
 
 No traveller ever reached thatFless’d abode, 
 
 Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
 
 The World may dance along the flowery plain, 
 Cheer’d as they go by many a sprightly strain ; 
 Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, 
 
 With unshod feet they yet securely tread ; 
 Admonish’d, scorn the caution and the friend, 
 
 Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
 
 But He, who knew what human hearts would prove, 
 How slow to learn the dictates of his love, 
 
 That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, 
 
 A life of ease would make them harder still, 
 
77 
 
 In pity to the souls Ills grace design’d 
 To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
 
 Call’d for a cloud to darken all their years, 
 
 And said, ‘ Go spend them in the vale of tears.’ 
 
 O balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! 
 
 O salutary streams that murmur there ! 
 
 These flowing from the Fount of Grace above, 
 Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. 
 
 The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys, 
 
 Chili blasts of trouble nip their springing joys, 
 
 An envious World will interpose its frown 
 To mar delights superior to its own, 
 
 And many a pang, experienced still within, 
 Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin ; 
 
 But ills of every shape and every name, 
 Transform’d to blessings, miss their cruel aim ; 
 And every moment’s calm that soothes the breast, 
 Is given in earnest of eternal rest. 
 
 Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast 
 Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! 
 
 No shepherd’s tents within thy view appear, 
 
 But the chief Shepherd even there is near; 
 
 Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain 
 Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; 
 
 Thy tears all issue from a source divine, 
 
 And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine— 
 
 So once in Gideon’s fleece the dews were found, 
 And drought on all the drooping herbs around, 
 
78 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 
 
 Dear Joseph— five and twenty years ago — 
 
 Alas how time escapes ! — ’tis even so — 
 
 With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, 
 
 And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
 A tedious hour— and now we never meet ! 
 
 As some grave gentleman in Terence says, 
 
 (’Twas therefore much the same in ancient days,) 
 Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings— 
 Strange fluctuation of all human things ! 
 
 True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, 
 But distance only cannot change the heart: 
 
 And, were I call’d to prove the assertion true, 
 
 One proof should serve — a reference to you. 
 
 Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, 
 Though nothing have occurr’d to kindle strife. 
 
 We find the friends we fancied we had won, 
 Though numerous once, reduced to few or none ? 
 Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? 
 No ; gold they seem’d, but they were never such. 
 
 Horatio’s servant once, with bow and cringe, 
 Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge, 
 Dreading a negative, and overaw’d 
 Lest he should trespass, begg’d to go abroad. 
 
79 
 
 Go, fellow ! — whither? — turning short about — 
 
 Nay. Stay at home — you’re always going out. 
 
 Tis but a step, Sir, just at the street’s end. — 
 
 For what? — An please you, Sir, to see a friend. — 
 
 A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem’d to start — 
 
 Yea marry shalt thou, and with ail my heart.— 
 And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw, 
 I’ll see him too — the first I ever saw. 
 
 I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, 
 
 And was his plaything often when a child ; 
 
 But somewhat at that moment pinch’d him close, 
 Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
 
 Perhaps his confidence just then betray’d, 
 
 His grief might prompt him with the speech he made 
 Perhaps ’twas mere good humour gave it birth, 
 
 The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. 
 Howe’er it was, his language, in my mind, 
 
 Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 
 
 But not to moralize too much, and strain, 
 
 To prove an evil of which all complain, 
 
 (I hate long arguments verbosely spun,) 
 
 One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
 
 Once on a time an emperor, a wise man, 
 
 No matter where, in China or Japan, 
 
 Decreed, that whosoever should offend 
 Against the w ell-known duties of a friend, 
 Convicted once, should ever after wear 
 But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
 
 The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
 
 That all was naught within, and all found out. 
 
80 
 
 O happy Britain ! we have not to fear, 
 
 Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
 
 Else, could a law, like that which I relate, 
 
 Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
 
 Some few, that I have known in days of old, 
 Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold ; 
 While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, 
 Might traverse England safely to and fro, 
 
 An honest man, close-button’d to the chin, 
 Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. 
 
81 
 
 TO THE REV.MR. NEWTON. 
 
 AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The swallows in their torpid state 
 Compose their useless wing, 
 
 And bees in hives as idly wait 
 The call of early Spring. 
 
 The keenest frost that binds the stream, 
 The wildest wind that blows, 
 
 Are neither felt nor fear’d by them, 
 
 Secure of their repose. 
 
 But man, all feeling and awake, 
 
 The gloomy scene surveys ; 
 
 With present ills his heart must ake, 
 
 And pant for brighter days. 
 
 Old Winter, halting o’er the mead, 
 
 Bids me and Mary mourn; 
 
 But lovely Spring peeps o’er his head, 
 
 And whispers your return. 
 
 Then April, with her sister May, 
 
 Shall chase him from the bowers, 
 
 And weave fresh garlands every day, 
 
 To crown the smiling hours. 
 
 And if a tear, that speaks regret, 
 
 Of happier times, appear, 
 
 A glimpse of joy, that we have met, 
 
 Shall shine, and dry the tear. 
 
82 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, 
 
 ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE. — OCTOBER, 1780. 
 
 That ocean you have late survey’d, 
 
 Those rocks I too have seen, 
 
 But I, afflicted and dismay’d, 
 
 You tranquil and serene. 
 
 You from the flood-controlling steep, 
 
 Saw stretch’d before your view, 
 
 With conscious joy, the threatening deep, 
 
 No longer such to you. 
 
 To me, the waves that ceaseless broke 
 Upon the dangerous coast, 
 
 Hoarsely and ominously spoke 
 Of all my treasure lost. 
 
 Your sea of troubles you have pass’d, 
 
 And found the peaceful shore ; 
 
 I, tempest-toss’d, and wreck'd at last, 
 
 Come home to port no more. 
 
 TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 
 
 Unwin, I should but ill repay 
 The kindness of a friend, 
 
 Whose worth deserves as warm a lay 
 As ever Friendship penn’d, 
 
 Thy name omitted in a page, 
 
 That would reclaim a vicious age. 
 
83 
 
 A union form’d, as mine with thee, 
 Not rashly, nor in sport, 
 
 May be as fervent in degree, 
 
 And faithful in its sort, 
 
 And may as rich in comfort prove. 
 
 As that of true fraternal love. 
 
 The bud inserted in the rind, 
 
 The bud of peach or rose, 
 
 Adorns, though differing in its kind, 
 The stock whereon it grows, 
 
 With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, 
 As if produced by Nature there. 
 
 Not rich, I render what I may, 
 
 I seize thy name in haste, 
 
 And place it in this first essay, 
 
 Lest this should prove the last. 
 
 } Tis where it should be — in a plan 
 That holds in view the good of man. 
 
 The poet’s lyre, to fix his fame, 
 Should be the poet’s heart ; 
 Affection lights a brighter flame 
 Than ever blazed by art. 
 
 No Muses on these lines attend, 
 
 I sink the poet in the friend. 
 
84 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO RAIN 
 HAD FALLEN THERE. — 1793. 
 
 If Gideon’s fleece, which drench’d with dew he found, 
 While moisture none refresh’d the herbs around, 
 Might fitly represent the Church, endow’d 
 With heavenly gifts, to Heathens not allow’d ; 
 
 In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, 
 
 Thy locks were wet when others’ locks were dry. 
 Heaven grant us half the omen — may we see 
 Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! 
 
 ON THE 
 
 BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD’S LIBRARY, 
 TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. 
 
 BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1?80. 
 
 So then — the Vandals of our isle, 
 
 Sworn foes to sense and law, 
 
 Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 
 Than ever Roman saw! 
 
 And Murray sighs o’er Pope and Swift, 
 
 And many a treasure more, 
 
 The well-judged purchase and the gift, 
 
 That graced his letter’d store. 
 
 Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, 
 
 The loss was his alone ; 
 
 But ages yet to come shall mourn 
 The burning of his own . 
 
85 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 When Wit and Genius meet their doom, 
 In all-devouring flame, 
 
 They tell us of the fate of Rome, 
 
 And bid us fear the same. 
 
 O’er Murray’s loss the Muses wept, 
 They felt the rude alarm, 
 
 Yet bless’d the guardian care that kept 
 His sacred head from harm. 
 
 There Memory, like the bee, that’s fed 
 From Flora’s balmy store, 
 
 The quintessence of all he read 
 Had treasured up before. 
 
 The lawless herd, with fury blind, 
 
 Have done him cruel wrong ; 
 
 The flowers are gone— but still we find 
 The honey on his tongue. 
 
 PART i. 
 
 E 
 
86 
 
 ON THE 
 
 PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, Esq. 
 
 TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP 
 OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Round Thurlow’s head in early youth, 
 
 And in his sportive days, 
 
 Fair Science pour’d the light of truth, 
 
 And Genius shed his rays. 
 
 See ! with united wonder cried 
 The experienced and the sage, 
 
 Ambition in a boy supplied 
 With all the skill of age ! 
 
 Discernment, eloquence, and grace 
 Proclaim him bom to sway 
 
 The balance in the highest place, 
 
 And bear the palm away. 
 
 The praise Jbestow’d was just and wise ; 
 
 He sprang impetuous forth, 
 
 Secure of conquest, where the prize 
 Attends superior w orth. 
 
 So the best courser on the plain 
 Ere yet he starts is known, 
 
 And does but at the goal obtain 
 What all had deem'd his own. 
 
ttl 
 
 THE DIVERTING HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN GILPIN.; 
 
 Showing hoiv he went farther than he intended , and 
 came safe home again . 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 Of credit and renown, 
 
 A train-band captain eke was he 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, 
 
 Though wedded we have been 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 My sister, and my sister’s child, 
 
 Myself and children three, 
 
 Will till the chaise ; so you must ride 
 On horseback after we. 
 
 E 2 
 
88 
 
 He soon replied, I do admire 
 Of womankind but one, 
 
 And you are she, my dearest dear, 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 I am a linen-draper bold, 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 
 And my good friend the calender 
 Will lend his horse to go. 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That’s well said; 
 
 And for that wine is dear, 
 
 We will be furnish’d with our own, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear. 
 
 John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife ; 
 
 O’erjoy’d was he to find, 
 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
 But yet was not allow’d 
 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 Should say that she was proud : 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay’d, 
 Where they did all get in ; 
 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
89 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 
 Were never folk so glad, 
 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse’s side 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 
 And up he got, in haste to ride, 
 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of time, 
 
 Although it grieved him sore, 
 
 Yet loss of pence, full w ell he knew, 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 5 Twas long before the customers, 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 
 AVhen Betty screaming came down stairs, 
 The wine is left behind ! 
 
 Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me, 
 
 My leathern belt likewise, 
 
 In which I bear my trusty sword, 
 
 When I do exercise. 
 
90 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found, 
 
 To hold the liquor that she loved, 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear, 
 
 Through which the belt he drew, 
 
 And hung a bottle on each side, 
 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 Equipp’d from top to toe, 
 
 His long red cloak, well brush’d and neat. 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 Upon his nimble steed, 
 
 Full slowly pacing o’er the stones. 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 
 The snorting beast began to trot. 
 
 Which gall’d him in his seat. 
 
 So, fair and softly, John he cried, 
 
 But John he cried in vain ; 
 
 That trot became a gallop soon, 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
91 
 
 So stooping down, as needs be must, 
 
 Who cannot sit upright, 
 
 He grasp’d the mane with both his hands, 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 Had handled been before, 
 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 
 
 Away went hat and wig ; 
 
 He little dreamt, when he set out, 
 
 Of running such a rig. * 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamer long and gay, 
 
 Till, loop and button failing both, 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 The bottles he had slung ; 
 
 A bottle swinging at each side, 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children scream’d, 
 Up flew the windows all ; 
 
 And every soul cried out, Well done ! 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
02 
 
 Away went Gilpin— who but he ; 
 
 His fame soon spread around ; 
 
 He carries weight! he rides a racef 
 ? Tis for a thousand pound! 
 
 And still, as fast as he drew near, 
 
 ’Twas wonderful to view, 
 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now r , as he went bowing down 
 His reeking head full low, 
 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 Were 'shatter’d at a blow* 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road/ 
 
 Most piteous to be seen. 
 
 Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke. 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seem’d to carry weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle braced ; 
 
 For all might see the bottle-necks,. 
 
 Still dangling at his w aist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 These gambols he did play, 
 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 Of Edmonton so gay ; 
 
93 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 On both sides of the way, 
 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, 
 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 From the balcony spied 
 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here’s the house* 
 They all aloud did cry; 
 
 The dinner waits, and we are tired ; 
 
 Said Gilpin— So am I! 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 Inclined to tarry there ; 
 
 For why ? — his ow ner had a house 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an archer strong ; 
 
 So did he fly — which brings me to 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against his will, 
 
 Till at his friend the calender’s 
 His horse at last stood still. 
 
 E 3 
 
94 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 His neighbour in such trim, 
 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 What news ? what news P your tidings tell 
 Tell me you must and shall— 
 
 Say why bareheaded you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all? 
 
 Now r Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke ; 
 
 And thus unto the calender 
 In merry guise he spoke : 
 
 ■» 
 
 I came because your horse would come; 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, 
 
 They are upon the road. 
 
 The calender, right glad to find 
 His friend in merry pin. 
 
 Return’d him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house went in : 
 
 When straight he came with hat and wig ; 
 A wig that flow’d behind, 
 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
05 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 Thus show’d his ready wit— 
 
 My head is twice as big as yours, 
 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 But let me scrape the dirt away 
 That hangs upon your face ; 
 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 Be in a hungry case. 
 
 Said John, it is my wedding-day, 
 
 And all the world would stare, 
 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
 
 And I should dine at Ware. 
 
 So turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 I am in haste to dine ; 
 
 : Twas for your pleasure you came here, 
 You shall go back for mine. 
 
 Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 
 For which he paid full dear; 
 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 Did sing most loud and clear; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 Had heard a lion roar, 
 
 And gallop’d off with all his might, 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
1)6 
 
 Away went Gilpin , arid away 
 Went Gilpin’s hat and wig : 
 
 He lost them sooner than at first; 
 
 For why ? — they were too big. 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 Her husband posting down 
 
 Into the country far away, 
 
 She pull’d out half a crown; 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said, 
 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 
 This shall be yours, when you bring back 
 My husband safe and well. 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 John coming back amain; 
 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 
 
 By catching at his rein : 
 
 But not performing what he meant, 
 
 And gladly would have done, 
 
 The frighted steed he frighted more, 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 Went postboy at his heels, 
 
 The postboy’s horse right glad to miss 
 The lumbering of the wheels. 
 
97 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road, 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 
 With postboy scampering in the rear, 
 They raised the hue and cry 
 
 Stop thief! stop thief!— a highwayman! 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 
 And all and each that pass’d that way 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 Flew open in short space; 
 
 The toll-men thinking as before, 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too, 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 
 Nor stopp’d till where he had got up 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing, long live the king, 
 
 And Gilpin, long live he; 
 
 And, when he next doth ride abroad, 
 May I be there to see ! 
 
THE YEARLY DISTRESS ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 TITHING-TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX. 
 
 Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman , complaining 
 of the disagreeableness of the Day annually appointed 
 for receiving the Dues at the Parsonage. 
 
 Come, ponder well, for ? tis no jest, 
 To laugh it would be wrong ; 
 The troubles of a worthy priest 
 The burden of my song. 
 
 The priest he merry is and blithe 
 Three quarters of the year, 
 
 But oh! it cuts him like a scythe 
 When tithing- time draws near. 
 
 He then is full of frights and fears, 
 As one at point to die, 
 
 And long before the day appears 
 He heaves up many a sigh. 
 
m 
 
 For then the farmers coni©* jog, jog, 
 Along the miry road, 
 
 Each heart as hea^y as a log, 
 
 To make their payments good. 
 
 In sooth, the sorrow of such days 
 Is not to be express’d, 
 
 When he that takes and lie that pays 
 Are both alike distress'd. 
 
 Now all unwelcome at his gates 
 The clumsy swains alight, 
 
 With rueful faces and bald pates— 
 
 He trembles at the sight. 
 
 And well he may, for well lie knows 
 Each bumpkin of the clan, 
 
 Instead of paying what he owes, 
 
 Will cheat him if he can. 
 
 So in they come — each makes his leg, 
 And flings his head before, 
 
 And looks as if he came to beg, 
 
 And not to quit a score. 
 
 c And how does miss and madam do, 
 The little boy and all?’ 
 
 4 All tight and well. And how do yon, 
 Good Mr. What-d’y e-call?’ 
 
100 
 
 The dinner comes, and down they sit : 
 Were e’er such hungry folk? 
 
 There’s little talking, and no wit; 
 
 It is no time to joke. 
 
 One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, 
 
 One spits upon the floor, 
 
 Yet, not to give offence or grieve, 
 
 Holds up the cloth before. 
 
 The punch goes round, and they are dull 
 And lumpish still as ever ; 
 
 Like barrels with their bellies full, 
 
 They only weigh the heavier. 
 
 At length the busy time begins, 
 
 ‘ Come, neighbours, we must wag.’— 
 The money chinks, down drop their chins, 
 Each lugging out his bag. 
 
 One talks of mildew and of frost, 
 
 And one of storms of hail, 
 
 And one of pigs that he has lost 
 By maggots at the tail. 
 
 Quoth one, 4 A rarer man than you 
 In pulpit none shall hear ; 
 
 But yet, methinks, to tell you true, 
 
 You sell it plaguy dear.’ 
 
101 
 
 O why are farmers made so coarse, 
 
 Or clergy made so fine ? 
 
 A kick, that scarce would move a horse., 
 May kill a sound divine. 
 
 Then let the boobies stay at home; 
 
 'Twould cost him, I dare say, 
 
 Less trouble taking twice the sum, 
 Without the clowns that pay. 
 
102 
 
 ON THE 
 
 QUEEN’S VISIT TO LONDON, 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789. 
 
 When, long sequester’d from his throne, 
 George took his seat again, 
 
 By right of worth, not blood alone, 
 
 Entitled here to reign. 
 
 Then, Loyalty, with all his lamps 
 New-tri min’d, a gallant show! 
 
 Chasing the darkness and the damps, 
 
 Set London in a glow. 
 
 'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares, 
 
 Which form’d the chief display, 
 
 These most resembling cluster'd stars, 
 
 Those the long milky way. 
 
 Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, 
 And rockets flew, self-driven, 
 
 To hang their momentary fires 
 Amid the vault of heaven. 
 
103 
 
 So fire with water to compare, 
 
 The ocean serves, on high 
 Up-spouted by a whale in air, 
 
 To express unwieldy joy. 
 
 Had all the pageants of the world 
 In one procession join’d, 
 
 And all the banners been unfurl’d 
 That heralds e’er design’d ; 
 
 For no such sight had England’s Queen 
 Forsaken hdr retreat, 
 
 Where, George recover’d made a scene 
 Sweet always, doubly sweet 
 
 Yet glad she came that night to prove, 
 A witness undescried, 
 
 How much the object of her love 
 Was loved by all beside. 
 
 Darkness the skies had mantled o’er 
 
 In aid of her design 
 
 Darkness, O Queen! ne’er call’d before 
 To veil a deed of thine ! 
 
 On borrow’d wheels away she flies, 
 Resolved to be unknown, 
 
 And gratify no curious eyes 
 That night, except her own. 
 
104 
 
 Arrived, a night like noon she sees, 
 And hears the million hum ; 
 
 As all by instinct, like the bees, 
 
 Had known their sovereign come. 
 
 Pteased she beheld aloft portray’d 
 On many a splendid wall, 
 
 Emblems of health and heavenly aid, 
 And George the theme of all. 
 
 Unlike the enigmatic line, 
 
 So difficult to spell, 
 
 Which shook Belshazzar at his wine 
 The night his city fell. 
 
 Soon watery grew her eyes and dim, 
 But with a joy ful tear, 
 
 None else, except in prayer for him, 
 George ever drew from her. 
 
 It was a scene in every part 
 Like those in table feign’d, 
 
 And seem’d by some magician’s art 
 Created and sustain’d. 
 
 But other magic there, she knew, 
 Had been exerted none, 
 
 To raise such wonders in her view r . 
 Save love of George alone. 
 
105 
 
 That cordial thought her spirits cheer’d, 
 And through the cnmberous throng, 
 
 Not else unworthy to be fear’d, 
 
 Convey’d her calm along. 
 
 So, ancient poets say, serene 
 The sea-maid rides the waves, 
 
 And fearless of the billowy scene 
 Her peaceful bosom laves. 
 
 With more than astronomic eyes 
 She view’d the sparkling show ; 
 
 One Georgian star adorns the skies, 
 
 She myriads found below. 
 
 Yet let the glories of a night 
 Like that, once seen, suffice, 
 
 Heaven grant us no such future sight, 
 Such previous wo the price ! 
 
106 
 
 ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. 
 
 WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY’S HAPPY 
 RECOVERY. 
 
 I ransack’d, for a theme of song, 
 
 Much ancient chronicle, and long ; 
 
 I read of bright embattled fields, 
 
 Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, 
 
 Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast 
 Prowess to dissipate a host : 
 
 Through tomes of fable and of dream, 
 
 I sought an eligible theme, 
 
 But none I found, or found them shared 
 Already by some happier bard. 
 
 To modern times, with Truth to guide 
 My busy search, I next applied ; 
 
 Here cities won and fleets dispersed 
 Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, 
 
 Deeds of unperishing renown, 
 
 Our fathers’ triumphs, and our own. 
 
 Thus, as the bee, from bank to bower, 
 
 Assiduous sips at every flower, 
 
 But rests on none, till that be found, 
 
 Where most nectareous sweets abound, 
 
 So I from theme to theme display’d 
 In many a page historic stray’d, 
 
 Siege after siege, fight after fight, 
 
 Contemplating with small delight, 
 
107 
 
 (For feats of sanguinary hue 
 Not always glitter in my view ;) 
 
 Till, settling on the current year, 
 
 I found the far-sought treasure near; 
 
 A theme for poetry divine, 
 
 A theme to ennoble even mine, 
 
 In memorable eighty-nine. 
 
 The spring of eighty-nine shall be 
 An aera cherish'd long by me, 
 
 Which joyful I will oft record, 
 
 And thankful at my frugal board ; 
 
 For then the clouds of eighty-eight, 
 
 That threaten’d England's trembling state 
 With loss of what she least could spare, 
 Her sovereign's tutelary care, 
 
 One breath of Heaven, that cried— Restore 
 Chased, never to assemble more ; 
 
 And far the richest crown on earth, 
 
 If valued by its wearer’s worth, 
 
 The symbol of a righteous reign, 
 
 Sat fast on George's brows again. 
 
 Then peace and joy again possess’d 
 Our Queen's long agitated breast, 
 
 Such joy and peace as can be known 
 By sufferers like herself alone ; 
 
 Who losing, or supposing lost. 
 
 The good on earth they valued most, 
 
 For that dear sorrow's sake forego 
 All hope of happiness below, 
 
108 
 
 Then suddenly regain the prize, 
 
 And flash thanksgivings to the skies! 
 
 O Queen of Albion, queen of isles! 
 
 Since all thy tears were changed to smiles, 
 The eyes that never saw thee shine 
 With joy not unallied to thine, 
 
 Transports not chargeable with art 
 Illume the land’s remotest part, 
 
 And strangers to the air of courts, 
 
 Both in their toils and at their sports, 
 
 The happiness of answer’d prayers, 
 
 That gilds thy features, show in theirs. 
 
 If they, who on fhy state attend, 
 Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 
 
 J Tis but the natural effect 
 Of grandeur that ensures respect; 
 
 But slie is something more than Queen, 
 Who is beloved where never seen. 
 
COWPER’S 
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
TP THriK 
 
 o:f 
 
 miMM COWER. 
 
 1P.ART nr iHI Ik «oai„ 
 
 '.RWestaD.JlA.ael. - W. RaacTyffe ic. ' 
 
 Jam out of luarumiiy's reach , 
 
 Jmust finish rrvy journey aione. 
 
 -Alexander SeUdrk. 
 
 I, ©303 ©30 
 
 1PKIHTEM FO® elfOHH SHAJRl?K,MC€Ain)I]LlCr, 
 
 1818 o 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Pag 
 
 Alexander Selkirk — 
 
 The Cast away 
 
 The N egro’s Complaint 1 
 
 Pity for Poor Africans 13 
 
 The Morning Dream 15 
 
 The Retired Cat 17 
 
 The Love of the World Reproved...... 21 
 
 Mutual Forbearance 23 
 
 Love Abused . 26 
 
 Pairing Time Anticipated 2? 
 
 The Moralizer Corrected .... 30 
 
 A Fable ... 32 
 
 The Pine-apple and Bee S3 
 
 The Poet, the Oyster, and Sensitive Plant 35 
 
 The Nightingale and Glow-worm... 37 
 
 The Dog and the Water-Lily ....*. ......... 39 
 
 On a Spaniel...... 41 
 
 The Doves 43 
 
 The Faithful Bird 45 
 
 The Lily and the Rose 47 
 
 On a Goldfinch 48 
 
 The Modern Patriot.... 49 
 
 Report of an Adjudged Case 50 
 
 The Judgment of the Poets 52 
 
 On a Mischievous Bull 53 
 
 The Needless Alarm 55 
 
 On some Names of little note in the Biographia 
 Britannica 60 
 
 !-> CO Or 
 
IV 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 
 
 I. The Glow-worm 61 
 
 II. The Jackdaw 62 
 
 III. The Cricket 64 
 
 IV. The Parrot 65 
 
 V. Reciprocal Kindness 67 
 
 VI. The Thracian 68 
 
 VII. A Manual more Ancient than Printing .... 69 
 
 VIII. An Enigma 71 
 
 IX. Sparrows Self domesticated 73 
 
 X. Familiarity Dangerous 74 
 
 XI. Invitation to the Redbreast 75 
 
 XII. Sirada’s Nightingale 76 
 
 XIII. On the Death of a Lady, who lived one 
 
 hundred years 77 
 
 XIV. The Cause Won 79 
 
 XV. The Silk-worm 79 
 
 XVI. The Innocent Thief 81 
 
 XVII. Denner’s Old Woman 82 
 
 XVIII. The Tears of a Painter 83 
 
 XIX. The Maze 85 
 
 XX. No Sorrow peculiar to the Sufferer 85 
 
 XXI. The Snail. . 86 
 
 Hymn for the use of the Sunday School at OIney 87 
 
 Stanzas on a Bill of Mortality, 1787 88 
 
 On a similar occasion, 1788 90 
 
 Another, for 1789 92 
 
 Another, for 1790 94 
 
 Another, for 1792 96 
 
 Another, for 1793 98 
 
 Inscription for a Stone on a Grove of Oak 100 
 
 Memorial for Ashley Cowper, Esq 101 
 
 To the Memory of John Thornton, Esq 102 
 
 To the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 104 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Higgins 105 
 
 on Mr. Hamilton 105 
 
 on Fop 106 
 
 ona Hare .. 106 
 
MINOR POEMS 
 
 PART II. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY 
 ALEXANDER SELKIRK , 
 
 DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN 
 FERNANDEZ. 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 
 From the centre all round to the sea, 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 0 Solitude ! where are the charms, 
 
 That sages have seen in thy face? 
 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 1 am out of humanity’s reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone, 
 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech ; 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 
G 
 
 The beasts that roam over the plain, 
 
 Mj form with indifference see ; 
 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love, 
 
 Divinely bestow’d upon man, 
 
 O, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again ! 
 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 In the ways of religion and truth, 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth* 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly w ord f 
 More precious than silver and gold. 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 These valleys and rocks never heard, 
 Never sigh’d at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Or smiled when a sabbath appear’d. 
 
 Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
7 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 Compared with the speed of its flighty 
 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 In a moment I seem to be there; 
 
 But alas ! recollection at hand 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the seafowl is gone to her nest, 
 The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 
 There’s mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 1 
 
THE CAST-AWAY. 
 
 1799. 
 
 Obscurest night involved the sky, 
 The Atlantic billows roar’d, 
 
 When such a destined wretch as I, 
 Wash’d headlong from on board. 
 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 
 His floating home for ever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast 
 Than he with whom we went, 
 
 Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast 
 With warmer wishes sent. 
 
 He loved them both, but both in vain, 
 Nor him beheld, nor her again. 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine. 
 Expert to swim, he lay ; 
 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 
 Or courage die away ; 
 
 But waged with death a lasting strife, 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted : nor his friends had fail’d 
 To check the vessel’s course, 
 
 But so the furious blast prevail’d, 
 That, pitiless perforce, 
 
 They left their outcast mate behind. 
 And scudded still before the wind. 
 
9 
 
 Some succour yet they could afford ; 
 
 And, such as storms allow, 
 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 
 Delay'd not to bestow. 
 
 But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore 
 Whate’er they gave, should visit more 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seem’d, could he 
 Their haste himself condemn, 
 Aware that flight, in such a sea, 
 
 Alone could rescue them ; 
 
 Yet bitter felt it still to die 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 
 
 He long survives who lives an hour 
 In ocean, self-upheld: 
 
 And so long he, with unspent power, 
 His destiny repell’d : 
 
 And ever as the minutes flew, 
 Entreated help, or cried — “ Adieu !” 
 
 At length, his transient respite past, 
 His comrades, who before 
 Had heard his voice in every blast, 
 Could catch the sound no more: 
 For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
 The stifling wave, and then he sank* 
 
10 
 
 No poet wept him : but the page 
 Of narrative sincere, 
 
 That tells his name, his worth, his age. 
 Is wet with Anson’s tear: 
 
 And tears by bards or heroes shed 
 Alike immortalize the dead. 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream, 
 Descanting on his fate, 
 
 To give the melancholy theme 
 A more enduring date : 
 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 Its semblance in another’s case. 
 
 No voice divine the storm allay’d. 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 
 When snatch d from all effectual aid, 
 We perish’d each alone : 
 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 
 And whelm’d in deeper gulfs than he. 
 
ior nc 3 
 
 JlL' AA JJCj 
 
 Hark! He answers • wild tornadoes, 
 
 Strewing*' yonder Sea with Wrecks,- 
 Wasting- towns, plantations, meadows, 
 
 Are ; tke woic e ,with. which. lie speaks. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALt E..A.ENGRAVED BY JOHN BO.MNEY; 
 " PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHAftPE,PIC CADI LEY. 
 
 ' , . . ©CT. 1,181,7. ■ 
 
THE NEGRO’S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Forced from home and all its pleasures, 
 Afric’s coast I left forlorn ; 
 
 To increase a stranger’s treasures) 
 
 O’er the raging billows borne. 
 
 Men from England bought and sold me, 
 Paid my price in paltry gold ; 
 
 But, though slave they have enroll’d me, 
 Minds are never to be sold. 
 
 Still in thought as free as ever, 
 
 What are England’s rights, I ask. 
 
 Me from my delights to sever* 
 
 Me to torture, me to task? 
 
 Fleecy locks and black complexion 
 Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 
 
 Skins may differ, but affection 
 Dwells in white and black the same. 
 
 Why did all-creating Nature 
 Make the plant for which we toil? 
 
 Sighs must fan it, tears must water, 
 
 Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
 
 Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, 
 
 Lolling at your jovial boards; 
 
 Think how many backs have smarted 
 For the sweets your cane affords. 
 
 Is there, as ye sometimes tell us* 
 
 Is there One who reigns on high ? 
 
 Has he bid you buy and sell us, 
 
 Speaking from his throne, the sky? 
 
12 
 
 Ask him, if jour knotted scourges 
 Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
 Are the means that duty urges, 
 
 Agents of his will to use ? 
 
 Hark ! he answers — Will tornadoes 
 Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
 Wasting towns, plantations, meadows. 
 Are the voice with which he speaks. 
 He, foreseeing what vexations 
 Afric’s sons should undergo, 
 
 Fix’d their tyrants’ habitations 
 
 Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 
 
 By our blood in Afric wasted, 
 
 Ere our necks received the chain; 
 
 By the miseries that we tasted, 
 Crossing in your barks the main : 
 
 By our sufferings, since ye brought us 
 To the man-degrading mart: 
 
 All sustain’d by patience, taught us 
 Only by a broken heart! 
 
 Deem our nation brutes no longer, 
 
 Till some reason ye shall find 
 Worthier of regard, and stronger 
 Than the colour of our kind. 
 
 Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
 Tarnish all your boasted powers, 
 Prove that you have human feelings, 
 Ere you proudly question ours ! 
 
PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS, 
 
 Video meliora proboque, 
 Deteriora sequor.— — 
 
 I OWN I am shock’d at the purchase of slaves, 
 
 And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves ; 
 What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and 
 Is almost enough to draw pity from stones, [groans, 
 
 I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, 
 
 For how could we do without sugar and mm ? 
 Especially sugar, so needful we see? 
 
 What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and* tea! 
 
 Besides, if we do, the French, Butch, and Danes, 
 Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains : 
 
 If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will ; 
 
 And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. 
 
 If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, 
 
 Much more in behalf of your wish might be said ; 
 But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, 
 Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks? 
 
 Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind 
 A story so pat, you may think it is coin’d, 
 
 On purpose to answer you, out of my mint; 
 
 But I can assure you I saw it in print. 
 
 PART II. B 
 
14 
 
 A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, 
 Had once his integrity put to the test ; 
 
 His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
 
 And ask’d him to go and assist in the job. 
 
 He was shock’d, sir, like you, and answer’d — ‘ Oh no! 
 What ! rob our good neighbour ! I pray you don’t go; 
 Besides the man’s poor, his orchard’s his bread : 
 Then think of his children, for they must be fed.’ 
 
 £ You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
 
 But apples we want, and apples we’ll have; 
 
 If you will go with us, you shall have a share, 
 
 If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.” 
 
 They spoke, and Tom ponder’d — ‘ I see they will go: 
 Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
 
 Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, 
 But staying behind would do him no good. 
 
 < If the matter depended alone upon me, 
 
 His apples might hang till they dropp’d from the tree ; 
 But since they will take them, 1 think I’ll go too; 
 He will lose none by me, though I get a few/ 
 
 His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, 
 And went with his comrades the apples to seize ; 
 
 He blamed and protested, but join’d in the plan : 
 
 He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 
 
1.5 
 
 THE MORNING DREAM. 
 
 ? Twas in the glad season of spring, 
 
 Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
 
 I dream’d what I cannot but sing, 
 
 So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
 
 I dream’d, that, on ocean afloat, 
 
 Far hence to the westward I sail’d, 
 
 While the billows high lifted the boat. 
 
 And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd,. 
 
 In the steerage a woman I saw, 
 
 Such at least was the form that she wore, 
 Whose beauty impress’d me with awe, 
 Ne’er taught me by w orn an before. 
 
 She sat, and a shield at her side 
 Shed light, like a sun on the waves, 
 
 And smiling divinely, she cried — 
 
 ‘ I go to make freemen of slaves.’— 
 
 Then raising her voice to a strain 
 The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
 
 She sung of the slave's broken chain 
 Wherever her glory appear’d. 
 
 Some clouds, which had over us hung, 
 
 Fled, chased by her melody clear, 
 
 And methought while she liberty sung, 
 ’Twas liberty only to hear. 
 
 B 2 
 

 16 
 
 Tims swiftly dividing the flood, 
 
 To a slave-cultured island we came. 
 
 Where a daemon, her enemy, stood — 
 Oppression his terrible name. 
 
 In his hand, as the sign of his sway, 
 
 A scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
 
 And stood looking out for his prey 
 From Africa’s sorrowful shore. 
 
 But soon as approaching the land 
 That goddess-like woman he view’d, 
 
 The scourge he let fall from his hand, 
 
 With the blood of his subjects imbrued. 
 
 I saw him both sicken and die, 
 
 And the moment the monster expired, 
 
 Heard shouts that ascended the sky, 
 
 From thousands with rapture inspired. 
 
 Awaking, how could I but muse 
 At what such a dream should betide ? 
 
 But soon my ear caught the glad news, 
 
 Which served my weak thought for a guide — 
 That Britannia, renown’ d o’er the waves 
 For the hatred she ever has shown 
 To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 
 
 Resolves to have none of her own. 
 
THE RETIRED CAT. 
 
 A Poet’s Cat, sedate and grave 
 As poet well could wish to have, 
 
 Was much addicted to inquire 
 For nooks to which she might retire, 
 And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
 She might repose, or sit and think. 
 
 I know not where she caught the trick— 
 Nature perhaps herself had cast her 
 In such a mould philosophique, 
 
 Or else she learn’d it of her master. 
 Sometimes ascending, debonnair, 
 
 An apple-tree or lofty pear, 
 
 Lodged with convenience in the fork, 
 She watch’d the gardener at his work ; 
 Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
 In an old empty watering-pot, 
 
 There wanting nothing, save a fan, 
 
 To seem some nymph in her sedan 
 Apparell’d in exactest sort, 
 
 And ready to be borne to court. 
 
 But love of change it seems has place 
 Not only in our wiser race, 
 
 Cats also feel, as well as we, 
 
 That passion’s force, and so did she. 
 
 Her climbing she began to find 
 Exposed her too much to the wind, 
 
 And the old utensil of tin 
 
 Was cold and comfortless within : 
 
IB 
 
 She therefore wish’d, instead of those, 
 Some place of more serene repose, / 
 Where neither cold might come, nor air 
 Too rudely wanton with her hair, 
 
 And sought it in the likeliest mode 
 Within her master’s snug abode. 
 
 A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined 
 With linen of the softest kind, 
 
 With such as merchants introduce 
 From India, for the ladies’ use, 
 
 A drawer impending o’er the rest, 
 
 Half open in the topmost chest, 
 
 Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
 Invited her to slumber there; 
 
 Puss with delight beyond expression 
 Survey’d the scene and took possession. 
 Recumbent at her ease ere long, 
 
 And lull’d by her own humdrum song, 
 She left the cares of life behind, 
 
 And slept as she would sleep her last, 
 When in came, housewifely inclined, 
 The chambermaid, and shut it fast, 
 
 By no malignity impell'd, 
 
 But all unconscious whom it held. 
 
 Awaken’d by the shock, (cried Puss) 
 
 * Was ever cat attended thus! 
 
 The open drawer was left, I see, 
 
 Merely to prove a nest for me, 
 
 For soon as I was well composed, 
 
 Then came the maid, and it was closed. 
 
ID 
 
 How smooth these 'kerchiefs and how sweet! 
 Oh what a delicate retreat! 
 
 I will resign myself to rest, 
 
 Till Sol declining in the west 
 Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, 
 
 Susan will come and let me out.’ 
 
 The evening came, the sun descended, 
 And puss remain’d still unattended. 
 
 The night roll’d tardily away, 
 
 (With her indeed ’twas never day), 
 
 The sprightly morn her course renew’d, 
 
 The evening grey again ensued, 
 
 And puss came into mind no more 
 Than if entomb’d the day before. 
 
 With hunger pinch’d, and pinch’d for room, 
 She now presaged approaching doom, 
 
 Nor slept a single wink or purr'd, 
 
 Conscious of jeopardy incurr’d. 
 
 That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
 Heard an inexplicable scratching; 
 
 His noble heart went pit-a-pat, 
 
 And to himself he said— What’s that?' 
 
 He drew the curtain at his side, 
 
 And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied ; 
 
 Yet, by his ear directed, guess’d 
 Something imprison’d in the chest, 
 
 And, doubtful what, with prudent care 
 Resolv'd it should continue there. 
 
 At length, a voice which well he knew, 
 
 A long and melancholy mew, 
 
20 
 
 Saluting his poetic ears. 
 
 Consoled him, and dispell’d his fears; 
 He left his bed, he trod the floor, 
 
 He ’gan in haste the drawers explore, 
 The lowest first, and without stop 
 The rest in order to the top. 
 
 For His a truth well known to most, 
 That whatsoever thing is lost, 
 
 We seek it, ere it come to light, 
 
 In every cranny but the right. 
 
 Forth skipp’d the cat, not now reph 
 As erst with airy self-conceit, 
 
 Nor in her own fond apprehension 
 A theme for all the world's attention, 
 But modest, sober, cured of all 
 Her notions hyperbolical, 
 
 And wishing for a place of rest 
 Any thing rather than a chest. 
 
 Then stepp’d the poet into bed 
 With this reflection in his head: 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Beware of too sublime a sense 
 Of your own worth and consequence. 
 The man who dreams himself so great, 
 And his importance of such weight, 
 That all around in all that’s done 
 Must move and act for him alone. 
 Will learn in school of tribulation 
 The folly of his expectation. 
 
21 
 
 THE 
 
 LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED 
 
 OR, 
 
 HYPOCRISY DETECTED. 
 
 Thus says the prophet of the Turk, 
 
 Good mussulman, abstain from pork ; 
 
 There is a part in every swine 
 No friend or follower of mine 
 May taste, whate'er his inclination, 
 
 On pain of excommunication. 
 
 Such Mahomet’s mysterious charge, 
 
 And thus he left the point at large. 
 
 Had he the sinful part express’d, 
 
 They might with safety eat the rest; 
 
 But for one piece they thought it hard 
 From the whole hog to be debarr’d : 
 
 And set their wit at work to find 
 What joint the prophet had in mind. 
 
 Much controversy straight arose, 
 
 These choose the back, the belly those ; 
 
 By some ’tis confidently said 
 He meant not to forbid the head ; 
 
 While others at that doctrine rail, 
 
 And piously prefer the tail. 
 
 b 3 
 
22 
 
 Thus, conscience freed from every clog, 
 Mahometans eat up the hog. 
 
 You laugh— ’tis well — The tale applied 
 May make you laugh on t’other side. 
 Renounce the world — the preacher cries. 
 We do — a multitude replies. 
 
 While one as innocent regards 
 A snug and friendly game at cards; 
 
 And one, whatever you may say, 
 
 Can see no evil in a play ; 
 
 Some love a concert, or a race ; 
 
 And others shooting and the chace. 
 
 Reviled and loved, renounc’d and follow’d ; 
 Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow’d ; 
 Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, 
 Yet likes a slice as well as he: 
 
 With sophistry their sauce they sweeten. 
 Till quite from tail to snout ’tis eaten. 
 
23 
 
 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 
 
 NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE 
 MARRIED STATE. 
 
 The lady thus address’d her spouse — - 
 What a mere dungeon is this house! 
 
 Ey no means large enough ; and was it, 
 
 Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, 
 Those hangings with their worn-out graces, 
 Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, 
 
 Are such an antiquated scene, 
 
 They overwhelm me With the spleen. 
 
 Sir Humphry shooting in the dark, 
 
 Makes answer quite beside the mark: 
 
 No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
 Engaged myself to be at home, 
 
 And shall expect him at the door 
 Precisely when the clock strikes four. 
 
 You are so deaf, the lady cried, 
 
 (And raised her voice, and frown’d beside,) 
 You are so sadly deaf, my dear, 
 
 What shall I do to make you hear ? 
 
 Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
 
 Some people are more nice than wise, 
 
24 
 
 For one slight trespass all this stir? 
 
 What if he did ride whip and spur? 
 
 ? Twas but a mile — your favourite horse 
 Will never look one hair the worse. 
 
 Well, I protest ’tis past all bearing — 
 Child ! I am rather hard of hearing— 
 Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl; 
 
 I tell you, you can’t hear at all ! 
 
 Then, with a voice exceeding low. 
 
 No matter if you hear or no. 
 
 Alas ! and is domestic strife, 
 
 That sorest ill of human life, 
 
 A plague so little to be fear'd 
 As to be wantonly incurred, 
 
 To gratify a fretful passion, 
 
 On every trivial provocation? 
 
 The kindest and the happiest pair 
 Will find occasion to forbear ; 
 
 And something, every day they live. 
 
 To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
 
 But if infirmities, that fall 
 In common to the lot of all, 
 
 A blemish or a sense impair’d, 
 
 Are crimes so little to be spared, 
 
 Then farewell all, that must create 
 The comfort of the wedded state ; 
 Instead of harmony, ? tis jar, 
 
 And tumult, and intestine war. 
 
 The love that cheers life’s latest stage, 
 Proof against sickness and old age, 
 
25 
 
 Preserved by virtue from declension. 
 Becomes not weary of attention ; 
 
 But lives, when that exterior grace 
 Which first inspired the flame, decays, 
 ’Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, 
 
 To faults compassionate or blind, 
 
 And will w ith sympathy endure 
 Those evils it would gladly cure : 
 
 But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
 Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
 Proves that the heart is none of Iris, 
 
 Or soon expels him if it is. 
 
2 (> 
 
 LOVE ABUSED. 
 
 What is there in the vale of life 
 Half so delightful as a wife, 
 
 When friendship, love, and peace combine 
 To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? 
 
 The stream of pure and genuine love 
 Derives its current from above ; 
 
 And earth a second Eden shows 
 Where’er the healing water flows: 
 
 But ah, if from the dykes and drains 
 Of sensual nature’s feverish veins, 
 
 Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, 
 Impregnated with ooze and mud, 
 Descending fast on every side, 
 
 Once mingles with the sacred tide, 
 Farewell the soul-enlivening scene! 
 
 The banks that wore a smiling green, 
 
 With rank defilement overspread, 
 
 Bewail their flowery beauties dead. 
 
 The stream polluted, dark and dull, 
 Diffused into a Stygian pool, 
 
 Through life’s last melancholy years 
 Is fed with ever-flowing tears : 
 
 Complaints supply the zephyr’s part, 
 
 And sighs that heave a breaking heart. 
 
27 
 
 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 
 If birds confabulate or no ; 
 
 ’Tis clear, that they were always able 
 To hold discourse — at leas^t in fable ; 
 
 And e’en the child, that knows no better 
 Than to interpret by the letter 
 A story of a cock and bull, 
 
 Must have a most uncommon skull. 
 
 It chanced then on a winter s day, 
 
 But warm and bright, and calm as May, 
 
 The birds, conceiving a design 
 To forestal sweet St. Valentine, 
 
 In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
 Assembled on affairs of love. 
 
 And with much twitter, and much chatter, 
 Began to agitate the matter. 
 
 At length a Bulfinch, who could boast 
 More years and wisdom than the most, 
 Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
 
 A moment’s liberty to speak ; 
 
 And silence publicly enjoin’d, 
 
 Deliver’d briefly thus his mind : 
 
 My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
 The subject upon which we meet; 
 
 I fear we shall have winter yet. 
 
28 
 
 A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, 
 With golden wing and satin poll , 
 
 A last year’s bird, who ne’er had tried 
 What marriage means, thus pert replied: 
 Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, 
 
 Opposite in the apple-tree, 
 
 By his good will would keep us single 
 Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 
 
 Or (which is likelier to befall) 
 
 Till death exterminate us all. 
 
 I marry without more ado ; 
 
 My dear Dick Redcap, what say you ? 
 
 Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, 
 Turning short round, strutting, and sideling, 
 Attested, glad, his approbation 
 Of an immediate conjugation. 
 
 Their sentiments so Well express’d 
 Influenced mightily the rest ; 
 
 All pair’d, and each pair built a nest. 
 
 But though the birds were thus in haste, 
 
 The leaves came cm not quite so fast, 
 
 ^\nd Destiny, tha( sometimes bears 
 An aspect stern on man’s affairs, 
 
 Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
 
 The wind, of late breathed gently forth, 
 
 Now shifted east, and east by north ; 
 
 Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know. 
 
 Could shelter them from rain or snow ; 
 
 Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 
 Themselves were chill’d, their eggs were addled ; 
 
29 
 
 Soon every father bird and mother 
 Grew quarrelsome, and peck’d each other, 
 Parted without the least regret, 
 
 Except that they had ever met, 
 
 And learn’d in future to be wiser, 
 
 Than to neglect a good adviser. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Misses! the tale that I relate 
 This lesson seems to carry — 
 Choose not alone a proper mate. 
 
 But proper time to marry. 
 
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 A hermit (or if chance you hold 
 That title now too trite and old) 
 
 A man, once young, who lived retired 
 As hermit could have well desired, 
 
 His hours of study closed at last, 
 
 And finish’d his concise repast, 
 
 Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book 
 Within its customary nook, 
 
 And, staff in hand, set forth to share 
 The sober cordial of sweet air, 
 
 Like Isaac, with a mind applied 
 To serious thought at eveningtide. 
 Autumnal rains had made it chill, 
 
 And from the trees that fringed his hill, 
 Shades slanting at the close of day 
 Chill’d more his else delightful way. 
 Distant a little mile he spied 
 A western bank's still sunny side, 
 
 And right toward the favour’d place 
 Proceeding with his nimblest pace, 
 
 In hope to bask a little yet, 
 
 Just reach’d it when the sun was set. 
 
 Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! 
 Learns something from whate’er occurs — 
 And hence, he said, my mind computes 
 The real worth of man’s pursuits. 
 
 His object chosen, wealth or fame, 
 
 Or other sublunary game, 
 
31 
 
 Imagination to his view 
 Presents it deck’d with every hue 
 That can seduce him not to spare 
 His powers of best exertion there, 
 
 But youth, health, vigour, to expend 
 On so desirable an end. 
 
 Ere long approach life’s evening shades. 
 The glow that Fancy gave it fades ; 
 
 And, earn’d too late, it wants the grace 
 That first engaged him in the chase. 
 
 True, answer’d an angelic guide, 
 Attendant at the senior’s side— 
 
 Bui whether all the time it cost 
 To urge the fruitless chase, he lost, 
 Must be decided by the worth 
 Of that which call’d his ardour forth. 
 Trifles pursued, whate’er the event, 
 Must cause him shame or discontent; 
 
 A vicious object still is worse, 
 Successful there he wins a curse. 
 
 But he, whom e’en in life’s last stage 
 Endeavours laudable engage, 
 
 Is paid, at least in peace of mind, 
 
 And sense of having well design’d ; 
 
 And if, ere he attain his end, 
 
 His sun precipitate descend, 
 
 A brighter prize than that he meant 
 Shall recompense his mere intent. 
 
 No virtuous wish can bear a date 
 Either too early or too late. 
 
32 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A raven, while with glossy breast 
 Her new-laid eggs she fondly press’d, 
 
 And, on her wickerwork high mounted, 
 Her chickens prematurely counted, 
 
 (A fault philosophers might blame 
 If quite exempted from the same,) 
 
 Enjoy’d at ease the genial day ; 
 
 ’Twas April as the bumpkins say, 
 
 The legislature call'd it May. 
 
 But suddenly a wind, as high 
 As ever swept a winter sky, 
 
 Shook the young leaves about her ears, 
 And fill’d her with a thousand fears, 
 
 Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, 
 And spread her golden hopes below. 
 
 But just at eve the blowing weather 
 And all her fears were hush’d together: 
 And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 
 ? Tis over, and the brood is safe; 
 
 (For ravens, though as birds of omen 
 They teach both conjurers and old women, 
 To tell us what is to befall, 
 
 Can’t prophesy themselves at all.) 
 
 The morning came, when neighbour Hodge 
 Who long had mark’d her airy lodge. 
 
33 
 
 And destined all the treasure there 
 A gift to his expecting fair, 
 
 Climb’d like a squirrel to his dray, 
 
 And bore the worthless prize away. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 'Tis Providence alone secures 
 In every change both mine and yours : 
 Safety consists not in escape 
 From dangers of a frightful shape; 
 
 An earthquake may be bid to spare 
 The man that’s strangled by a hair. 
 Fate steals along with silent tread, 
 Found oftenest in what least we dread, 
 Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
 But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 
 
 THE PINE APPLE AND BEE. 
 
 The pine-apples, in triple row, 
 
 Were basking hot, and all in blow; 
 
 A bee of most discerning taste 
 Perceived the fragrance as he pass’d. 
 
 On eager wing the spoiler came, 
 
 And search'd for crannies in the frame. 
 Urged his attempt on every side, 
 
 To every pane his trunk applied ; 
 
34 
 
 But still in vain, the frame was tight, 
 
 And only pervious to the light : 
 
 Thus having wasted half the day, 
 
 He tri min’d his flight another way. 
 
 Methinks, I said, in thee I find 
 The sin and madness of mankind. 
 
 To joys forbidden man aspires, 
 
 Consumes his soul with vain desires; 
 
 Folly the spring of his pursuit, 
 
 And disappointment all the fruit. 
 
 While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, 
 
 The nymph between two chariot glasses, 
 
 She is the pine-apple, and he 
 The silly unsuccessful bee. 
 
 The maid, who views with pensive air 
 The show-glass fraught with glittering ware, 
 Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets, 
 But sighs at thought of empty pockets; 
 
 Like thine, her appetite is keen. 
 
 But ah, the cruel glass between! 
 
 Our dear delights are often such, 
 
 Exposed to view, but not to touch : 
 
 The sight our foolish heart inflames, 
 
 We long for pine-apples in frames ; 
 
 With hopeless wish one looks and lingers ; 
 One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers ; 
 But they whom truth and wisdom lead, 
 
 Can gather honey from a weed. 
 
35 
 
 THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE 
 PLANT. 
 
 An Oyster, cast upon the shore, 
 
 Was heard, though never heard before, 
 Complaining in a speech well worded, 
 
 And worthy thus to be recorded — 
 
 Ah, hapless wretch ! condemn’d to dwell 
 Tor ever in my native shell ; 
 
 Ordain’d to move when others please, 
 
 Not for my own content or ease ; 
 
 But toss’d and buffetted about, 
 
 Now in the water and now out . 
 
 ’Twere better to be born a stone, 
 
 Of ruder shape, and feeling none, 
 
 Than with a tenderness like mine, 
 
 And sensibilities so fine! 
 
 I envy that unfeeling shrub, 
 
 Fast-rooted against every rub. 
 
 The plant he meant grew not far off, 
 
 And felt the sneer with scorn enough; 
 
 Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, 
 
 And with asperity replied. 
 
 When, cry the botanists, and stare, 
 
 Did plants call’d sensitive grow there ? 
 
 No matter when — a poet’s muse is 
 To make them grow just where she chooses. 
 
 Yon shapeless nothing in a dish, 
 
 You that are but almost a fish, 
 
36 
 
 I scorn your coarse insinuation, 
 
 And have most plentiful occasion 
 To wish myself the rock I view* 
 
 Or such another dolt as you : 
 
 For many a grave and learned clerk, 
 
 And many a gay unletter’d spark, 
 
 With curious touch examines me, 
 
 If I can feel as well as he; 
 
 And when I bend, retire, and shrink, 
 
 Says — Well, ’tis more than one would think! 
 Thus life is spent (oh fie upon’t!) 
 
 In being touch’d, and crying— Don’t ! 
 
 A poet, in his evening walk, 
 
 O’erheard and check’d this idle talk. 
 
 And your fine sense, he said, and yours, 
 Whatever evil it endures, 
 
 Deserves not, if so soon offended, 
 
 Much to be pitied or commended. 
 
 Disputes, though short, are far too long, 
 Where both alike are in the wrong; 
 
 Your feelings, in their full amount, 
 
 Are all upon your own account. 
 
 You, in your grotto-work enclosed, 
 Complain of being thus exposed; 
 
 Yet nothing feel in that rough coat, 
 
 Save when the knife is at your throat, 
 Wherever driven by wind or tide, 
 
 Exempt from every ill beside. 
 
 And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
 
 Who reckon every touch a blemish, 
 
37 
 
 If all the plants that can be found 
 Embellishing' the scene around, 
 
 Should droop and wither where they grow, 
 You would not feel at all — not you. 
 
 The noblest minds their virtue prove 
 By pity, sympathy, and love ; 
 
 These, these are feelings truly line, 
 
 And prove their owner half divine. 
 
 His censure reach’d them as he dealt if, 
 And each by shrinking show’d he felt it. 
 
 THE 
 
 NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM. 
 
 A Nightingale, that all day long 
 Had cheer’d the village with his song, 
 
 Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
 
 Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
 
 Began to feel, as well he might, 
 
 The keen demands of appetite ; 
 
 When, looking eagerly around, 
 
 He spied far off, upon the ground, 
 
 A something shining in the dark, 
 
 And knew the glow-w orm by his spark ; 
 
 So, stooping dow n from haw thorn top, 
 
 He thought to put him in his crop. 
 
 The worm, aw are of his intent, 
 
 Harangued him thus, right eloquent— 
 
 PART II. c 
 
 

 38 
 
 Did you admire my lamp, quoth he. 
 
 As much as I your minstrelsy, 
 
 You would abhor to do me wrong, 
 
 As much as I to spoil your song ; 
 
 For ’twas the selfsame Power Divine 
 Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
 
 That you with music, I with light, 
 
 Might beautify and cheer the night. 
 
 The songster heard his short oration, 
 
 And warbling out his approbation, 
 Released him, as my story tells, 
 
 And found a supper somewhere else. 
 
 Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
 Their real interest to discern ; 
 
 That brother should not war with brother, 
 And worry and devour each other; 
 
 But sing and shine by sweet consent, 
 
 Till life’s poor transient night is spent, 
 Respecting in each other’s case 
 The gifts of nature and of grace. 
 
 Those Christians best deserve the name, 
 Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
 Peace, both the duty and the prize 
 Of him that creeps and him that flies. 
 
1 saw liim "with that lily cropp'd 
 Impatient swim to meet 
 My quick approach, and soon he dropp d 
 The treasure at. my feet. 
 
 DRAWN BY hlCHABD YVE S TALL R. A. ENGRAVED BYR.BHODES 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY. 
 
 • ' OCT. 1,1817. 
 
•3D 
 
 THE 
 
 DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 NO FABLE. 
 
 The noon was shady, and soft airs 
 Swept Ouse’s silent tide, 
 
 When, ’scaped from literary cares, 
 
 I wander’d on his side. 
 
 My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 
 
 And high in pedigree, 
 
 (Two nymphs adorn’d with every grace . 
 That spaniel found for me,) 
 
 Now w anton’d lost in flags and reeds, 
 
 Now starting into sight 
 
 Pursued the swallow o’er the meads 
 With scarce a slower flight. 
 
 It was the time when Ouse display'd 
 His lilies newly blown ; 
 
 Their beauties I intent survey’d, 
 
 And one I wish’d my own. 
 
 With cane extended far I sought 
 To steer it close to land ; 
 
 But still the prize, though nearly caught, 
 Escaped my eager hand. 
 
 c 2 
 
40 
 
 Beau mark’d my unsuccessful pains 
 With fix’d considerate face, 
 
 And puzzling set his puppy brains 
 To comprehend the case. 
 
 But with a cherup clear and strong. 
 Dispersing all his dream, 
 
 I thence withdrew, and follow’d long 
 The windings of the stream. 
 
 My ramble ended, I return’d : 
 
 Beau , trotting far before, 
 
 The floating wreath again discern’d, 
 
 And plunging left the shore. 
 
 I saw him with that lily cropp’d 
 Impatient swim to meet 
 My quick approach, and soon he dropp’d 
 The treasure at my feet. 
 
 Charm’d with the sight, the world, I cried, 
 Shall hear of this thy deed : 
 
 My dog shall mortify the pride 
 Of man’s superior breed ; . 
 
 But chief myself I will enjoin, 
 
 Awake at duty's call, 
 
 To show a love as prompt as thine 
 To Him who gives me all. 
 
ON 
 
 A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, 
 
 KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. 
 
 1793. 
 
 A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 
 Well-fed, and at his ease, 
 
 Should wiser he than to pursue 
 Each trifle that he sees. 
 
 But you have kill’d a tiny bird, 
 
 Which flew not till to-day, 
 
 Against my orders, whom you heard 
 Forbidding you the prey. 
 
 Nor did you kill that you might eat 
 And ease a doggish pain, 
 
 For him, though chased with furious heat, 
 You left where he was slain. 
 
 Nor was he of the thievish sort. 
 
 Or one whom blood allures, 
 
 But innocent was all his sport 
 Whom you have torn for yours. 
 
 My dog ! what remedy remains, 
 
 Since, teach you all I can, 
 
 I see you, after all my pains, 
 
 So much resemble Man? 
 
 BEAU’S REPLY. 
 
 Sir, when 1 flew to seize the bird 
 In spite of your command, 
 
 A louder voice than yours I heard, 
 
 And harder to withstand. 
 
42 
 
 You cried— Forbear — but in my breast 
 A mightier cried — Proceed — 
 
 'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest 
 Impeli’d me to the deed. 
 
 Yet much as Nature I respect, 
 
 I ventured once to break 
 (As you, perhaps, may recollect), 
 
 Her precept for your sake ; 
 
 And when your linnet on a day, 
 Passing his prison door, 
 
 Had flutter’d all his strength away, 
 
 And panting, press’d the floor, 
 
 Well knowing him a sacred thing, 
 
 Not destined to my tooth, 
 
 I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, 
 
 And lick’d the feathers smooth. 
 
 Let my obedience then excuse 
 My disobedience now, 
 
 Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
 From your aggrieved Bow-wow ; 
 
 If killing birds be such a crime 
 (Which I can hardly see), 
 
 What think you, Sir, of killing Time 
 With verse address’d to me? 
 
43 
 
 THE DOVES. 
 
 Reasoning at every step he treads, 
 
 Man yet mistakes his way, 
 
 While meaner things, whom instinct leads, 
 Are rarely known to stray. 
 
 One silent eve I wander’d late, 
 
 And heard the voice of love ; 
 
 The turtle thus address’d her mate, 
 
 And soothed the listening dove ; 
 
 Our mutual bond of faith and truth 
 No time shall disengage, 
 
 Those blessings of our early youth 
 Shall cheer our latest age : 
 
 While innocence without disguise, 
 
 And constancy sincere, 
 
 Shall till the circles of those eyes, 
 
 And mine can read them there. 
 
 Those ills, that wait on all below, 
 
 Shall ne’er be felt by me, 
 
 Or gently felt, and only so, 
 
 As being shared with thee. 
 
44 
 
 When lightnings flash among the trees, 
 Or kites are hovering near, 
 
 I fear lest thee alone they seize, 
 
 And know no other fear. 
 
 ? Tis then I feel myself a wife, 
 
 And press thy wedded side, 
 
 Resolv’d a union form’d for life, 
 
 Death never shall divide. 
 
 Rut oh ! if, fickle and unchaste, 
 (Forgive a transient thought), 
 
 Thou could become unkind at last. 
 And scorn thy present lot, 
 
 No need of lightning from on high. 
 
 Or kites with cruel beak ; 
 
 Denied the endearments of thine eye, 
 This widow’d heart would break. 
 
 Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird, 
 Soft as the passing wind, 
 
 And I recorded what I heard, 
 
 A lesson for mankind. 
 
45 
 
 THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 
 
 The green-house is my summer seat; 
 My shrubs displaced from that retreat 
 Enjoy’d the open air ; 
 
 Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song 
 Had been their mutual solace long, 
 Lived happy prisoners there. 
 
 They sang, as blithe as finches sing, 
 That flutter loose on golden wing, 
 
 And frolic where they list; 
 
 Strangers to liberty, ’tis true, 
 
 But that delight they never knew, 
 
 And therefore never miss’d. 
 
 But Nature works in every breast 
 With force not easily suppress’d ; 
 
 And Dick felt some desires, 
 
 That, after many an effort vain, 
 Instructed him at length to gain 
 A pass between his wires. 
 
 The open windows seem’d to invite 
 The freeman to a farewell flight ; 
 
 But Tom was still confined ; 
 
 And Dick, although his way was clear, 
 Was much too generous and sincere 
 To leave his friend behind. 
 
 C 3 
 
46 
 
 So settling on his cage, by play, 
 
 And chirp, and kiss, he seem’d to say, 
 You must not live alone. — 
 
 Nor would he quit that chosen stand, 
 Till I, with slow and cautious hand, 
 Return’d him to his own. 
 
 O ye, who never taste the joys 
 Of friendship, satisfied with noise, 
 Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
 
 Blush, when I tell you how a bird 
 A prison with a friend preferr’d 
 To liberty without. 
 
TM s civil hick-ring 1 and del) ate 
 The. g-oddefs chanc'd to hear, 
 And flew to’ save, ere yet too late, 
 The pride of the parterre. 
 
 DRAWN BY RICHARD TO STALL RA. ENGRAVED BY J.H. ROBINS ON: 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE , PICCADILLY, 
 
 OCT- 1,1817. 
 

 
47 
 
 THE 
 
 LILY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 The nymph must lose her female friend, 
 If more admired than she — 
 
 But where will fierce contention end 
 If flowers can disagree ? 
 
 Within the garden’s peaceful scene 
 Appear’d two lovely foes 
 
 Aspiring to the rank of queen, 
 
 The Lily and the Rose. 
 
 The Rose soon redden’d into rage, 
 
 And, swelling with disdain, 
 
 Appeal’d to many a poet’s page, 
 
 To prove her right to reign. 
 
 The Lily’s height bespoke command, 
 
 A fair imperial flower ; 
 
 She seem’d design’d for Flora’s hand, 
 The sceptre of her power. 
 
 This civil bickering and debate 
 The goddess chanced to hear, 
 
 And flew to save, ere yet too late, 
 
 The pride of the parterre ; 
 
 Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, 
 
 And yours the statelier mien! 
 
 And, till a third surpasses you, 
 
 Let each be deem’d a queen. 
 
48 
 
 Thus, soothed and reconciled, each seeks 
 The fairest British fair : 
 
 The seat of empire is her cheeks, 
 
 They 'feign united there. 
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH, 
 
 STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE. 
 
 Time was when I was free as air, 
 
 The thistle’s downy seed my fare, 
 
 My drink the morning dew ; 
 
 I perch’d at will on every spray, 
 
 My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
 
 My strains for ever new. 
 
 But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
 
 And form genteel, were all in vain, 
 
 And of a transient date; 
 
 For caught, and caged, and starved to death, 
 In dying sighs, my little breath 
 Soon pass’d the wiry grate. 
 
 Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
 
 And thanks for this effectual close 
 And cure of every ill ! 
 
 More cruelty could none express; 
 
 And I, if you had shown me less, 
 
 Had been your prisoner siilL 
 
49 
 
 THE MODERN PATRIOT. 
 
 Rebellion is ray therae all day; 
 
 I only wish ’twould come 
 (As who knows but perhaps it may?) 
 
 A little nearer home. 
 
 Yon roaring boys, who rave and light 
 On t’other side the Atlantic, 
 
 I always held them in the right, 
 
 But most so when most frantic. 
 
 When lawless mobs insult the court, 
 That man shall be my toast, 
 
 If breaking windows be the sport, 
 
 Who bravely breaks the most. 
 
 But O ! for him my fancy culls 
 The choicest flowers she bears, 
 
 Who constitutionally pulls 
 Your house about your ears. 
 
 Such civil broils are my delight, 
 
 Though some folks can’t endure them, 
 Who say the mob arc mad outright, 
 
 And that a rope must cure them. 
 
 A rope ! I wish we Patriots had 
 Such strings for all who need 'em — 
 What! hang a man for going mad? 
 Then farewell British freedom. 
 
50 
 
 REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE 
 
 NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
 The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; 
 
 The point in dispute was, as ail the World knows, 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
 With a great deal ofskill,anda wig full of learning; 
 
 While chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
 
 So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
 
 And your Lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 
 
 That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
 Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 
 
 Then, holding the spectacles up to the court — 
 
 Your lordship observes they are made with a 
 straddle 
 
 As wide as the ridge of the nose is ; in short, 
 Design’d to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
 (’Tis a case that has happen’d, and may be again) 
 
 That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles 
 then ? 
 
51 
 
 On the whole it appears, and my argument shows 
 With a reasoning, the court will never condemn, 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 
 
 Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how), 
 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: 
 
 But what were his arguments few people know, 
 
 For the court did not think they were equally wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, 
 Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 
 
 That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
 
 By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be shut ! 
 
52 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 
 
 1791. 
 
 Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, 
 
 Of numerous charms possess’d, 
 
 A warm dispute once chanc’d to wage, 
 
 Whose temper was the best. 
 
 The worth of each had been complete, 
 
 Had both alike been mild: 
 
 But one, although her smile was sweet, 
 Frown’d oftener than she smiled. 
 
 And in her humour, when she frown’d, 
 
 Would raise her voice and roar, 
 
 And shake with fury to the ground 
 The garland that she wore. 
 
 The other was of gentler cast, 
 
 From all such frenzy clear, 
 
 Her frowns were seldom known to last, 
 
 And never proved severe. 
 
 To poets of renow n in song 
 The nymphs referr’d the cause, 
 
 Who, strange to tell, all judg’d it wrong, 
 
 - And gave misplaced applause. 
 
 They gentle call’d, and kind and soft, 
 
 The flippant and the scold, 
 
 And though she changed her mood so oft, 
 That failing left untold. 
 
53 
 
 No judges, sure, were e’er so mad, 
 
 Or so resolved to err — 
 
 In short, the charms her sister had 
 They lavish’d all oil her. 
 
 Then thus the god whom fondly they 
 Their great inspirer call, 
 
 Was heard, one genial summer’s day, 
 To reprimand them all. 
 
 4 Since thus ye have combined,’ he said, 
 4 My favourite nymph to slight, 
 Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
 
 With June’s undoubted right, 
 
 4 The Minx shall, for your folly’s sake, 
 Still prove herself a shrew, 
 
 Shall make your scribbling fingers ake. 
 And pinch your noses blue, 
 
 ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, 
 
 WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR’S 
 INSTANCE. 
 
 fT 
 
 Go—Thou art all unfit to share 
 The pleasures of this place 
 With such as its old tenants are, 
 
 Creatures of gentler race. 
 
54 
 
 The squirrel here his hoard provides, 
 
 Aware of wintry storms, 
 
 And wood-peckers explore the sides, 
 
 Of rugged oaks for worms; 
 
 The sheep here smoothes the knotted thorn 
 With frictions of her fleece; 
 
 And here I wander eve and morn, 
 
 Like her, a friend to peace. 
 
 Ah — I could pity thee exiled 
 From this secure retreat — 
 
 I would not lose it to be styled 
 The happiest of the great. 
 
 But thou canst taste no calm delight; 
 
 Thy pleasure is to show 
 
 Thy magnanimity in fight, 
 
 Thy prowess — therefore go. 
 
 I care not whether east or north, 
 
 So I no more may find thee ; 
 
 The angry Muse thus sings thee- forth, 
 
 And claps the gate behind thee. 
 
 ♦ 
 
THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 
 
 There is a field, through which I often pass. 
 
 Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, 
 Adjoining close to Kilwick’s echoing wood, 
 
 Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, 
 Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, 
 That he may follow them throb gh brake and brier. 
 Contusion hazarding of neck or spine, 
 
 Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. 
 
 A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal’d, 
 
 Runs in a bottom, and divides the field 
 Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, 
 
 But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; 
 
 And where the land slopes to its watery bourn, 
 Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn. 
 
 Bricks line the sides, but shiver’d long ago. 
 
 And horrid brambles intertwine below ; 
 
 A hollow scoop’d, I judge, in ancient time, 
 
 For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. 
 
 Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, 
 
 With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; 
 
 Nor Autumn yet had brush’d from every spray, 
 With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away ; 
 
 But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack; 
 Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, 
 
 With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats 
 With a whole gamut fill’d of heavenly notes ; 
 
56 
 
 For which, alas ! my destiny severe, 
 
 Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. 
 
 The Sun, accomplishing his early march, 
 
 His lamp now planted on heaven’s topmost arch, 
 When, exercise and air my only aim, 
 
 And heedless whither, to that field I came, 
 
 Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound 
 Told hill and dale that Reynard’s track was found, 
 Or with the high-raised horns melodious clang 
 All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang. 
 
 Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press’d 
 The herb as soft, while nibbling stray’d the rest; 
 Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, 
 Struggling, detain’d in many a petty nook. 
 
 All seem’d so peaceful, that, from them convey’d, 
 To me their peace by kind contagion spreads 
 
 But when the huntsman with distended cheek, 
 ’Gan make his instrument of music speak, 
 
 And from within the wood that crash was heard, 
 Though not a hound from whom it burst appear’d, 
 The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed, 
 All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, 
 Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, 
 
 Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round 
 But, recollecting, with a sudden thought, [again ; 
 That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, 
 They gather’d close around the old pit’s brink, 
 
 And thought again — but knew not what to think. 
 
 * Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq. 
 
57 
 
 The man to solitude accustom’d long 
 Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue ; 
 
 Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees, 
 
 Have speech for him, and understood with ease; 
 After long draught, when rains abundant fall. 
 
 He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all : 
 
 Knows what the freshness of their hue implies-* 
 
 How glad they catch the largess of the skies; 
 
 But, with precision nicer still, the mind 
 He scans of every locomotive kind ; 
 
 Birds of all feather, beasts of every name, 
 
 That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame ; 
 The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears 
 Have all articulation in his ears; 
 
 He spells them true by intuition’s light, 
 
 And needs no glossary to set him right. 
 
 This truth premised was needful as a text, 
 
 To win due credence to what follows next. 
 
 Awhile they mused; surveying every face, 
 
 Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; 
 
 Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, 
 
 Stamp’d on each countenance such marks of mind* 
 That sage they seem’d, as lawyers o’er a doubt, 
 Which puzzling long, at last they puzzle out ; 
 
 Or academic tutors, teaching youths, 
 
 Sure ne’er to w ant them, mathematic truths ; 
 
 When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, 
 
 A ram, the ewes and wethers sad sddress’d— 
 Friends ! we have lived too long. I never heard 
 Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear’d. 
 
58 
 
 Could I believe, that winds for ages pent 
 In Earth’s dark womb have found at last a vent, 
 And from their prison-house below arise, 
 
 With all these hideous howlings to the skies,' 
 
 I could be much composed, nor should appear, 
 
 For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. 
 Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll’d 
 All night, me resting quiet in the fold. 
 
 Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, 
 
 I could expound the melancholy tone ; 
 
 Should deem it by our old companion made, 
 
 The ass ; for he, we know, has lately stray’d, 
 
 And being lost perhaps, and wandering wide, 
 
 Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. 
 
 But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, 
 That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear ? 
 Daemons produce them doubtless, brazen-clawed 
 And fang’d with brass the daemons are abroad; 
 
 I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, 
 
 That, life to save, we leap into the pit. 
 
 Him answered then his loving mate and true, 
 
 But more discreet than lie, a Cambrian ewe. 
 
 How, leap into the pit our life to save? 
 
 To save our life leap all into the grave ? 
 
 For can we find it less ? Contemplate first 
 The depth, how awful! falling there, we burst: 
 
 Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall 
 In part abate, that happiness were small? 
 
 For with a race like theirs no chance I see 
 Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. 
 
59 
 
 Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple’s bray, 
 
 Or be it not, or be it whose it may, 
 
 And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues 
 Of daemons utter’d, from whatever lungs, 
 
 Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear. 
 We have at least commodious standing here. 
 
 Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast 
 From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. 
 While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals. 
 For Reynard, cicse attended at his heels 
 By panting dog, tired man, and spatter’d horse, 
 Through mere good fortune took a different course. 
 The flock grew calm again, and I, the road 
 Following that led me to my own abode, 
 
 Much wonder’d that the silly sheep had found 
 Such cause of terrour in an empty sound 
 So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, 
 
 Live till to-morrow, will have pass’d away. 
 
00 
 
 ON OBSERVING 
 
 SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE, 
 
 RECORDED IN 
 
 THE BIOGRAPH I A BRITANNICA. 
 
 Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
 To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
 
 In vain, recorded in historic page, 
 
 They court the nolice of a future age : 
 
 Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
 Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand; 
 Lethaean gulfs receive them as they fall, 
 
 And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
 
 So when a child, as playful children use, 
 
 Has burnt to tinder a stale last year’s news, 
 
 The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
 
 There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
 There goes the parson, O illustrious spark ! 
 
 And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk! 
 
61 
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 
 
 I. THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 Beneath the hedg^, or near the stream, 
 A worm is known to stray, 
 
 That shows by night a lucid beam, 
 Which disappears by day. 
 
 Disputes have been, and still prevail, 
 From whence his rays proceed; 
 
 Some give that honour to his tail, 
 
 And others to his head. 
 
 But this is sure — the hand of Night, 
 
 That kindles up the skies, 
 
 Gives him a modicum of light 
 Proportion'd to his size. 
 
 Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, 
 
 By such a lamp bestow’d, 
 
 To bid the traveller, as he went, 
 
 Be careful where he trod : 
 
 Nor crush a worm, whose useful light 
 Might serve, however small, 
 
 To show a stumbling stone by night, 
 
 And save him from a fall. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 D 
 
02 
 
 Whate’er she meant, this truth divine 
 Is legible and plain, 
 
 *Tis power Almighty bids him shine, 
 Nor bids him shine in vain. 
 
 Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme 
 Teach humbler thoughts to you, 
 Since such a reptile has its gem, 
 
 And boasts its splendour too. 
 
 II. THE JACKDAW* 
 
 There is a bird, who by his coat, 
 
 And by the hoarseness of his note, 
 Might be supposed a crow;' 
 
 A great frequenter of the church. 
 Where bishop-like he finds a perch, 
 And dormitory too. 
 
 Above the steeple shines a plate, 
 
 That turns and turns, to indicate 
 From what point blows the weather. 
 Look up — your brains begin to swim, 
 ? Tis in the clouds — that pleases him, 
 He chooses it the rather. 
 
Food of the speculative height, 
 
 Thither he wings his airy flight, 
 
 And thence securely sees 
 The bustle and the rareeshow 
 That occupy mankind below, 
 
 Secure and at his ease. 
 
 You think, no doubt, he sits and muses 
 On future broken bones and bruises, 
 
 If he should chance to fall. 
 
 No; not a single thought like that 
 Employs his philosophic pate, 
 
 Or troubles it at all. 
 
 He sees that this great round-about, 1 
 The world, with all its motley rout, 
 Church, army, physic, law, 
 
 Its customs, and its businesses, 
 
 Is no concern at all of his, 
 
 And says — what says he ? — Caw. 
 
 Thrice happy bird! I too have Seen 
 Much of the vanities of men ; 
 
 And, sick of having seen ’em, 
 
 Would cheerfully these limbs resign 
 For such a pair of wings as thine. 
 
 And such a head between ’em, 
 
Ilf. THE CRICKET. 
 
 Little inmate, full of mirth, 
 Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
 Wheresoe’er be thine abode, 
 Always harbinger of good, 
 
 Pay me for thy warm retreat 
 With a song more soft and sweet ; 
 In return thou shalt receive 
 Such a strain as [ can give. 
 
 Thus thy praise shall be express'd, 
 Inoffensive welcome guest! 
 
 While the rat is on the scout, 
 
 And the mouse with curious snout, 
 With what vermin else infest 
 Every dish, and spoil the best ; 
 Frisking thus before the fire, 
 
 Thou hast all thine heart’s desire. 
 
 Though in voice and shape they be 
 Form'd as if akin to thee, 
 
 Thou surpassest, happier far, 
 Happiest grasshoppers that are; 
 Theirs is but a summer’s song, 
 Thine endures the winter long, 
 Unimpair’d, and shrill, and clear, 
 Melody throughout the year. 
 
65 
 
 Neither night nor dawn of day 
 Pots a period to thy play : 
 
 Sing then — and extend thy span 
 Far beyond the date of man. 
 Wretched man, whose years are spent 
 In repining discontent, 
 
 Lives not, aged though he be, 
 
 Half a span, compared with thee. 
 
 IV. THE PARROT. 
 
 In painted plumes superbly dress’d, 
 
 A native of the gorgeous East, 
 
 By many a billow toss’d; 
 
 Poll gains at length the British shore, 
 Part of the captain’s precious store, 
 
 A present to his toast. 
 
 Belinda’s maids are soon preferr’d, 
 
 To teach him now and then a wojcd, 
 As Poll can master it ; 
 
 But *tis her own important charge 
 To qualify him more at large, 
 
 And make him quite a wit. 
 
 Sweet Poll ! his doting mistress cries, 
 Sweet Poll ! the mimic bird replies, 
 And calls aloud for sack. 
 
 She next instructs him in the kiss ; 
 Tis now a little one, like Miss, 
 
 And now a hearty smack. 
 
66 
 
 At first he aims at what he hears, 
 
 And, listening close with both his ears, 
 Just catches at the sound; 
 
 But soon articulates aloud, 
 
 Much to the amusement of the crowd, 
 And stuns the neighbours round. 
 
 A querulous old woman’s voice 
 His humorous talent next employs ; 
 
 He scolds, and gives the lie. 
 
 And now he sings, and now is sick — 
 Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, 
 Poor Poll is like to die ! 
 
 Belinda and her bird ! ? tis rare 
 To meet with such a well-match’d pair,. 
 
 The language and the ton£, 
 
 Each character in every part 
 Sustain’d with so much grace and art. 
 And both in unison. 
 
 When children first begin to spell, 
 
 And stammer out a syllable, 
 
 We think them tedious creatures 
 But difficulties soon abate, 
 
 When birds are to be taught to prate* 
 And women are the teachers. 
 
67 
 
 V. RECIPROCAL KINDNESS, 
 
 THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE. 
 
 Androcles, from his injured lord in dread 
 Of instant death, to Libya’s desert fled. 
 
 Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch’d with heat, 
 He spied, at length, a cavern’s cool retreat; 
 
 Rut scarce had given to rest his weary frame , 
 When, hugest of his kind, a lion came : 
 
 He roar’d approaching: but the savage din 
 To plaintive murmurs changed, arrived within ; 
 
 And with expressive looks, his lifted paw 
 Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. 
 
 The fugitive, through terror at a stand, 
 
 Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand ; 
 
 Rut bolder grown, at length inherent found 
 A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
 
 The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood, 
 And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
 
 Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day 
 Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
 
 Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared, 
 Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. 
 
 Rut thus to live — still lost — sequester’d still — 
 Scarce seem’d his lord’s revenge a heavier ill. 
 Home! native home! O might he but repair ! 
 
 He must — he will, though death attends him there. 
 He goes, and doom’d to perish, on the sands 
 Of the full theatre unpitied stands ; 
 
68 
 
 When lo ! the self-same lion from his cage 
 Flies to devour him, famish’d into rage* 
 
 He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey 
 The nun, his healer, pauses on his way, 
 
 And softea’d by remembrance into sweet 
 And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 
 
 Mute with astonishment the assembly gaze : 
 
 But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze 
 All this is natural: Nature bade him rend 
 An enemy ; she bids him spare a friend. 
 
 VI. THE THRACIAN. 
 
 Thracian parents, at his birth, 
 
 Mourn their babe with many a tear, 
 But with undissembled mirth 
 Place him breathless on his bier. 
 
 Greece and Rome, with equal scorn, 
 
 ‘ O the savages !’ exclaim, 
 
 ‘ Whether they rejoice or mourn, 
 Well entitled to the name!’ 
 
 But the cause of this concern, 
 
 And this pleasure would they traqe. 
 Even they might somewhat learn 
 From the savages of Thrace. 
 
69 
 
 VII. A MANUAL 
 
 MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT 
 TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE. 
 
 There is a book, which we may call 
 (Its excellence is such,) 
 
 Alone a library, though small ; 
 
 The ladies thumb it much. 
 
 Words none, things numerous it contains : 
 And, things with words compared. 
 
 Who needs be told, that has his brains, 
 
 Which merit most regard ? 
 
 Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue 
 A golden edging boast ; 
 
 And open’d, it displays to view 
 Twelve pages at the most. 
 
 Nor name, nor title, stamp’d behind, 
 
 Adorns its outer part ; 
 
 But all within ’tis richly lined, 
 
 A magazine of art. 
 
 The whitest hands that secret hoard 
 Oft visit : and the fair 
 
 Preserve it in their bosoms stored, 
 
 As with a miser’s care. 
 
 D 3 
 
70 
 
 Thence implements of every size, 
 
 And form’d for various use, 
 
 (They need but to consult their eyes,) 
 They readily produce. 
 
 The largest and the longest kind 
 Possess the foremost page, 
 
 A sort most needed by the blind, 
 
 Or nearly such from age. 
 
 The full-charged leaf, which next ensues, 
 Presents in bright array 
 
 The smaller sort, which matrons use, 
 
 Not quite so blind as they. 
 
 The third, the fourth, the fifth, supply 
 What their occasions ask, 
 
 Who, with a more discerning eye, 
 Perform a nicer task. 
 
 But still with regular decrease, 
 
 From size to size they fall, 
 
 In every leaf grows less and less ; 
 
 The last are least of all. 
 
 O ! what a fund of genius, pent 
 In narrow space, is here ! 
 
 This volume’s method and intent 
 How luminous and clear ! 
 
71 
 
 It leaves no reader at a loss, 
 
 Or posed, whoever reads ; 
 
 No commentator’s tedious gloss, 
 
 Nor even index needs. 
 
 Search Bodley’s many thousands o’er ! 
 
 No book is treasured there, 
 
 Nor yet in Granta’s numerous store, 
 That may with this compare. 
 
 No ! — Rival none in either host 
 Of this was ever seen, 
 
 Or that contents could justly boast 
 So brilliant and so keen. 
 
 VIII. AN ENIGMA. 
 
 A needle small, as small can be, 
 In bulk and use surpasses me, 
 
 Nor is my purchase dear; 
 
 For little, and almost for naught, 
 As many of my kind are bought, 
 As days are in the year. 
 
 Yet though but little use we boast, 
 And are procured at little cost, 
 
 The labour is not light ; 
 
 Nor few artificers it asks, 
 
 All skilful in their several tasks, 
 
 To fashion us aright. 
 
72 
 
 One fuses metal o’er the fire, 
 
 A second draws it into wire. 
 
 The shears another plies, 
 
 Who clips in lengths the brazen thread 
 For him, who, chafing every shred, 
 
 Gives all an equal size. 
 
 A fifth prepares, exact and round, 
 
 The knob, with which it must be crown'd 
 His follower makes it fast : 
 
 And with his mallet and his file, 
 
 To shape the point, employs awhile 
 The seventh and the last. 
 
 Now therefore, CEdipus 1 declare, 
 
 What creature, wonderful and rare, 
 
 A process, that obtains 
 Its purpose with so much ado, 
 
 At last produces ! — tell me true, 
 
 Apd take me for your pains \ 
 
73 
 
 IX. SPARROWS, SELF-DOMESTICATED, 
 
 IN TRINITY-COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 None ever shared the social feast, 
 
 Or as an inmate or a guest, 
 
 Beneath the celebrated dome 
 Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
 
 Who saw not (and with some delight 
 Perhaps he view'd the novel sight,) 
 
 How numerous, at the tables there, • 
 
 The sparrows beg their daily fare. 
 
 For there, in every nook and cell, 
 
 Where such a family may dwell, 
 
 Sure as the vernal season comes, 
 
 Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs. 
 Which kindly given, may serve with food 
 Convenient their unfeather’d brood ; 
 
 And oft as with its summons clear 
 The w arning-bell salutes their ear, 
 
 Sagacious listeners to the sound, 
 
 They flock from all the fields around, 
 
 To reach the hospitable hall, 
 
 None more attentive to the call. 
 
 Arrived, the pen, nonary band, 
 
 Hopping and chirping, close at hand, 
 
74 
 
 Solicit what they soon receive, 
 
 The sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
 Thus is a multitude, though large, 
 Supported at a trivial charge ; 
 
 A single doit would overpay 
 The expenditure of every day, 
 
 And who can grudge so small a grace 
 To suppliants, natives of the place ? 
 
 X. FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS. 
 
 As in her ancient mistress’ lap 
 The youthful tabby lay, 
 
 They gave each other many a tap, 
 
 Alike disposed to play. 
 
 Rut strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, 
 And with protuded claws 
 
 Ploughs all the length of Lydia’s arm, 
 Mere wantonness the cause. 
 
 At once, resentful of the deed, 
 
 She shakes her to the ground, 
 
 With many a threat that she shall bleed 
 With still a deeper wound. 
 
 But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest; 
 
 It was a venial stroke ; 
 
 \ For she that will with kittens jest, 
 
 Should bear a kitten’s joke. 
 
XI. INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. 
 
 Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains— 
 And seldom another it can— 
 
 To seek a retreat, while he reigns, 
 
 In the well-shelter’d dwellings of man. 
 
 Who never can seem to intrude, 
 
 Though in all places equally free, 
 
 Come, oft as the season is rude, 
 
 Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 
 
 At sight of the first feeble ray, 
 
 That pierces the clouds of the east, . 
 
 To inveigle thee every day 
 My windows shall show thee a feast. 
 
 For, taught by experience, I know 
 Thee mindful of benefit long; 
 
 And that, thankful for all I bestow, 
 
 Thou wilt pay me with many a song. 
 
 Then, soon as the swell of the buds 
 Bespeaks the renewal of spring. 
 
 Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, 
 
 Or where it shall please thee to sing: 
 
 And shouldst thou, compell’d by a frost. 
 Come again to my window or door, 
 
 Doubt not an affectionate host, 
 
 Only pay as thou pay’dst me before. 
 
76 
 
 Thus music must needs be confess’d 
 To flow from a fountain above ; 
 
 Else how should it work in the breast 
 Unchangeable friendship and love ? 
 
 And who on the globe can be found, 
 Save your generation and ours, 
 
 That can be delighted by sound, 
 
 Or boasts any musical powers ? 
 
 XII. STRADA’S NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 The shepherd touch’d his reed; sweet Philomel 
 Essay’d, and oft essay’d to catch the strain, 
 
 And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, 
 
 The numbers, echoed note for note again. 
 
 The peevish youth, who ne’er had found before 
 A rival of his skill, indignant heard, 
 
 And soon (for various was his tuneful store,) 
 
 In loftier tones defied the simple bird. 
 
 She dared the task, and rising, as he rose, 
 
 With all the force that passion gives, inspired, 
 
 Return’d the sounds awhile, but, in the close, 
 Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired. 
 
 Thus strength, not skill, prevail’d. O fatal strife, 
 By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun ; 
 
 And O sad victory, which cost thy life, 
 
 And he may wish that he had never won t 
 
77 
 
 XIII. ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, 
 
 WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER 
 BIRTH-DAY, 1728. 
 
 Ancient dame, how wide and vast, 
 
 To a race like ours appears, 
 
 Rounded to an orb at last, 
 
 All thy multitude of years t 
 
 We, the herd of human kind, 
 
 Frailer and of feebler powers ; 
 
 We, to narrow bounds confined, 
 
 Soon exhaust the sum of ours. 
 
 Death’s delicious banquet — we 
 Perish even from the womb, 
 
 Swifter than a shadow flee, 
 
 Nourish’d but to feed the tomb. 
 
 Seeds of merciless disease 
 Lurk in all that we enjoy; 
 
 Some that waste us by degrees, 
 
 Some that suddenly destroy. 
 
 And if life o’erleap the bourn, 
 
 Common to the sons of men, 
 
 What remains, but that we mourn, 
 
 Dream, and dote, and drivel then? 
 
78 
 
 Fast as moons can wax and wane, 
 Sorrow comes ; and, while we groan, 
 
 Pant with anguish, and complain 
 Half our years are fled and gone. 
 
 If a few, (to few ? tis given,) 
 
 Lingering on this earthly stage, 
 
 Creep and halt, with steps uneven, 
 
 To the period of an age, 
 
 Wherefore live they, but to see 
 Cunning, arrogance, and force, 
 
 Sights lamented much by thee, 
 Holding their accustom'd course ? 
 
 Oft was seen, in ages past, 
 
 All that we with wonder view ; 
 
 Often shall be to the last; 
 
 Earth produces nothing new. 
 
 Thee we gi atulate ; content, 
 
 Should propitious Heaven design 
 
 Life for us, as calmly spent, 
 
 Though but half the length of thine. 
 
79 
 
 XIV. THE CAUSE WON. 
 
 Two neighbours furiously dispute; 
 
 A field— the subject of the suit. 
 
 Trivial the spot, yet such the rage 
 With which the combatants engage, 
 ’Twere hard to tell, who covets most 
 The prize — at whatsoever cost. 
 
 The pleadings swell. Words still suffice 
 No single word but has its price : 
 
 No term but yields some fair pretence 
 For novel and increased expense. 
 
 Defendant thus becomes a name, 
 Which he that bore it, may disclaim ; 
 Since both, in one description blended. 
 Are plaintiffs — when the suit is ended. 
 
 XV. THE SILK WORM, 
 
 The beams of April, ere it goes, 
 
 A worm, scarce visible, disclose; 
 
 All winter long content to dwell 
 The tenant of his native shell. 
 
 The same prolific season gives 
 The sustenance by which he lives, 
 
 The mulberry-leaf, a simple store, 
 
 That serves him — till he needs no more ! 
 
80 
 
 For, his dimensions once complete, 
 Thenceforth none ever sees him eat; 
 Though, till his growing time be past, 
 Scarce ever is he seen to fast. 
 
 That hour arrived, his Work begins ; 
 
 He spins and weaves, and weaves and spin 
 Till circle upon circle w r ound 
 Careless around him and around, 
 
 Conceals him with a veil, though slight, 
 Impervious to the keenest sight. 
 
 Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask, 
 
 At length he finishes his task : 
 
 And, though a worm, when he was lost, 
 
 Or caterpillar, at the most, 
 
 When next we see him, wings he wears, 
 And in papilio-pomp appears ; 
 
 Becomes oviparous ; supplies 
 With future worms and future flies, 
 
 The next ensuing year ; — and dies ! 
 
 Well were it for the world, if all 
 Who creep about this earthly ball, 
 
 Though shorter-lived than most he be, 
 Were useful in their kind as he. 
 
XVI. THE INNOCENT THIEF. 
 
 Not a flower can be found in the fields, 
 Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, 
 
 From the largest to least, hut it yields 
 The bee, never-wearied, a treasure. 
 
 Scarce any she quits unexplored, 
 
 With a diligence truly exact; 
 
 Yet, steal what she may for her hoard* 
 Leaves evidence none of the fact. 
 
 Her lucrative task she pursues, 
 
 And pilfers with so much address* 
 
 That none of their odour they lose, 
 
 Nor charm by their beauty the less. 
 
 Not thus inoffensively preys 
 The canker-worm, indwelling foe! 
 
 His voracity not thus allays 
 The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. 
 
 The worm, more expensively fed, 
 
 The pride of the garden devours; 
 
 And birds peck the seed from the bed, 
 Still less to be spared than the flowers* 
 
8 2 
 
 But she with such delicate skill., 
 
 Her pillage so fits for her use, 
 
 That the chemist in vain with his still, 
 Would labour the like to produce. 
 
 Then grudge not her tbmperate meals, 
 Nor a benefit blame as a theft; 
 
 Since, stole she not all that she steals, 
 Neither honey nor wax would be left. 
 
 XVII. DENNEIVS OLD WOMAN. 
 
 In this mimic form of a matron in years, 
 
 How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! 
 
 The matron herself, in whose old age we see 
 Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! 
 
 No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low, 
 
 No wrinkle, or deep-furrow’d frown oh the brow! 
 Her forehead indeed is here circled around 
 With locks like the ribbon with which they are bound 
 While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin 
 Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin ; 
 
 But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, 
 
 Or that indicates life in its winter — is here. 
 
 Yet all is express’d with fidelity due, 
 
 Nor a pimple or freckle conceal’d from the view. 
 
 Many, fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste 
 For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste ; 
 
 The youths all agree, that could old age inspire 
 The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, 
 
83 
 
 And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see 
 Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee. 
 
 The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline, 
 O wonderful woman! as placid as thine. 
 
 Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage 
 To peruse, half-enamour’d, the features of age) 
 
 And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, 
 
 That she, when as old, shall be equally fair ! 
 
 How great is the glory that Denner has gain’d, 
 Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain’d ! 
 
 XVIII. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER. 
 
 Apelles, hearing that his boy 
 Had just expired — his only joy ! 
 
 Although the sight with anguish tore him, 
 Bade place his dear remains before him. 
 
 He seized his brush, his colours spread ; 
 
 And — ‘ Oh ! my child, accept/ — he said, 
 
 5 (’Tis all that I can now bestow,) 
 
 This tribute of a father’s wo !’ 
 
 Then, faithful to the two-fold part 
 Both of his feelings and his art, 
 
 He closed his eyes, with tender care, 
 
 A nd form’d at once a fellow pair ; 
 
 His brow, with amber locks besetj 
 And lips he drew, not livid yet ; 
 
 And shaded all that he had done 
 To a just image of his son. 
 
m 
 
 Thus far is well. Bat view again 
 The cause of thy paternal painl 
 Thy melancholy task fulfil ! 
 
 It needs the last, last touches still. 
 
 Again his pencil’s powers he tries, 
 
 For on his lips a smile he spies ; 
 
 And still his cheek unfaded shows 
 The deepest damask of the rose. 
 
 Then, heedful to the finish’d whole, 
 
 With fondest eagerness he stole, 
 
 Till scarce himself distinctly knew 
 The cherub copied from the true. 
 
 Now% painter, cease ! Thy task is done. 
 Long lives this image of thy son 
 Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove, 
 
 Or of thy labour or thy love. 
 
85 
 
 XIX. THE MAZE. 
 
 From light to left, and to and fro, 
 
 Caught in a labyrinth, you go, 
 
 And turn, and turn, and turn again, 
 
 To solve the mystery, but in vain; 
 
 Stand still and breathe, and take from me 
 A clew that soon shall set you free ! 
 
 Not Ariadne, if you meet her, 
 
 Herself could serve you with a better. 
 You enter’d easily- — find where— 
 
 And make, with ease, your exit there ! 
 
 XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE 
 SUFFERER. 
 
 The lover, in melodious verses, 
 
 His singular distress rehearses, 
 
 Still closing with a rueful cry, 
 
 ‘Was ever such a wretch as IV 
 Yes! thousands have endured before 
 All thy distress ; some haply more. 
 Unnumber’d Corydons complain, 
 
 And Strephons, of the like disdain : 
 
 And if thy Chloe be of steel, 
 
 Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel,; 
 
 Not her alone that censure fits, 
 
 Nor thou alone has lost thy wits. 
 
 FART II. E 
 
86 ° 
 
 XXL THE SNAILo 
 
 To grass, or leaf, or fruit or wall, 
 
 The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
 
 As if he grew there, house and all 
 
 Together. 
 
 Within that house secure he hides. 
 
 When danger imminent betides 
 Of storm, or other harm besides 
 
 Of weather. 
 
 Give but his horns the slightest touch, 
 
 His self-collecting power is such, 
 
 He shrinks into his house with much 
 
 Displeasure. 
 
 Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone, 
 Except himself has chattels none, 
 
 Well satisfied to be his own 
 
 Whole treasure. 
 
 Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, 
 
 Nor partner of his banquet needs, 
 
 And if he meets one, only feeds 
 
 The faster. 
 
 W ho seeks him must be worse than blind* 
 (He and his house are so combined,) 
 
 If, finding it, he fails to find 
 
 Its master. 
 
HYMN 
 
 I OR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEy. 
 
 Hear, Lord, the Song of praise and pray ’r 
 In Heav’n, thy dwelling place, 
 
 From infants made the public care, 
 
 And taught to seek thy face. 
 
 Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, 
 
 And grant us, we implore. 
 
 Never to waste in sinful play 
 Thy holy sabbaths more. 
 
 Thanks that we hear ! — But O impart 
 To each desires sincere, 
 
 That we may listen with our heart, 
 
 And learn as well as hear. 
 
 For if vain thoughts the minds engage 
 Of older far than we, 
 
 What hope, that at our heedless age, 
 
 Our minds should e’er be free ? 
 
 Much hope, if thou our spirits take 
 Under thy gracious sway, 
 
 Who canst the wisest wiser make, 
 
 And babes as wise as they. 
 
 Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, 
 
 A sun that ne’er declines, 
 
 And be thy mercies showYd on those, 
 
 Who plac'd us where it shines. 
 
88 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the 
 Parish of All- Saints, Northampton * 
 
 ANNO DOMINI 1787. 
 
 Pallida Mors aquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas , 
 Regumque tnrres. Hor. 
 
 Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door 
 Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor ! 
 
 While thirteen moons saw smoothly run 
 The Nen’s barge-laden wave, 
 
 AJ! these, life’s rambling journey done, 
 Have found their home, the grave. 
 
 Was man (frail always,) made more frail 
 Than in foregoing years ? 
 
 Did famine or did plague prevail, 
 
 That so much death appears ? 
 
 No ; these were vigorous as their sires, 
 Nor plague nor famine came ; 
 
 This annual tribute Death requires, 
 
 And never waves his claim. 
 
 J* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of- Northampton. 
 
89 
 
 Like crowded forest-trees we stand, 
 
 And some are mark’d to fall ; 
 
 The axe will smite at God’s command, 
 
 And soon shall smite us all. 
 
 Green as the bay-tree, ever green, 
 
 With its new foliage on, 
 
 The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, 
 
 I pass’d— and they were gone. 
 
 Read, ye that run, the awful truth 
 With which I charge my page ; 
 
 A worm is in the bud of youth, 
 
 And at the root of age. 
 
 No present health can health ensure 
 For yet an hour to come ; 
 
 No medicine, though it oft can cure, 
 
 Can always balk the tomb. 
 
 And O ! that, humble as my lot, 
 
 And scorn’d as is my strain, 
 
 These truths, though known, too much forgot, 
 I may not teach in vain. 
 
 So prays your clerk with all his heart, 
 
 And ere he quits the pen, 
 
 Begs you for once to take his part, 
 
 And answer all— -Amen!- 
 
DO 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1788. 
 
 Quod adest, memento 
 Comp oner e cpquus . Cat era fiuminis 
 Ritu feruntur. liar. 
 
 Improve the present hour, for all beside 
 Is a mere feather on a torrent’s tide. 
 
 Could I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage 
 To whom the rising year shall prove his last. 
 
 As [ can number in my punctual page, 
 
 And item down the victims of the past; 
 
 How each w ould trembling wait the mournful sheet, 
 On which the press might stamp him next to die ; 
 
 And, reading here his sentence, how replete 
 
 With anxious meaning, Heavenward turn his eye ! 
 
 Time then would seem more precious than the joys 
 In which he sports away the treasure now; 
 
 And prayer more seasonable than the noise 
 Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow. 
 
 Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink 
 Of this world’s hazardous and headlong shore, 
 
 Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, 
 
 Told that his setting sun must rise no more* 
 
91 
 
 Ah self-deceived ! Could I prophetic say 
 Who next is fated, and who next to fall, 
 
 The rest might then seem privileged to play ; 
 
 But, naming none, the voice now speaks to all. 
 
 Observe the dappled foresters, how light 
 They bound and airy o’er the sunny glade — 
 
 One falls— the rest, wide-scatter’d with affright, 
 Vanish at once into the darkest shade. 
 
 Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn’d, 
 Still need repeated warnings, and at last, 
 
 A thousand awful admonitions scorn’d, 
 
 Die self-accused of life run all to waste ? 
 
 Sad waste ! for which no after thrift atones: 
 
 The grave admits no cure for guiit or sin ; 
 
 Dew-drops may deck the turf that hides the bones* 
 But tears of godly grief ne’er flow within. 
 
 Learn then, ye living ! by the mouths be taught 
 Of ail these sepulchres, instructors true, 
 
 That, soon or late, death also is your lot, 
 
 And the next opening grave may yawn for you. 
 
02 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1789. 
 
 — — Placiddque ibi demum morte quievit . — Vi re;. 
 There calm at length he breathed his soul away. 
 
 4 O most delightful hour by man 
 Experienced here below, 
 
 The hour that terminates his span, 
 
 His folly and his wo ! 
 
 4 Worlds should not bribe me back to tread 
 Again life’s dreary waste, 
 
 To see again my day o erspread 
 With all the gloomy past. 
 
 4 My home henceforth is in the skies ; 
 Earth, seas, and sun, adieu ! 
 
 All heaven unfolded to my eyes, 
 
 I have no sight for you/ 
 
 So spake Aspasio, firm possess’d 
 Of faith’s supporting rod, 
 
 Then breathed his soul into its rest, 
 
 The bosom of his God. 
 
93 
 
 He was a man among the few 
 Sincere on virtue's side ; 
 
 And all his strength from Scripture drew, 
 To hourly use applied. 
 
 That rule he prized, by that he fear’d, 
 
 He hated, hoped, and loved; 
 
 Nor ever frown’d or sad appear’d, 
 
 But when his heart had roved. 
 
 For he was frail as thou or I, 
 
 And evil felt within ; 
 
 But, when he felt it, heaved a sigh, 
 
 And loathed the thought of sin. 
 
 Such lived Aspasio ; and at last 
 Call’d up from earth to heaven, 
 
 The gulf of death triumphant pass’d, 
 
 By gales of blessing driven. 
 
 His joys be mine , each reader cries, 
 
 When my last hour arrives : 
 
 They shall be yours, my verse replies, 
 
 Such only be your lives. 
 
 e 3 
 
94 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1790. 
 
 Ne commonentem recta sperne,— Buchanan. 
 Despise not my good counsel. 
 
 He who sits from day to day 
 Where the prison’d lark is hung. 
 Heedless of his loudest lay, 
 
 Hardly knows that he has sung. 
 
 Where the watchman in his round 
 Nightly lifts his voice on high, 
 
 None, accustom’d to the sound, 
 
 Wakes the sooner for his cry. 
 
 So your verse-man I and clerk, 
 
 Yearly in my song proclaim 
 Death at hand-— yourselves his mark — 
 And the foe’s unerring aim. 
 
 Duly at my time I come, 
 
 Publishing to all aloud — 
 
 Soon the grave must be your home, 
 And your only suit a shroud. 
 
But the monitory strain, 
 
 Oft repeated in your ears, 
 
 Seems to sound too much in vain, 
 
 Wins no notice, wakes no fears. 
 
 Can a truth, by ail confess’d 
 Of such magnitude and weight, 
 
 Grow, by being oft impress’d, 
 
 Trivial as a parrot’s prate ? 
 
 Pleasure’s call attention wins, 
 
 Hear it often as we may ; 
 
 New as ever seem our sins, 
 
 Though committed every day. 
 
 Death and judgment, heaven and hell-,— 
 These alone, so often heard, 
 
 No more move us than the bell, 
 
 When some stranger is interred. 
 
 O then, ere the turf or tomb 
 Cover us from every eye, 
 
 Spirit of instruction come, 
 
 Make us learn that we must die. 
 
96 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1792. 
 
 Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas 
 Atque met us omnes et inexorabiie fatum 
 Siibjecit pedibus strepitumque Acker ontis avari f 
 
 Virg. 
 
 TTappy the mortal, who has traced effects 
 To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, 
 
 And death, and roaring hell’s voracious fires ! 
 
 Thankless for favours from on high, 
 
 Man thinks he fades too soon ; 
 
 Though ’t.is his privilege to die, 
 
 Would lie improve the boon. 
 
 But he, not wise enough to scan 
 His best concerns aright, 
 
 Would gladly stretch life’s little span 
 To ages, if he might: 
 
 To ages in a world of pain, 
 
 To ages, where he goes 
 
 Gall’d by affliction’s heavy chain, 
 
 And hopeless of repose. 
 
 Strange fondness of the human heart, 
 Enamour’d of its harm ! 
 
 Strange world, that costs it so much smart, 
 And still has power to charm. 
 
97 
 
 Whence has the world her magic power? 
 
 Why deem we death a foe ? 
 
 Recoil from weary life’s best hour, 
 
 And covet longer wo ? 
 
 The cause is Conscience — Conscience oft 
 Her tale of guilt renews : 
 
 Her voice is terrible though soft, 
 
 And dread of death ensues. 
 
 Then anxious to be longer spared, 
 
 Man mourns his fleeting breath: 
 
 All evils then seem light, compared 
 With the approach of death. 
 
 ’Tis judgment shakes him ; there’s the fear 
 That prompts the wish to stay : 
 
 He has incurred a long arrear, 
 
 And must despair to pay. 
 
 Pay / —follow Christ, and all is paid; 
 
 His death your peace ensures ; 
 
 Think on the grave where he was laid. 
 
 And calm descend to yours . 
 
08 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1793. 
 
 De sacris autem heec sit una sententia , ut conserventur. 
 
 Cic. de Leg. 
 
 But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things sacred be inviolate. 
 
 He lives who lives to God alone, 
 
 And all are dead beside ; 
 
 For other source than God is none 
 Whence life can be supplied. 
 
 To live to God is to requite 
 His love as best we may : 
 
 To make his precepts our delight, 
 His promises our stay. 
 
 But life, within a narrow ring 
 Of giddy joys comprised, 
 
 Is falsely named, and no such thing, 
 But rather death disguised. 
 
 Can life in them deserve the name, 
 Who only live to prove 
 
 For what poor toys they can disclaim 
 An endless life above ? 
 
Who much diseased, yet nothing' fee! ; 
 
 Much menaced, nothing' dread ; 
 
 Have wounds which only God can heal, 
 Yet never ask his aid ? 
 
 Who deem his house a useless place ; 
 
 Faith, want of common sense ; 
 
 And ardour in the Christian race, 
 
 A hypocrite’s pretence? 
 
 "Who trample order ; and the day, 
 Which God asserts his own, 
 Dishonour with unhallow’d play, 
 
 And worship chance alone? 
 
 If scorn of God’s commands, impress’d 
 On word and deed, imply 
 The better part of man unbless’d 
 With life that cannot die ; 
 
 Such want it, and that want, uncured 
 Till man resigns his breath, 
 
 Speaks him a criminal, assured 
 Of everlasting death. 
 
 Sad period to a pleasant course! 
 
 Yet so will God repay 
 Sabbaths profaned without remorse, 
 And mercy cast away. 
 
100 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE 
 
 Erected at the sowing of a Grove of Oaks at Chilling- 
 ton, the Seat of T Giffard , Esq . 1790. 
 
 Other stones the era tell, 
 
 When some feeble mortal fell ; 
 
 I stand here to date the birth 
 Of these hardy sons of Earth. 
 
 Which shall longest brave the sky, 
 
 Storm and frost — these oaks or I ? 
 
 Pass an age or two away, 
 
 I must moulder and decay ; 
 
 But the years that crumble me 
 Shall invigorate the tree, 
 
 Spread its branch, dilate its size, 
 
 Lift its summit to the skies. 
 
 Cherish honour, virtue, truth, 
 
 So shalt thou prolong thy youth. 
 
 Wanting these, however fast 
 Man be fix’d, and form’d to last, 
 
 He is lifeless even now, 
 
 Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 
 
101 
 
 LINES 
 
 Composed for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper , Esq. 
 immediately after his death , by his Nephew William , 
 ofWestoiit June, 1788. 
 
 Farewell! endued with all that could engage 
 All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! 
 
 In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll’d 
 Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old; 
 
 In life’s last stage, (O blessings rarely found !) 
 Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd ; 
 Through every period of this changeful state 
 Unchanged thyself— wise, good, affectionate! 
 
 Marble may flatter ; and lest this should seem 
 O’ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, 
 Although thy worth be more than half suppress’d^ 
 Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. 
 
102 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 JOHN THORNTON, Esq. 1790. 
 
 Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
 
 Praising the Author of all good in man ; 
 
 And, next, commemorating Worthies lost, 
 
 The dead in whom that good abounded most. 
 
 Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more 
 Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. 
 
 Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine, 
 As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
 
 I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
 
 The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. 
 
 Thee to deplore, were grief misspent indeed ; 
 
 It were to weep that goodness has its meed, 
 
 That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
 
 And glory for the virtuous when they die. 
 
 What pleasure can the miser’s fondled hoard, 
 
 Or spendthrift’s prodigal excess afford, 
 
 Sweet as the privilege of healing wo 
 By virtue suffer’d combatting below ? 
 
 That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means 
 To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
 
 Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
 As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
 
103 
 
 Thou hadst an industry in doing good, 
 
 Restless as his who toils and sweats for food ; 
 Avarice, in thee, was the desire of wealth 
 By rust unperishable or by stealth; 
 
 And if the genuine worth of gold depend 
 On application to its noblest end, 
 
 Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, 
 Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. 
 
 And, though God made thee of a nature prone 
 To distribution boundless of thy own, 
 
 And still by motives of religious force 
 [mpell’d thee more to that heroic course ; 
 
 Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
 
 I^ice in its choice, and of a temper’d heat,. 
 
 And, though in act unwearied, secret still, 
 
 As in some solitude the summer rill 
 Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, 
 
 And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. 
 Such was thy charity ; no sudden start, 
 
 After long sleep, of passion in the heart, 
 
 But steadfast principle, and, in its kind, 
 
 Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, 
 
 Traced easily to its true source above. 
 
 To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, Love. 
 
 Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
 This record of thee for the Gospel’s sake ; 
 
 That the incredulous themselves may see 
 Its use and power exemplified in Thee. 
 
104 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD. 
 
 Our good old friend is gone, gone to bis rest, 
 
 Whose social converse was itself a feast. 
 
 O ye of riper age, who recollect 
 
 How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, 
 
 Both in the firmness of his better day, 
 
 While yet he ruled you with a father’s sway, 
 
 And when impair’d by time and glad to rest, 
 
 Yet still with looks, in mild complacence drest, 
 
 He took his annual seat, and mingled here 
 His sprightly vein with yours — now drop a tear. 
 
 In morals blameless as in manners meek, 
 
 He knew no wish that he might blush to speak; 
 
 But, happy in whatever state below, 
 
 And richer than the rich in being so, 
 
 Obtain’d the hearts of ail, and such a meed 
 At length from One*, as made him rich indeed. 
 Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here, 
 
 Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere, 
 
 The brows of those whose more exalted lot 
 He could congratulate, but envied not. 
 
 Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast, 
 And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest! 
 
 Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, 
 And not a stone now chronicles thy name. 
 
 * He was usher and under matter of Westminster near fifty years, and 
 retired from his occupation when he was near seventy, with a handsome 
 pension from the King. 
 
105 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON. 
 
 Laurels may flourish round the conqueror’s tomb, 
 Rut happiest they who win the world to come : 
 Believers have a silent field to fight, 
 
 And their exploits are veil’d from human sight. 
 They, in some nook, where little known they dwell, 
 Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell; 
 Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, 
 
 And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 
 
 ON MR. HAMILTON. 
 
 Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme 
 Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. 
 
 Consult life’s silent clock, thy bounding vein ; 
 Seems it to say — 4 Health here has long to reign V 
 Hast thou the vigour of thy youth ? an eye 
 That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh ? 
 Yet fear Youth ofttimes, healthful and at ease, 
 Anticipates a day it never sees ; 
 
 And many a tomb, like Hamilton’s, aloud 
 Exclaims, ‘ Prepare thee for an early shroud.’ 
 
100 
 
 ON FOP, 
 
 A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 
 AUGUST 1792. 
 
 Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name. 
 Here moulders One whose bones some honour claim, 
 No sycophant, although of spaniel race. 
 
 And though no hound, a martyr to the chace — 
 
 Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, 
 
 Your haunts no longer echo to his voice > 
 
 This record of his fate exulting view, 
 
 Fie died worn out with vain pursuit of you, 
 
 * Yes/ the indignant shade of Fop replies — 
 
 * And worn with vain pursuit Man also dies/ 
 
 ON A HARE. 
 
 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
 Nor swifter greyhound follow, 
 
 Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew, 
 Nor ear heard huntsman’s halloo, 
 
 Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
 
 Who, nursed with tender care, 
 
 And to domestic bounds confined, 
 
 Was still a wild Jack-hare, 
 
10 1 
 
 Though duly from my hand he took 
 His pittance every night, 
 
 He did it with a jealous look, 
 
 And, when he could, would bite. 
 
 His diet was of wheaten bread, 
 
 And milk, and oats, and straw ; 
 
 Thistles, or lettuces instead, 
 
 With sand to scour his maw. 
 
 On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, 
 
 On pippins’ russet peel, 
 
 And, when his juicy salads fail’d, 
 
 Sliced carrot pleased him well. 
 
 A Turkey carpet was his lawn, 
 
 Whereon he loved to bound, 
 
 To skip and gambol like a fawn. 
 
 And swing his rump around. 
 
 Hi$ frisking was at evening hours, 
 
 For then he lost his fear, 
 
 But most before approaching showers, 
 
 Or when a storm drew near. 
 
 Eight years and five round-rolling moons 
 He thus saw steal away, 
 
 Doaing out all his idle noons, 
 
 And every night at play. 
 
108 
 
 I kept him for his humour’s sake, 
 
 For he would oft beguile 
 My heart of thoughts that made it ake r 
 And force me to a smile. 
 
 But now beneath his walnut shade 
 He finds his long last home, 
 
 And waits, in snug concealment laid, 
 Til! gentl " Puss shall come. 
 
 He still more aged feels the shocks. 
 From which no care can save, 
 
 And, partner once of Tiney’s box. 
 Must soon partake his grave. 
 
 THE END, 
 
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