  ????????? ?? ???????? ???? ?????.—Plato, ???? ????????? ?????? ?????.—Diog. Laert. To the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in Essex, the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, recommending private tuition in preference to an education at school, is inscribed, by his affectionate friend, William Cowper. Olney, Nov. 6, 1784. It is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, That man, the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, the associate of a mind Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of Almighty skill, Framed for the service of a freeborn will, Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own. For her the memory fills her ample page With truths pour'd down from every distant age; For her amasses an unbounded store, The wisdom of great nations, now no more; Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil; When copiously supplied, then most enlarged; Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged. For her the Fancy, roving unconfined, The present muse of every pensive mind, To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. At her command winds rise and waters roar, Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies, Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife That Grace and Nature have to wage through life, Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her power on every shore he laves? Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.— 'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced, Had not its Author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws Finds in a sober moment time to pause, To press the important question on his heart, "Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?" If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, The next mere dust and ashes in the grave; Endued with reason only to descry His crimes and follies with an aching eye; With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, The force he spends against their fury vain; And if, soon after having burnt, by turns, With every lust with which frail Nature burns, His being end where death dissolves the bond, The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond; Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philosophic pains; But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life away Down to the sunset of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that heaven required of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could reverence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame. But reason heard, and nature well perused, At once the dreaming mind is disabused. If all we find possessing earth, sea, air, Reflect His attributes who placed them there, Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind, 'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to invest With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, Received his nobler nature, and was made Fit for the power in which he stands arrayed; That first, or last, hereafter, if not here, He too might make his author's wisdom clear, Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, Suffer his justice in a world to come. This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied To prove a consequence by none denied, That we are bound to cast the minds of youth Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, That taught of God they may indeed be wise, Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies. In early days the conscience has in most A quickness, which in later life is lost: Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, Or guilty soon relenting into tears. Too careless often, as our years proceed, What friends we sort with, or what books we read, Our parents yet exert a prudent care To feed our infant minds with proper fare; And wisely store the nursery by degrees With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease. Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, A book (to please us at a tender age 'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page) Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach, Which children use, and parsons—when they preach. Lisping our syllables, we scramble next Through moral narrative, or sacred text; And learn with wonder how this world began, Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man: Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain, The wisest heads might agitate in vain. Oh thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober grey, Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 'Twere well with most, if books that could engage Their childhood pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, And not with curses on his heart, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. The stamp of artless piety impress'd By kind tuition on his yielding breast, Regards with scorn, though once received with awe; And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. Touch but his nature in its ailing part, Assert the native evil of his heart, His pride resents the charge, although the proof Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough: Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, The young apostate sickens at the view, And hates it with the malice of a Jew. How weak the barrier of mere nature proves, Opposed against the pleasures nature loves! While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone, She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. Try now the merits of this blest exchange Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. Time was, he closed as he began the day, With decent duty, not ashamed to pray; The practice was a bond upon his heart, A pledge he gave for a consistent part; Nor could he dare presumptuously displease A power confess'd so lately on his knees. But now farewell all legendary tales, The shadows fly, philosophy prevails; Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves; Religion makes the free by nature slaves. Priests have invented, and the world admired What knavish priests promulgate as inspired; Till Reason, now no longer overawed, Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraud; And, common sense diffusing real day, The meteor of the Gospel dies away. Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth Learn from expert inquirers after truth; Whose only care, might truth presume to speak, Is not to find what they profess to seek. And thus, well tutor'd only while we share A mother's lectures and a nurse's care; And taught at schools much mythologic stuff, But sound religion sparingly enough; Our early notices of truth disgraced, Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced. Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once; That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste For loose expense and fashionable waste Should prove your ruin, and his own at last; Train him in public with a mob of boys, Childish in mischief only and in noise, Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten In infidelity and lewdness men. There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold; That pedantry is all that schools impart, But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays, Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise, His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove, And some street-pacing harlot his first love. Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong, Detain their adolescent charge too long; The management of tiros of eighteen Is difficult, their punishment obscene. The stout tall captain, whose superior size The minor heroes view with envious eyes, Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit, With them is courage; his effrontery wit. His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets, His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes, Transport them, and are made their favourite themes. In little bosoms such achievements strike A kindred spark: they burn to do the like. Thus, half accomplish'd ere he yet begin To show the peeping down upon his chin; And, as maturity of years comes on, Made just the adept that you design'd your son; To ensure the perseverance of his course, And give your monstrous project all its force, Send him to college. If he there be tamed, Or in one article of vice reclaim'd, Where no regard of ordinances is shown Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. Some sneaking virtue, lurks in him, no doubt, Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking bout, Nor gambling practices can find it out. Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you: Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. The slaves of custom and establish'd mode, With packhorse constancy we keep the road, Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells. To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think: And such an age as ours balks no expense, Except of caution and of common sense; Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain, Would turn our steps into a wiser train. I blame not those who, with what care they can, O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan; Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare Promise a work of which they must despair. Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, A ubiquarian presence and control, Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd, Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd? Yes—ye are conscious; and on all the shelves Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. Or if, by nature sober, ye had then, Boys as ye were, the gravity of men, Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, And evils not to be endured endure, Lest power exerted, but without success, Should make the little ye retain still less. Ye once were justly famed for bringing forth Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth; A glory, bright as that of all the signs, Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines. Peace to them all! those brilliant times are fled, And no such lights are kindling in their stead. Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays As set the midnight riot in a blaze; And seem, if judged by their expressive looks, Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. Say, muse, (for education made the song, No muse can hesitate, or linger long,) What causes move us, knowing, as we must, That these mÉnageries all fail their trust, To send our sons to scout and scamper there, While colts and puppies cost us so much care? Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. Hark! how the sire of chits, whose future share Of classic food begins to be his care, With his own likeness placed on either knee, Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee; And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks, That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; Then turning, he regales his listening wife With all the adventures of his early life; His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays; What shifts he used, detected in a scrape, How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape; What sums he lost at play, and how he sold Watch, seals, and all—till all his pranks are told. Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,) He gives the local bias all its sway; Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play, And destines their bright genius to be shown Just in the scene where he display'd his own. The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught To be as bold and forward as he ought; The rude will scuffle through with ease enough, Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, The event is sure; expect it, and rejoice! Soon see your wish fulfill'd in either child, The pert made perter, and the tame made wild. The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth, Are best disposed of where with most success They may acquire that confident address, Those habits of profuse and lewd expense, That scorn of all delights but those of sense, Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn, With so much reason, all expect from them. But families of less illustrious fame, Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, Whose heirs, their honours none, their income small, Must shine by true desert, or not at all, What dream they of, that, with so little care They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure, there? They dream of little Charles or William graced With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist; They see the attentive crowds his talents draw, They hear him speak—the oracle of law. The father, who designs his babe a priest, Dreams him episcopally such at least; And, while the playful jockey scours the room Briskly, astride upon the parlour broom, In fancy sees him more superbly ride In coach with purple lined, and mitres on its side. Events improbable and strange as these, Which only a parental eye foresees, A public school shall bring to pass with ease. But how? resides such virtue in that air, As must create an appetite for prayer? And will it breathe into him all the zeal That candidates for such a prize should feel, To take the lead and be the foremost still In all true worth and literary skill? "Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught The knowledge of the World, and dull of thought! Church-ladders are not always mounted best By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. The exalted prize demands an upward look, Not to be found by poring on a book. Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek, Is more than adequate to all I seek. Let erudition grace him, or not grace, I give the bauble but the second place; His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend, Subsist and centre in one point—a friend. A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, Shall give him consequence, heal all defects. His intercourse with peers and sons of peers— There dawns the splendour of his future years: In that bright quarter his propitious skies Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. Your Lordship, and Your Grace! what school can teach A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech? What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, Sweet interjections! if he learn but those? Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke, Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch, The parson knows enough who knows a duke." Egregious purpose! worthily begun In barbarous prostitution of your son; Press'd on his part by means that would disgrace A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place, And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. It may succeed; and, if his sins should call For more than common punishment, it shall; The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth Least qualified in honour, learning, worth, In which the best and worthiest tremble most. The royal letters are a thing of course, A king, that would, might recommend his horse; And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice, As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. Behold your bishop! well he plays his part, Christian in name, and infidel in heart, Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. Dumb as a senator, and as a priest A piece of mere church furniture at best; To live estranged from God his total scope, And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. But, fair although and feasible it seem, Depend not much upon your golden dream; For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, In spite of all the wrigglers into place, Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace; And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be rare, We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. Besides, school friendships are not always found, Though fair in promise, permanent and sound; The most disinterested and virtuous minds, In early years connected, time unbinds New situations give a different cast Of habit, inclination, temper, taste; And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, Soon shows the strong similitude reversed. Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, And make mistakes for manhood to reform. Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, Whose scent and hues are rather guess'd than known; Each dreams that each is just what he appears, But learns his error in maturer years, When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd, Shows all its rents and patches to the world. If, therefore, e'en when honest in design, A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart With just abhorrence of so mean a part, Than set your son to work at a vile trade For wages so unlikely to be paid. Our public hives of puerile resort, That are of chief and most approved report, To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. A principle, whose proud pretensions pass Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass— That with a world, not often over-nice, Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice; Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride— Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their fame; And emulation is its specious name. Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal, Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. The spirit of that competition burns With all varieties of ill by turns; Each vainly magnifies his own success, Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less, Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, Deems his reward too great if he prevail, And labours to surpass him day and night, Less for improvement than to tickle spite. The spur is powerful, and I grant its force; It pricks the genius forward in its course, Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; And, felt alike by each, advances both: But judge, where so much evil intervenes, The end, though plausible, not worth the means. Weigh, for a moment, classical desert Against a heart depraved and temper hurt; Hurt too perhaps for life; for early wrong Done to the nobler part affects it long; And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause, If you can crown a discipline, that draws Such mischiefs after it, with much applause. Connexion form'd for interest, and endear'd By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd; And emulation, as engendering hate, Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate: The props of such proud seminaries fall, The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. Great schools rejected then, as those that swell Beyond a size that can be managed well, Shall royal institutions miss the bays, And small academies win all the praise? Force not my drift beyond its just intent, I praise a school as Pope a government; So take my judgment in his language dress'd, "Whate'er is best administer'd is best." Few boys are born with talents that excel, But all are capable of living well; Then ask not, whether limited or large? But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge? If anxious only that their boys may learn, While morals languish, a despised concern, The great and small deserve one common blame, Different in size, but in effect the same. Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; Therefore in towns and cities they abound, For there the game they seek is easiest found; Though there, in spite of all that care can do, Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain, Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, Your son come forth a prodigy of skill; As, wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will; The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, Claims more than half the praise as his due share. But if, with all his genius, he betray, Not more intelligent than loose and gay, Such vicious habits as disgrace his name, Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame; Though want of due restraint alone have bred The symptoms that you see with so much dread; Unenvied there, he may sustain alone The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. Oh! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused, By all whom sentiment has not abused; New-fangled sentiment, the boasted grace Of those who never feel in the right place; A sight surpass'd by none that we can show, Though Vestris on one leg still shine below; A father blest with an ingenuous son, Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one. How!—turn again to tales long since forgot, Æsop, and PhÆdrus, and the rest?—Why not? He will not blush, that has a father's heart, To take in childish plays a childish part; That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy: Then why resign into a stranger's hand A task as much within your own command, That God and nature, and your interest too, Seem with one voice to delegate to you? Why hire a lodging in a house unknown For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own? This second weaning, needless as it is, How does it lacerate both your heart and his! The indented stick, that loses day by day, Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, Bears witness, long ere his dismission come, With what intense desire he wants his home. But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof Bid fair enough to answer in the proof, Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, A disappointment waits him even there: Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, And keep him warm and filial to the last; Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say But, being man, and therefore frail, he may?) One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools—what!—all the schools i' th' land; Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms, Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms? A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) Deserves an answer similar, or none. Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ (Apprised that he is such) a careless boy, And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, Merely to sleep, and let them run astray? Survey our schools and colleges, and see A sight not much unlike my simile. From education, as the leading cause, The public character its colour draws; Thence the prevailing manners take their cast, Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. And though I would not advertise them yet, Nor write on each—This Building to be Let, Unless the world were all prepared to embrace A plan well worthy to supply their place; Yet, backward as they are, and long have been, To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean, (Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, Or better managed, or encouraged less. THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX.Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining of the sisagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the Dues at the Parsonage. 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 thy just reward. 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. LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets, Not oft so well agree,) Sweet harmonist of Flora's court! Conspire to honour thee. They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own. We therefore pleased extol thy song, Though various, yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learned as 'tis sweet. No envy mingles with our praise, Though, could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would—they must at thine. But we, in mutual bondage knit Of friendship's closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit With an unjaundiced eye; And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for thee, Unworthy of his own. ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.The birds put off their every hue To dress a room for Montagu. The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes; 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, Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove— 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, Obtrude 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 refit, (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, Both Poet saves and Plume from fading. 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. O 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. I 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. The beasts, that roam over the plain, My 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 word! 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. How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, 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 sea-fowl 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. ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTERECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA 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 notice of a future age: Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand; LethÆan gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 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, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk! 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 all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a 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? 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! 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 born to sway The balance in the highest place, And bear the palm away. The praise bestow'd was just and wise; He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conquest, where the prize Attends superior worth. 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. 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 sequestered shed, To be a guest with them? For thee I panted, thee I prized, For thee I gladly sacrificed Whatever I loved before; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say— Farewell! we meet no more? 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. '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. THE MODERN PATRIOT.Rebellion is my theme all day; I only wish 'twould come (As who knows but perhaps it may?) A little nearer home. Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight 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 are 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. ON THE BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780. 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. 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. 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. 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 chase. Reviled and loved, renounced 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. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.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 vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung; And, though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well taught he all the sounds express'd Of flageolet 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. 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 whisker'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. 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 horrors 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 torn, On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, His head alone remain'd to tell The cruel death he died. 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 view, 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! 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 a while; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile. 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 fill 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. 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, Resolved a union form'd for life Death never shall divide. But oh! if, fickle and unchaste, (Forgive a transient thought,) Thou couldst become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot, No need of lightnings 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. A FABLE.A raven, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, And, on her wicker-work 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 conjurors 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, 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 oft'nest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow. ODE TO APOLLO.ON AN INKGLASS 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, Impell'd 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. 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 never 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 blest where'er she goes. Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And heaven reflected in her face. THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.TO MRS. (NOW LADY) 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 blest, 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 all fulfill'd. PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.A FABLE. I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who 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 forestall 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 Bullfinch, 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. 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 on not quite so fast, And destiny, that 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; 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.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 That spaniel found for me,) Now wanton'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. 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. 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. 'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, 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 shows The truth of a friend such as you. 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 For ever in my native shell; Ordain'd to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But toss'd and buffeted 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) You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish, 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, 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 fine, And prove their owner half divine. His censure reach'd them as he dealt it And each by shrinking show'd he felt it. THE SHRUBBERY.WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. Oh, happy shades—to me unblest! 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. But 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 woe! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come. MUTUAL FORBEARANCENECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE. The lady thus address'd her spouse— What a mere dungeon is this house! By 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 Humphrey, 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: 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 incurr'd, 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, 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 with 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 his, Or soon expels him if it is. 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? Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use? Hark! he answers—wild 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 groans, Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, For how could we do without sugar and rum? Especially sugar, so needful we see? What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea! Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, 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. 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 pondered—"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 will 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, I 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. 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 woman 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. Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, Where a demon, 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 goddesslike woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With 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 DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN;SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband 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 fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we. 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 linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calendrer 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'erjoyed 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. 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 saddletree 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 well he knew, Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When 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. 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. So stooping down, as needs he 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 nought; 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. Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around, He carries weight! he rides a race! '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, 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 waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; 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 at once 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 owner 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 calendrer's His horse at last stood still. The calendrer, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall— Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all? Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke! And thus unto the calendrer 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 calendrer, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in; Whence 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. 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. Away went Gilpin, and 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. 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 NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM.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 glowworm by his spark; So stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent— 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 self-same 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. AN EPISTLE 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 reach'd that blest 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, In pity to the souls his 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; Chill 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. TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.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 ache, 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. CATHARINA.ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.) She came—she is gone—we have met— 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 I, Our progress was often delay'd By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree, And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witnessed 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. The longer I heard, I esteem'd The work of my 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 of limes On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times Than 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. 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. 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 cruise, 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 evening-tide. 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— The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game, 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— But whether all the time it cost, To urge the fruitless chase be 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. THE FAITHFUL BIRD.The greenhouse 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. 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. THE NEEDLESS ALARM.A TALE.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 through 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, 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 horn's melodious clang All Kilwick 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 spread. 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 again; That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, They gathered close around the old pit's brink, And thought again—but knew not what to think. 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 drought, 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 want them, mathematic truths; When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd. Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. 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? Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad; I hold it therefore wisest and most fit That, life to save, we leap into the pit. Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, But more discreet than he, 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. 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 demons 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, close 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 terror 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. 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 the 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 terrors 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 renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! 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 CÆsar 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. HEROISM.There was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook 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 horrors 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 what 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 uninformed and idle mass; Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?) Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of shortlived sweets! The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound: Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below. Ten thousand swains the wasted 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 Ætna's emblematic fires The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where you have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbour's 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 firstborn son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Of heartfelt 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 Ætnas 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. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK,THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN 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, "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, O welcome guest, though unexpected here: Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I 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. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— 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! 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 sorrows 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, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, '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,) 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, "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 lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 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 were 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. FRIENDSHIP.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 dullness 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. Candid, and generous, and just, Boys care but little whom they trust, An error 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 seek a friend should come disposed To exhibit, in full bloom disclosed, The graces and the beauties That form the character he seeks, For 'tis a union that bespeaks Reciprocated duties. Mutual attention is implied, And equal truth on either side, And constantly supported; 'Tis 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. In vain the 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. 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 a 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. 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; But friends that chance to differ On points which God has left at large, How freely will they meet and charge No combatants are stiffer. 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 chemist'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 them. 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. 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 seeking with a biass'd mind, Have not, it seems, discern'd it. 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! ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE. 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, (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 to ennoble even mine, In memorable eighty-nine. The spring of eighty-nine shall be An Æra 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 for 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, 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 thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 'Tis but the natural effect Of grandeur that ensures respect; But she is something more than queen Who is beloved where never seen. HYMN,FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY. Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven 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 shower'd on those Who placed us where it shines. STANZAS.SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON, Pallida mors Æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.—Horace. 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, All 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. 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! ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.FOR THE YEAR 1788. Quod adest, memento Componere Æquus. CÆtera fluminis Ritu feruntur.— Horace. 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 I can number in my punctual page, And item down the victims of the past; How each would 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. 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 guilt or sin; Dewdrops 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 all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon or late, death also is your lot, And the next opening grave may yawn for you. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.FOR THE YEAR 1789. —PlacidÂque ibi demum morte quievit.—Virg. There calm at length he breathed his soul away. "O most delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his span, His folly and his woe! "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. "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. 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. 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 all 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 interr'd. O then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from every eye, Spirit of instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,FOR THE YEAR 1792. Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari! Virg. Happy 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 'tis his privilege to die, Would he improve the boon. But he, not wise enough to scan His blest 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. Whence has the world her magic power? Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's best hour, And covet longer woe? 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 incurr'd a long arrear, And must despair to pay. Pay!—follow Christ, and all is paid; is death your peace ensures; Think on the grave where he was laid, And calm descend to yours. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.FOR THE YEAR 1793. De sacris autem hÆc 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 feel; 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. 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 still. THE PINE-APPLE AND THE 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; But still in vain, the frame was tight, And only pervious to the light: Thus having wasted half the day, He trimm'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 pineapple, 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. VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE.Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks! Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou cast A treasure in her way; for neither meed Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast, Hopes she from this—presumptuous, though, perhaps The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might. Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon, Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock, Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found, Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah! Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!) Conferr'dst thou, goddess! Thou art blind thou say'st: Enough!—thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Nor does my muse no benefit exhale From this thy scant indulgence!—even here Hints worthy sage philosophy are found; Illustrious hints, to moralize my song! This ponderous heel of perforated hide Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore: on this, supported oft, he stretch'd, With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time (What will not cruel time?) on a wry step Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas! He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, Pursue his destined way with symmetry, And some proportion form'd, now on one side Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. Thus fares it oft with other than the feet Of humble villager—the statesman thus, Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds His prosperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul, While policy prevails, and friends prove true; But, that support soon failing, by him left On whom he most depended, basely left, Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height Headlong he falls; and through the rest of life Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 1748. AN ODE,ON READING RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. Say, ye apostate and profane, Wretches, who blush not to disdain Allegiance to your God,— Did e'er your idly wasted love Of virtue for her sake remove And lift you from the crowd? Would you the race of glory run, Know, the devout, and they alone, Are equal to the task: The labours of the illustrious course Far other than the unaided force Of human vigour ask. To arm against reputed ill The patient heart too brave to feel The tortures of despair: Nor safer yet high-crested pride, When wealth flows in with every tide To gain admittance there. To rescue from the tyrant's sword The oppress'd; unseen and unimplored, To cheer the face of woe; An orphan's right—a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe; These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, O with what matchless speed they leave The multitude behind! Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth? Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favour'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join To call the blessing down. Such is that heart:—but while the muse Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, Her feeble spirits faint: She cannot reach, and would not wrong, The subject for an angel's song, The hero, and the saint! 1753. AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.'Tis not that I design to rob Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, For thou art born sole heir, and single, Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle; Not that I mean, while thus I knit My threadbare sentiments together, To show my genius or my wit, When God and you know I have neither; Or such as might be better shown By letting poetry alone. 'Tis not with either of these views That I presumed to address the muse: But to divert a fierce banditti, (Sworn foes to every thing that's witty!) That, with a black, infernal train, Make cruel inroads in my brain, And daily threaten to drive thence My little garrison of sense; The fierce banditti which I mean Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen. Then there's another reason yet, Which is, that I may fairly quit The debt, which justly became due The moment when I heard from you; And you might grumble, crony mine, If paid in any other coin; Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, (I would say twenty sheets of prose,) Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much As one of gold, and yours was such. Thus, the preliminaries settled, I fairly find myself pitchkettled, And cannot see, though few see better, How I shall hammer out a letter. First, for a thought—since all agree— A thought—I have it—let me see— 'Tis gone again—plague on't! I thought I had it—but I have it not. Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, That useful thing, her needle, gone! Rake well the cinders—sweep the floor, And sift the dust behind the door; While eager Hodge beholds the prize In old grimalkin's glaring eyes; And Gammer finds it, on her knees, In every shining straw she sees. This simile were apt enough; But I've another, critic-proof! The virtuoso thus, at noon, Broiling beneath a July sun, The gilded butterfly pursues, O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews; And, after many a vain essay, To captivate the tempting prey, Gives him at length the lucky pat, And has him safe beneath his hat: Then lifts it gently from the ground; But, ah! 'tis lost as soon as found; Culprit his liberty regains, Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. The sense was dark; 'twas therefore fit With simile to illustrate it; But as too much obscures the sight, As often as too little light, We have our similes cut short, For matters of more grave import. That Matthew's numbers run with ease, Each man of common sense agrees! All men of common sense allow That Robert's lines are easy too: Where then the preference shall we place, Or how do justice in this case? Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains Smoothed and refined the meanest strains; Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rhyme To escape him at the idlest time; And thus o'er all a lustre cast, That, while the language lives shall last. A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,) For 'tis my business to reply; Sure so much labour, so much toil, Bespeak at least a stubborn soil: Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, Who both write well, and write full speed! Who throw their Helicon about As freely as a conduit spout! Friend Robert, thus like chien savant Lets fall a poem en passant, Nor needs his genuine ore refine— 'Tis ready polish'd from the mine. A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT,WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779. Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme; In subterraneous caves his life he led, Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. When on a day, emerging from the deep, A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!) The wages of his weekly toil he bore To buy a cock—whose blood might win him more; Were but for battle and for death design'd; As if the consecrated hours were meant For sport, to minds on cruelty intent; It chanced (such chances Providence obey) He met a fellow labourer on the way, Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed; But now the savage temper was reclaim'd, Persuasion on his lips had taken place; For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. His iron heart with scripture he assail'd, Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew, Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew. He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around, To find a worse than he; but none he found. He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal. Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies! He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine Learn'd, by his altered speech, the change divine! Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they. "No," said the penitent, "such words shall share This breath no more; devoted now to prayer. O! if Thou seest (thine eye the future sees) That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these; Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel, Ere yet this heart relapses into steel; Now take me to that heaven I once defied, Thy presence, thy embrace!"—He spoke, and died! TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.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 past, And found the peaceful shore; I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last, Come home to port no more. Oct. 1780. 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 overflowing tears: Complaints supply the zephyr's part, And sighs that heave a breaking heart. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN.Dec. 1781. THE COLUBRIAD.Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concern'd to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?" When lo! upon the threshold met my view With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting, with attention due, Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?" On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, To find the viper, but I found him not. And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not be found. But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. "I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:" For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat, His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat; With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come there no more. 1782. SONG. ON PEACE.Written in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen, who gave the sentiment. Air—"My fond Shepherds of late." No longer I follow a sound; No longer a dream I pursue; O happiness! not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu! I 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; '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. SONG.Also written at the request of Lady Austen. Air—"The Lass of Pattie's Mill." When all within is peace, How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease The livelong 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. VERSES SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL POEM ENTITLED "VALEDICTION."Oh Friendship! cordial of the human breast! So little felt, so fervently profess'd! Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years; The promise of delicious fruit appears: We hug the hopes of constancy and truth, Such is the folly of our dreaming youth; But soon, alas! detect the rash mistake That sanguine inexperience loves to make; And view with tears the expected harvest lost, Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. Whoever undertakes a friend's great part Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart, Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove A thousand ways the force of genuine love. He may be call'd to give up health and gain, To exchange content for trouble, ease for pain, To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan, And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. The heart of man, for such a task too frail, When most relied on is most sure to fail; And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe, Starts from its office like a broken bow. Votaries of business and of pleasure prove Faithless alike in friendship and in love. Retired from all the circles of the gay, And all the crowds that bustle life away, To scenes where competition, envy, strife, Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life, Let me, the charge of some good angel, find One who has known, and has escaped mankind; Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away The manners, not the morals, of the day: With him, perhaps with her (for men have known No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,) Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, All former friends forgiven and forgot, Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, Union of hearts without a flaw between. 'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, If God give health, that sunshine of our days! And if he add, a blessing shared by few, Content of heart, more praises still are due— But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest; And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, Born from above and made divinely wise, He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew, A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. Nov. 1783. EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.Here Johnson lies—a sage by all allow'd, Whom to have bred may well make England proud, Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; Whose verse may claim—grave, masculine, and strong— Superior praise to the mere poet's song; Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd, And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. O man, immortal by a double prize, By fame on earth—by glory in the skies! Jan. 1785. TO MISS C——, ON HER BIRTHDAY.How many between east and west Disgrace their parent earth, Whose deeds constrain us to detest The day that gave them birth! Not so when Stella's natal morn Revolving months restore, We can rejoice that she was born, And wish her born once more! 1786. GRATITUDE.ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 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 me beside, Wreath'd 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 dose, 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: 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 buffet, 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; And fancies I fear they will seem— Poets' goods are not often so fine; The poets will swear that I dream When I sing of the splendour of mine. 1786. LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ.IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON. 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 supprest, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. June, 1788. ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON.THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH OF 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 trimm'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. 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 her 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. Arrived, a night like noon she sees, And hears the million hum; As all by instinct, like the bees, Had known their sovereign come. Pleased 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 joyful tear, None else, except in prayer for him, George ever drew from her. It was a scene in every part Like those in fable 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, Save love of George alone. That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd, And, through the cumbrous 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 woe the price! THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND. |
|
