FRAGMENT, WRITTEN IN 1547. Ir right be ract, and overronne, And pow'r take part with open wronge, If fear by force do yeld too sone, The lack is like to last too long. If God for goodes shall be implac'd, Among good things I prove and finde, I heard a herdman once compare That quiet nights he had mo slept, And had mo mery dayes to spare Than he which ought the beast he kept. I would not have it thought hereby, But as my part above the rest, I well to wish, and well to will, So tyll my breathe shall fayle my brest, British Chronicle. TO THE MEMORY OF MR. BOSCAWEN, A MIDSHIPMAN IN THE NAVY, Son of the late Admiral, who was unfortunately drowned as he was bathing in a pond belonging to Sir Charles Price, of Jamaica. WRITTEN NEAR HIS GRAVE. FORLORN, from shade to shade I rove, Dear youth! tho' hence I wander far, My tears shall bathe thy distant urn. Remembrance often, with a sigh, Shall view the spot where many a maid, Remembrance often shall impart The smile of bliss on Albion's brow, Yes, Albion's genius, with amaze, Did oft thy warrior looks devour; High fix'd on Glory's star-clad tower. How few the sighs of virtue mourn! For few, alas! the friends she knows— With sculpture let the marble groan, Peter Pindar. EPIGRAM. WHY, foolish painter, give those wings to Love! Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove; INSCRIPTION FOR A FAIRY GROUND. COME, trip it through the fairy ground, His palace 'neath yon wild-rose stands ; Until, faint gleaming through the trees, And little footsteps print the green. Stately ambition, come not here, Thy haughty steps these flowers will wound; Unfeeling avarice, turn aside, No buried earth can here be found. The liberal mind alone shall ken Sweet slumbers in yon moss-grown cave. VERSES. 'Tis said that under distant skies, What first attracts an Indian's eyes Perhaps a lily, or a rose, That shares the morning ray, May to the waking swain disclose The regent of the day. Perhaps a plant in yonder grove, Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, And gay with gilded wings, Perchance the patron of his vow, Some artless linnet sings. Vain futile idols, bird, or flow'r, To tempt a vot'ry's pray'r! How would his humble homage tow'r, Should he behold my fair? |