TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW
YEAR'S DAY, 1792.
WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear
From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May.
And why, since thousands would be proud,
Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,
And every season spring.
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, Esq.
THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious, called
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not, lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution
pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe,
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the bless'd above.
DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise ?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise.
SENT TO LADY AUSTEN, DURING THE TIME OF
To watch the storms, and hear the sky
Give all our almanacs the lie;
To shake with cold, and see the plains
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains;
'Tis thus I spend my moments here,
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer;
I then should have no need of wit;
For lumpish Hollander unfit!
Nor should I then repine at mud,
Or meadows deluged with a flood;
But in a bog live well content,
And find it just my element;
Should be a clod, and not a man ;
Nor wish in vain for sister Ann,
With charitable aid to drag
My mind out of its proper quag;
Should have the genius of a boor,
And no ambition to have more.
ON PEACE, WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF
LADY AUSTEN, 1783.
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.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN.
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.
ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT
ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace
On chart or canvas, not the form alone,
And semblance, but however faintly shown,
The mind's impression too on every face-
With strokes that time ought never to erase
Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
But this I mark-that symptoms none of wo
In thy incomparable work appear.
Well I am satisfied it should be so,
Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM, ON RECEIVING FROM HER A PURSE.-1793.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love; that gem's too dear
For richest rogues to win it;
I therefore, as a proof of love
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.
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