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EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY.

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who knew him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants

weep-
And justly-few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

April, 1793.

TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY HERSELF.

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.
May 4, 1793.

INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE

AUTHOR'S GARDEN.

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
· A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to— the last retreat.

May, 1793.

TO MRS. UNWIN.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feign’d they

drew,
An eloqnence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,

I may record thy worth with honour due,

In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

May, 1793.

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. ON HIS PRESENTING

ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold the fruit of thy regard,

The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee: .

Joy too and grief-much joy that there should be, Wise men and learn’d, who grudge not to reward

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn; critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,

I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,

Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

May, 1793.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO RAIN HAD

FALLEN THERE. If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church, endow'd With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;

In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry
Heaven grant us half the omen-may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee !
May, 1793.

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING

A YOUNG BIRD.

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat

And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport

Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man? July 15, 1793.

BEAU'S REPLY.

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.
You cried—Forbear ! — but in my breast

A mightier cried—Proceed ! -
'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest

Impell’d me to the deed.
Yet, much as nature I respect,
. I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)

Her precept for your sake ;
And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,

And panting press'd the floor,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,

Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick’d the feathers smooth.

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