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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.

Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse

From your aggrieved bow-wow:

If killing birds be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,)

What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

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 unequal'd birth!
But what his commentators' happiest praise?

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.
June 29, 1793.

ANSWER

To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy.

To be remember'd thus is fame,

And in the first degree;
And did the few like her the same,
The press might sleep for me.

So Homer, in the memory stored
Of many a Grecian belle,

Was once preserved-a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.

1793.

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce;
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.
September, 1793.

TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA, On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,

And, steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.

1793.

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