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38? EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELY.
EPITAPH ON "FOP,"
A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim;
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase.
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice!
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
"Yes "—the indignant shade of Fop replies— "And worn with vain pursuit man also dies."
ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.
In language warm as could be breathed or penned,
TO HIS COUSIN, LADY HESKETH.
REASONS WHY HE COULD NOT WRITE HER A GOOD LETTER.
Mv pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry;
Feb. 10, 1793.
EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELY.
Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Till all who know 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.
ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER,
DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.
Thrive, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me,
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou earnest from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)
Of him who made thee mine.
Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And Envy seize the bay,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE MADE BY HERSELF.
Mv gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
Than plaything for a nurse,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
For richest rogues to win it:
The best things kept within it. May 4, 1793.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE.
If Gideon's fleece, which drenched with dew he found, While moisture none refreshed the herbs around, Might fitly represent the Church endowed With heavenly gifts to heathens not allowed; 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.
FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN.
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
TO MRS. UNWIN.
Marv! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence 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: IThere all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. May, 1793.
TO JOHN JOHNSON,
ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.
Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!
Joy too, and grief. Much joy that there should be
TRANSLATION BY THE AUTHOR.
The Sculptor ?—Nameless, though once dear to fame.
ON A PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF,
(IN A LETTER TO HAYLEY.)
Abbot is painting me so true
THANKS FOR A PRESENT OF PHEASANTS.
In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell,—
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ,
Dear architect of fine Chateaux in air,
Oh for permission from the skies to share,
June 29, 1793.
In Scotland's realm, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
Some better things are found:
For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefiled,
As hedge-rows in the wild:
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
This history of a wedded pair,
The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct filled; They paired, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.
The heaths uncovered and the moors
Long time a breeding-place they sought,
At length a ship arriving brought
A ship!—could such a restless thing Afford them place of rest?Or was the merchant charged to brinrThe homeless birds a nest?
Hush !—silent hearers profit most,—
This racer of the sea Proved kinder to them than the coast.
It served them with a tree.
But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal, The tree they call a mast,
Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fixed,
Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
The mother-bird is gone to sea
But goes the male? Far wiser he
* This tale is founded on an article of intelligence which the author found in the "Buckinghamshire Herald," for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words :—
"Glasgow, May 23.
"In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabbert, now lying at the Brooimelaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection ol the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom' while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hull for food."