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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."

August, 1792.

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.

In language warm as could be breathed or penned,
Thy picture speaks the original my friend;
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind,
They only speak thee friend of all mankind:
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.
January, 1793.

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;
Neither wit, common sense, nor ideas, have I.

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,
And deck with many a splendid flower

Thy foliage large and free.

Thou earnest from Eartham, and wilt shade

(If truly I divine)
Some future day the illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,

And Envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honoured brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,

And with convincing power;
For why should not the Virgin's Friend
Be crowned with Virgin's Bower?
Spring of 1793.

TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE MADE BY HERSELF.

Mv 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.

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.

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.

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!
When I behold this 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 learned, 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.

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TRANSLATION BY THE AUTHOR.

The Sculptor ?—Nameless, though once dear to fame.
But this man bears an everlasting name.

ON A PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF,

(IN A LETTER TO HAYLEY.)

Abbot is painting me so true
That (trust me) you would stare, And hardly know at the first view,
If I were here or there.

THANKS FOR A PRESENT OF PHEASANTS.

In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell,—
"Immortal bards like mortal pheasants well;"
And when his clerkship's out, I wish him herds
Of golden clients, for his golden birds.

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;

Oh 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 doomed henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled worth:
But what is commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnished lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.

June 29, 1793.

A TALE.*

In Scotland's realm, where trees are few,

Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,

Some better things are found:

For husband there and wife may boast

Their union undefiled,
And false ones are as rare almost

As hedge-rows in the wild:

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
This history chanced of late,—

This history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.

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
Except with snow and sleet, Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores,
Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vexed and tired;

At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.

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,
And had a hollow with a wheel Through which the tackle passed.

Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fixed,
Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mixed.

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight;

The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea
As she had changed her kind;

But goes the male? Far wiser he
Is doubtless left behind.

* 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."

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