ON HIS APPROACHING VISIT TO HAYLEY.

THROUGH floods and flames to your retreat

I win my desperate way,

And when we meet, if e'er we meet,

July 29, 1792.

Will echo your huzza.

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM IN THE SIXTYFIRST YEAR OF MY AGE, AND IN THE MONTHS OF AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER, 1792.

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 pencilled 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 woe
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?
October, 1792.

1792.

AN EPITAPH.

HERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obeyed;
At his signified desire,

Would advance, present, and fire.
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him!
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he called; not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrowed land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

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.

Feb. 10, 1793.

My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry;
Neither wit, common sense, nor ideas, have I.

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 camest 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.

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

May 4, 1793.

The best things kept within it.

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.

May, 1793.

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.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

MARY! 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,
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,

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.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE SAME BUST.

Εἰκόνα τίς ταύτην ; κλυτὸν ἀνέρος οὔνομ ̓ ὄλωλεν.
Οὔνομα δ ̓ οὗτος ἀνὴρ ἄφθιτον αἰὲν ἔχει.

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;