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 fore-father Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone I

To the Rev. Mr. NEWTON,
On his Return from Ramsgate.

That ocean you of late surveyed,

Those rocks I too have seen,
But I, afflicted and dismayed,

You tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controuling steep

Saw stretched before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,

No longer such to you.

To me, the waves that ceaseless broke

Upon the dangerous coast,
Hoarsely, and ominously, spoke

Of all my treasure lost..

Your sea of troubles you have past,

And found the peaceful shore;
I, tempest tossed, and wrecked at last,

Come home to port no more.


What is there in the vale of life
Half so delightful as a wife,
When friendship, love, and peace combine
To stamp the marriage-bond divine?
The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above;
And earth a second Eden shows
WhereVer the healing water flows:
But ah, if from the dykes and drains
Of sensual nature's feverish veins,
Lust, like a lawless, headstrong flood,
Impregnated with ooze and mud,
Descending fast on every side,
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flowery beauties dead.



The stream, polluted, dark and dull,
Diffused into a Stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with ever-flowing tears.

Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.


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


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


On Mrs. M. H1GGINS, of Weston.

Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veiled from human sight.

They in some nook, where little known they dwell.
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.


On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse.

My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew,

And steeped not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams, by you,

Will never fade again.


For a Stone, erected at the sowing of a Grove

of Oaks at Chillington, the Seat of

Thomas Giffard, Esq. 1790.

Other stones the sera tell
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm, and frost ?—these Oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay;

But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread the branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honour, virtue, truth!
So shalt thou prolong thy youth:
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fixt, and formed to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and cannot grow.


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.


On the late indecent Liberties taken with the
Remains of the great Milton.—Anno 1790.

Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,

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