The grief is this, that, sank 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.

SONNET TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

1793.

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 worth!
But what is commentators' happiest praise?

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

SONNET TO DR. AUSTIN.

1792.

AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;

193

SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, Immortalizing names which else had died. And oh! could I command the glittering wealth With which sick kings are glad to purchase health; Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, Were in the power of verse like mine to give, I would not recompense his art with less, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend*! I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

On his Picture of me in Crayons, drawn at Earthram, in the Sixty-first Year of my Age, in the Months of August and September.

1792.

ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, 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 pencil'd 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? * Hayley.

VOL. I.

SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN.

1793.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

[drew,

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they
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;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

TO MARY.

AUTUMN OF 1793.

THE twentieth year is well nigh pass'd,
Since first our sky was overcast,

Ah would that this might be the last!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

My Mary!

I see thee daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thoa lovest,

My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

196

ON THE DEATH OF A BULLFINCH.

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

ON

THE DEATH

OF

MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
O share Maria's grief!
Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vine among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,
And though by Nature mute,
Or only with a whistle bless'd,
Well-taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flagelet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole,
His bosom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.