Might have repaid him well, I wot, Fast stuck within his own. Maria weeps the Muses mourn ON MRS MONTAGUE'S FEATHER HANGINGS. [This is the lady at whose house the Blue Stocking Club used to meet, in Leicester Square. Her maiden name was Robison, she was born at York, 1720, educated under the care of Dr Conyers Middleton, and married into the Sandwich family. She died 1800, wrote Letters and Dialogues of the Dead, and proved a most kind patroness of literary merit; but she is now best known as having written the admirable defence of Shakespeare. She was a particular friend of Lady Hesketh, at whose suggestion the present verses appear to have been written. THE birds put off their every hue To dress a room for Montague. The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes, The Pheasant plumes, which round enfold It boasts a splendour ever new, To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, She thus maintains divided sway COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die And, reading here his sentence, how replete ; With anxious meaning, heaven-ward turn his eye! Time then would seem more precious than the joys Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, Told that his setting sun must rise no more. Ah, self-deceived! Could I prophetic say Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound, and airy, o'er the sunny glade— One falls-the rest, wide-scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade. Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, Die self-accused of life run all to waste? Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones: Learn then, ye living! by the mouth be taught That, soon or late, death also is your lot, ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789. [This piece, referring to the recovery of George III. was first published in The World.] WHEN, long sequester'd from his throne, George took his seat again, By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign, Then loyalty, with all his lamps New trimm'd, a gallant show! Chasing the darkness and the damps, 'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares, Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, And rockets flew, self-driven, To hang their momentary fires Amid the vault of heaven. So, fire with water to compare, Had all the pageants of the world And all the banners been unfurl'd For no such sight had England's Queen Forsaken her retreat, Where George recover'd made a scene, Sweet always, doubly sweet. Yet glad she came that night to prove, How much the object of her love Darkness the skies had mantled o'er In aid of her design, Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before To veil a deed of thine! On borrow'd wheels away she flies, And gratify no curious eyes Arrived, a night like noon she sees, Pleased she beheld aloft portray'd |