ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER

COWPER had sinned with some excuse,

If, bound in rhyming tethers,

He had committed this abuse

Of changing ewes for wethers.

But male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope
When he translated Homer.

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, Esq.

THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious called
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-galled,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain!
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear

Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause.

Hope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near

That shall remunerate thy toils severe

By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love

From all the just on earth and all the blest above.

TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.

BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER

HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind,
While young, humane, conversable, and kind;
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain and the worst of men ;
But rather some suspect who have oppressed
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.

TO DR. AUSTEN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON

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

Verse oft has dashed 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 heart 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.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

HAYLEY, thy tenderness fraternal, shown
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary, and me for her dear sake distressed,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,

Though heedless now of new engagements grown ;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest
Of friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

Not more to admire the bard than love the man.