Quoth one, A rarer man than you 'In pulpit none shall hear: 'But yet, methinks, to tell you true, 'You sell it plaguy dear.' Oh, why are farmers made so coarse, A kick, that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; 'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. ON HIS EMPHATICAL AND INTERESTING DELIVERY OF THe defenCE OF WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS. COWPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou readest) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and could'st with music sweet Of attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets," (poets, by report, Not oft so well agree) Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court! Conspire to honour Thee. They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own. We therefore pleased extol thy song Though various yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learned as it is sweet. Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this. No envy mingles with our praise, Though, could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would-they must at thine. But we, in mutual bondage knit Can gaze on even Darwin's wit With an unjaundiced eye; And deem the bard, whoever he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, Unworthy of his own. ON MRS. MONTAGUE'S FEATHER-HANGINGS. THE Birds put off their every hue To dress a room for Montague. The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes; The pheasant, plumes, which round infold His mantling neck with downy gold; The Cock, his arched tail's azure show; And, river blanched, the Swan, his snow. All tribes beside of Indian name, That glossy shine or vivid flame, Where rises and where sets the day, Proud to advance it all they can. This plumage neither dashing shower, Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower, |