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One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost

By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, A rarer man than you

“ In pulpit none shall hear:
“ But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
..“You sell it plaguy dear.”

O why are farmers made so coarse,

Or clergy made so fine?
A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;

'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum,

Without the clowns that pay.

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SON NET

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, task'd sometimes hard,

Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'st) 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 Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gaz'd on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance 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 pleas'd extol thy song,

Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,

And learned as 'tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise, .

Though could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would they must at thine.

* Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.

But we, in mutual bondage knit

Of friendship's closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundic'd eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,

Unworthy of his own.

ON

Mrs. MONTAGU'S

FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their ev'ry hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.

The Peacock sends his heav'nly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The Pheasant plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock his arch'd tail's azure show;
And, river-blanch'd, the Swan his snow.

All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing show'r,
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bow'r,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But, screen’d from ev'ry storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.

To the same patroness resort,
Secure of favour at her court,
Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought,
Which, though new-born, with vigour move,
Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove-
Imagination scatt’ring round
Wild roses over furrow'd ground,
Which labour of his frown beguile,
And teach philosophy a smile-
Wit flashing on Religion's side,
Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied,

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