And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, And Folly pays, resounds at your return. Wretched e'en then, life's journey just begun? A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss And years of pining indigence must show Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. What scourges are the gods that rule below. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease) And, turning from my nursery window, drew Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, But was it such ?-It was.- Where thou art gone, Rebuilds the towers, that smoked upon the plain, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. And the sun gilds the shining spires again. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

Increasing commerce and reviving art The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, And the sad lesson must be learned once more, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What ardently I wished, I long believed, What are ye, monarchs, laureled heroes, say, And disappointed still, was still deceived. But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway? By expectation every day beguiled, Sweet Nature, stripped of her embroidered robe, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, To prove you there destroyers as ye are. I learned at last submission to my lot,

O place me in some Heaven-protected isle, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Where Power secures what industry has won; Drew me to school along the public way, Where to succeed is not to be undone ;

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain, In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! 'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
The Gift of my cousin Anne Bodham.

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly
O that those lips had language! Life has passed laid;
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" All this, and more endearing still than all,
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

That humour interposed too often makes; To quench it) here shine on me still the same.

All this still legible in memory's page, Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

And still to be so to my latest age, O welcome guest, though unexpected here!

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to day Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,

Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, I will obey, not willingly alone,

Not scorned in Heaven though little noticed here. But gladly, as the precept were her own;

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, And, while that face renews my filial grief, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

I pricked them into paper with a pin, A momentary dream, that thou art she. (And thou wast happier than myself the while,

My Mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?



No wonder friendship does the same, That jewel of the purest flame,

Or rather constellation.

No knave but boldly will pretend,
The requisites that form a friend,

A real and a sound one;
Nor any fool, he would deceive
But prove as ready to believe,

And dream that he had found one.

Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,

An error soon corrected-
For who but learns in riper years,
That man, when smoothest he appears,

Is most to be suspected ?


Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,'
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed -
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass

And day by day somnc current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents past into the skies.
And now, farewell— Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to sooth me left.

But here again, a danger lies, Lest, having misapplied our eyes,

And taken trash for treasure, We should unwarily conclude Friendship a false ideal good,

A mere Utopian pleasure.

An acquisition rather rare
Is yet no subject of despair;

Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found

We sought without attaining.

No friendship will abide the test, That stands on sordid interest,

Or mean self-love erected; Nor such as may awhile subsist, Between the sot and sensualist,

For vicious cnds connected.

Who seeks a friend should come disposed T' exhibit in full bloom disclosed

The graces and the beautics That from the character he seeks; For 'tis a union, that bespeaks

Reciprocated duties.

Mutual attention is implied,
And equal truth on either side,

And constantly supported; 'Tis senseless arrogance t'accuse Another of sinister views,

Our own as much distorted.

FRIENDSHIP. WHAT virtue, or what mental grace, But men unqualified and base

Will boast it their possession? Profusion apes their noble part Of liberality of heart,

And dullness of discretion, If every polished gem we find, Illuminating heart or mind:

Provoke to imitation:

But will sincerity suffice?
It is indeed above all price,

And must be made the basis;
But every virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole,

All shining in their places.

• Garth,

A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied,

By ceaseless sharp corrosion;
A temper passionate and fierce
May suddenly your joys disperse

At one immense explosion.
In vain the talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight-

The secret just committed,
Forgetting its important weight,
They drop through mere desire to prate,

And by themselves outwitted.
How bright soe'er the prospect seems,
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,

If envy chance to creep in;
An envious man, if you succeed,
May prove a dangerous foe indeed,

But not a friend worth keeping,
As envy pines at good possessed,
So jealousy looks forth distressed

On good that seems approaching; And, if success his steps attend, Discerns a rival in a friend,

And hates him for encroaching.
Hence authors of illustrious name,
Unless belied by common fame,

Are sadly prone to quarrel,
To deem the wit a friend displays
A tax upon their own just praise,

And pluck each other's laurel.
A man renowned for repartee
Will seldom scruple to make free

With friendship's finest feeling, Will thrust a dagger at your breast, And say he wounded you in jest,

By way of balm for healing. Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers, will be sure to hear

The trumpet of contention;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
To listen is to lend him aid,

And rush into dissension.
A friendship, that in frequent fits
Of controversial rage emits

The sparks of disputation,
Like hand in hand insurance plates,
Most unavoidably creates

The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as a needle to the pole,

Their humour yet so various
They manifest their whole life through
The needle's deviations too,

Their love is so precarious.

The great and small but rarely meet
On terms of amity complete;

Plebeians must surrender
And yield so much to noble folk,
It is combining fire with smoke,

Obscurity with splendour. Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green)

They sleep secure from waking, And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares

Unmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot can not mix
Their heterogeneous politics

Without an effervescence,
Like that of salts with lemon juice,
Which does not yet like that produce

A friendly coalescence.
Religion should extinguish strife,
And make a calm of human life;

But friends that chance to differ
On points, which God has left at large,
How freely will they meet and charge!

No combatants are stiffer.
To prove at last my main intent
Needs no expense of argument,

No cutting and contriving-
Seeking a real friend we seem
T'adopt the chemist's golden dream,

With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own,
Some blemish in due time made known

By trespass or omission;
Sometimes occasion brings to light
Our friend's defect long hid from sight,

And even from suspicion.
Then judge yourself and prove your man
As circumspectly as you can,

And, hav made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures,

Enfeeble his affection.

That secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,

That constancy befits them,
Are observations on the case,
That savour much of common-place,

And all the world admits them.

But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone,

To finish a fine buildingThe palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget

The carving and the gilding,

With such as its old tenants are,

Creatures of gentler race.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack,
And proves by thumps upon your back

How he esteems your merit,
Is such a friend, that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed,

To pardon or to bear it.
A similarity of mind,
Or something not to be defined,

First fixes our attention;
So manners decent and polite,
The same we practised at first sight,

Must save it from declension.
Some act upon this prudent plan,
“Say little and hear all you can:”

Safe policy, but hateful-
So barren sands imbibe the shower,
But render neither fruit nor flower,

Unpleasant and ungrateful.
The man I trust, if shy to me,
Shall find me as reserved as he;

No subterfuge or pleading
Shall win my confidence again;
I will by no means entertain

A spy on my proceeding.
These samples for alas! at last
These are but samples, and a taste

Of evils yet unmentioned
May prove the task a task indeed,
In which 'tis much if he succeed

However well-intentioned.
Pursue the search, and you will find
Good sense and knowledge of mankind

To be at least expedient,
And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast

A principal ingredient.
The noblest friendship ever shown
The Saviour's history makes known,

Though some have turned and turned it;
And whether being crazed or blind,
Or seeking with a biassed mind,

Have not, it seems, discerned it.
O Friendship, if my soul forego
Thy dear delights while here below;

To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear
Unworthy, base, and insincere,

Or may my friend deceive me!

The squirrel here his hoard provides,

Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the sides

Of rugged oaks for worms.
The sheep here smoothes the knotted thorn

With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn,

Like her, a friend to peace.
Ah!-I could pity the exiled

From this secure retreat-
I would not lose it to be styled

The happiest of the great.
But thou canst taste no calm delight;

Thy pleasure is to show
Thy magnanimity in fight,

Thy prowess—therefore go-
I care not whether east or north,

So I no more may find thee;
The angry muse thus sings the forth,

And claps the gate behind thee.

ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. Written in Commemoration of his Majesty's happy Recovery. I RANSACKED, for a theme of

Much ancient chronicle and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs whose single arm could boast.
Prowess to dissipate a host;
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shared
Already by some happier bard,

To modern times, with Truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied;
Here cities won and flects dispersed,
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Our fathers' triumphs and our own.

Thus, as the bee, from bank to bower,
Assiduous sips at every flower,
But rests on none, till that be found,
Where most nectareous sweets abound.
So I from theme to theme displayed
In many a page historic strayed,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight.
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view;)
Till settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near:



Go-Thou art all unfit to share

The pleasures of this place

Thanks that we hear,--but O impart

To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,

And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take

Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And babes as wise as they. Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,

A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies showered on those

Who placed us where it shines.

A theme for poetry divine,
A theme t' ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.

The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An era cherished long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threatened England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried—Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more:
And for the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possessed
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land’s remotest part,
And strangers to the air, of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answered prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.

If they who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck before thy presence bend,
'Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than Queen,
Who is beloved where never seen.


Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish of A]}

Saints, Northampton, ' Anno Domini, 1787.
Pallida Mors aquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres.

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.
While thirteen moons saw smoothly run

The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done,

Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail

Than in foregoing years ?
Did famine or did plague prevail,

That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their sires,

Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute Death requires,

And never waives his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,

And some are marked to fall; The axe will smite at God's command,

And soon shall smite us all.



Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,

In Heaven thy dwelling place, From infants made the public tare,

And taught to seek thy face. Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,

And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,

With its now foliage on, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,

I passed—and they were gone. Read, ye that run, the awful truth,

With which I charge my page; A worm is in the bud of youth,

And at the root of age.

Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.

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