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Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Thrice welcome then! for many a long Something imprisoned in the chest
And joyless year have I, And, doubtful what, with prudent care
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need’st to sing, Consoled him and dispelled his fears;
To make e'en January charm,
And every season Spring.
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, In every cranny but the right.
Hears thee by cruel men and impious called Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
Frantic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled As erst with airy self-conceit,
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Nor in her own fond comprehension,
Friend of the pour, the wronged, the fetterA theme for all the world's attention,
galled, But modest, sober, cured of all
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain. Her notions hyperbolical,
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear And wishing for a place of rest,
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Any thing rather than a chest.
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution Then stepped the poet into bed
pause With this reflection in his head.
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 Of your own worth and consequence.
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.
PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And thence perhaps the wondrous virtue springs. WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear
'Tis in the blood of innocence aloneFrom yonder withered spray,
Good cause why planters never try their own.
The melody of May ?
TO DR. AUSTIN,
OF CECIL-STREET, LONDON.
Austin! accept a grateful verse from me, Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. For that I also long
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind Have practised in the groves like thee,
Pleasing requital in my verse may find; Though not like thee in song?
Verse oft has dashed the scythe of Time aside; Or sing'st thou rather under force
Immortalizing names which else had died. Of some divine command,
And O! could I command the glittering wealth Commissioned to presage a course
With which sick kings are glad to purchase Of happier days at hand?
Yet, if extensive fame and sure to live,
Since therefore I seem to incur Were in the power of verse like mine to give, No danger of wishing in vain, I would not recompense his art with less,
When making good wishes for her, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. I will e'en to my wishes again
With one I have made her a wife, Friend of my friend!* I love thee, tho' unknown,
And now I will try with another, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
Which I can not suppress for my life
How soon I can make her a mother,
TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.
61st year of my age, and in the months of August and SepFor threescore winters make a wintry breast,
tember, 1792 And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest ROMNEY expert, infallibly to trace Of Friendship more, except with God alone; On chart or canvass, not the form alone
But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe, And semblance, but, however faintly shown, Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, The mind's impression too on every face
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow. With strokes that time ought never to erase,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know Thou hast so penciled mine, that though I own Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
The subject worthless, I have never known Not more t' admire the bard than love the man. The artist shining with superior grace.
But this I mark—that symptoms none of wo
In thy incomparable work appear.
Well-I am satisfied it should be so,
Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? Believe it or not as you choose,
The doctrine is certainly true,
And poets are oracles too.
ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire,
In language warm as could be breathed or penned, And lo-she is actually come.
Thy picture speaks th' original, my friend,
Not by those looks that indicate thy mindSuch prophecy some may despise,
They only speak thee friend of all mankind; But the wish of a poet and friend
Expression here more soothing still I see, Perhaps is approved in the skies,
That friend of all a partial friend to me. And therefore attains to its end. 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warmed With the talents, the graces, and worth
ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER. Of the person for whom it was formed. Mariat would leave us, I knew,
DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT. To the grief and regret of us all,
Turive, gentle plant! and weave a bower But less to our grief, could we view
For Mary and for me, Catharina the queen of the hall.
And deck with many a splendid flower
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou cam’st from Eartham, and wilt shade But all cry—amen-to the bans.
(If truly I divine)
Some future day th' illustrious head Hayley. 1 Lady Throckmorton.
Of Him who made thee mine.
But I am bankrupt now; and doomed henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise!
Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Such honoured brows as they.
And with convincing power;
Be crowned with virgin's bower?
That he has furnished lights for other eyes,
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,
KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well-fed, and at his ease,
Each trifle that he sees.
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
MADE BY HERSELF.
Than plaything for a nurse,
I thank thee for my purse.
For richest rogues to win it;
The best things kept within it.
But you have killed a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
So much resemble man?
TO MRS. UNWIN.
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
And harder to withstand.
You cried-forbear—but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed'Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest
Impelled me to the deed.
Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break,
Her precept for your sake;
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
And panting pressed the floor,
Such feebleness of limbs thou provist,
My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo,
My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
ON THE ICE ISLANDS,
SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary! But well thou playd'st the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary! Thy silver locks once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight wortlı seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently prest, press gently mine,
What portents, from that distant region, ride,
woes; And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now? More wondrous still ? Be
hold! Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found ? No. Never such a countless dazzling store Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore. Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, Should sooner far have marked and seized the
prize. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Ves’vius', or from Ætna’s burning womb ? Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display
The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day? With borrowed beams they shine. The gales,
that breathe Now landward, and the current's force beneath, Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight, Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. Their lofty summits crested high, they show, With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. The rest is ice. Far hence, where most, severe, Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year,
They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.
Their infant growth began. He bade arise
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
Delayed not to bestow;
Their haste himself condemn,
Alone could rescue them;
In ocean self-upheld: -
His destiny repelled :
His comrades, who before
Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere,
Is wet with Anson's tear.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
A more enduring date.
THE CASTAWAY. ODSCUREST night involved the sky;
Th’ Atlantic billows roared,
Washed headlong from on board,
Than he, with whom we went,
With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life. He shouted; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevailed,
That, pitiless, perforce,
No voice divine the storm allayed
No light propitious shone; When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
Translations front Vincent Bourne
I. THE GLOW-WORM.
Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,
A worm is known to stray;
Which disappears by day.