TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise.

ON A SPANIEL CALLED BEAU KILLING
A YOUNG BIRD.1

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well-fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for

yours.

1 BEAU died of old age at the end of 1796, and was sent to London to be preserved in a glass case. Hayley, writing to the poet's kinsman, January 15, 1797, expresses a wish that an object, so interesting to the heart of Cowper, might "make a pleasing and salutary impression on his reviving fancy."

My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble Man?

BEAU'S REPLY.

SIR, when I flew to seize the bird,
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

You cried-forbear-but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed-
'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,

Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor,

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let my

obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime
(Which I can hardly see),

What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me?

ANSWER TO STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH, BY MISS CATHARINE FANSHAWE, IN RETURNING A POEM OF MR. COWPER'S, LENT TO HER, ON CONDITION SHE SHOULD NEITHER SHOW IT, NOR TAKE A COPY.

To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;

And did the few like her the same,
The Press might sleep for me.

So Homer, in the mem'ry stored
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved-a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.

TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,

HIS TRANSLATING THE AUTHOR'S SONG ON A ROSE
INTO ITALIAN VERSE.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.2

THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce:
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.

1 "I am glad that my poor and hasty attempts to express some little civility to Miss Fanshawe have your and her approbation. The lines addressed to her were not what I would have made them; but the lack of time would not suffer me to improve them."-(To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 12, 1793.)

2 "I am charmed with Flaxman's Penelope, and will send you a few lines, such as they are, with which she inspired me, the other day, while I was taking my noonday walk."-(To Hayley, Sept. 8, 1793.)

ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM
MR. HAYLEY.

I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain,
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I received him as a gift from thee.

TO MARY.1

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah would that this might be the last!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

My Mary!

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

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 play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

My Mary!

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

1 Written in the autumn of 1793; the last effort of his pen at Weston. "The poem," remarks Hayley, "describes not his residence, but the increasing infirmities of his aged companion. I question if any language on earth can exhibit a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender."

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 worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

Partakers of thy sad decline,

My Mary!

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

MONTES GLACIALES,

IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTES, (MARCH 12, 1799.)

EN, quæ prodigia, ex oris allata, remotis,
Oras adveniunt pavefacta per æquora nostras!
Non equidem priscæ sæclum rediisse videtur
Pyrrha, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes