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Can make a wintry sky
Seem bright as smiling May,
And evening's closing eye
The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously arrayed
With wondrous skill displayed,
A dreary wild at best;
And longs to be at rest.
EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.
Here Johnson lies, a sage by all allowed,
Whom to have bred, may well make England proud;
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim, grave, masculine and strong,
Superior praise to the mere poet's song;
Who many a noble gift from Heaven possessed,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth, by glory in the skies I
TO MISS C , ON HER BIRTHDAY.
How many between east and west,
Disgrace their parent earth,
The day that gave them birth!
Revolving months restore,
And wish her bom once more!
When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
It is passed between cylinders often, and rolled
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,
This process achieved, it is doomed to sustain
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
Alas for the poet, who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill!
With the double employment of mallet and mill!
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,
After all, he must beat it as thin and as fine
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
Sliced carrot plea^ed him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
368 ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
But most before.approaching showers,
Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
He, still more aged, feels the shocks
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Hie etiam jacet,
Qui totum novennium vixit,
Qui praeteriturus es,
Et tecum sic reputa—
Hunc neque can is venaticus,
Nee plumbum missile,
Nee imbres nimii,
Tamen mortuus esc—
Et moriar ego.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
(to The March In Scipio.) Written When The News Arrived.
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,
Had made the vessel heel,
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She ran upon no rock:
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone;
His victories are o'er;
Shall plough the wave no more.
THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Paid my price in paltry gold:
Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask? Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
'1 I>i 1" .1^1 11. 1 "mi ■MrffHp~"T^!Tfrr
Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Lolling at your jovial boards,
For the sweets your cane affords.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there One who reigns on high?
Speaking from his throne, the sky?
Matches, blood-extorting screws
Agents of his will to use?
Hark! He answers !—Wild tornadoes
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,
Are the voice with which he speaks.
Afric's sons should undergo,
Where his whirlwinds answer—No.
By our blood in Afrir wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
Crossing in your barks the main;
To the man-degrading mart,
Only by a broken heart!
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours I
PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.
Video meliora proboque,
I Own I am shocked at the purchase of slaves,