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(Two nymphs1 adorned with ever" grace
That spaniel found for me,)

Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With, scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse displayed

His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,

And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land:
But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face,

And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong.

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I returned;

Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discerned,

And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropped

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropped

The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, The world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:

My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed;

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine

To Him who gives me all.

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT,

ON WHICH I DIKED THIS DAY. MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued

Thy pastime? When wast thou an egg new spawned,

1 Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste?

Roar as they might, the overbearing winds

That rocked the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe—

And in thy minikin and embryo state,

Attached to the firm leaf of some salt weed,

Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and racked

The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,

And whelmed them in the unexplored abyss.

Indebted to no magnet and no chart,

Nor under guidance of the polar fire,

Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,

Grazing at large in meadows submarine,

Where fiat Batavia just emerging peeps

Above the brine,—where Caledonia's rocks

Beat back the surge,—and where Hibernia shoots

Her wondrous causeway far into the main.

—Wherever thou h.i^t fed, thou little thoughtst,

And I not more, that I should feed on thee

Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish,

To him who sent thee !—and success, as oft

As it descends into the billowy gulf,

To the same drag that caught thee !—Fare thee well!

Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin

Would envy, could they know that thou wast doomed

To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.

GRATITUDE.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETU
1786.

This cap, that so stately appears,

With ribbon-bound tassel on high,
Which seems by the crest that it rears

Ambitious of brushing the sky;
This cap to my Cousin I owe,

She gave it, and gave me beside,
Wreathed into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied.

This wheel-footed studying chair,

Contrived both for toil and repose,
Wide-elbowed, and wadded with air,

In which I both scribble and doze,
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,

And rival in lustre of that
In which, or astronomy lies,

Fair Cassiopeia sat:

These carpets, so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride,

O spare them, ye knights of the boot,
Escaped from a cross-country ride 1

This table and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust,

At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust:

This moveable structure of shelves,

For its beauty admired and its use,
And charged with octavos and twelves.

The gayest I had to produce;
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,

My poems enchanted I view,
And hope, in due time, to behold

My Iliad and Odyssey too:

This china, that decks the alcove,

Which here people call a buffet,
But what the gods call it above,

Has ne'er been revealed to us yet:
These curtains, that keep the room warm

Or cool as the season demands,
Those stoves that for pattern and form

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands:

All these are not half that I owe

To One, from our earliest youth
To me ever ready to show

Benignity, friendship, and truth;
For time, the destroyer declared

And foe of our perishing kind,
If even her face he has spared,

Much less could he alter her mind.

Thus compassed about with the goods

And chattels of leisure and ease,
I indulge my poetical moods

In many such fancies as these;
And fancies I fear they will seem—

Poets' goods are not often so fine;
The poets will swear that I dream,

When I sing of the splendour of mine.

LINES,

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ., IMMEDIATELY AFTr.S HIS DEATH, BY HIS NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON.

June 1788.

Farewell! endued with all that could engage
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age!
In prime of life, for sprightliness enrolled
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found !)
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crowned!

Through every period of this changeful state Unchanged thyself—wise, good, affectionate I

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem Overcharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half supprest, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

SONG ON PEACE.

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN, WHO GAVE THE SENTIMENT.

Air—" My fond shepherds of late," &V.

No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue;
Oh happiness! not to be found,

Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;

I have sought thee, and seemed to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.

A humble ambition and hope
The voice of true wisdom inspires;

'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope,
And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love;

But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.

SONG.

ALSO WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN.

Air-" The Lass ofPattu's Mill."

When all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile;
Delights that never cease,

The live-long day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers
Fresh blessings to deceive,

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please;
The mind that feels no smart

Enlivens all it sees,

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously arrayed
In nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill displayed,
Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best;
It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.
January 1785.

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.

17S6.

How many between east and west,

Disgrace their parent earth,
Whose deeds constrain us to detest

The day that gave them birth!
Not so when Stella's natal morn

Revolving months restore,
We can rejoice that she was born

And wish her bom once more!

THE FLATTING-MILL.

AN ILLUSTRATION.

When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,

It is passed between cylinders often, and rolled
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.

Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show.

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