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Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
Beneath a wintry sky.
But Thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing,
And every season Spring.
WRITTEN FCR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS AND SIGNATURES MAT)E BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.
In vain to live from age to age
While modern ban's endeavour,
And gain my point for ever.
ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS.
These are not dew-drops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
Picking his breakfast-crumb.
Alarmed she called him, and perplext
She sought him, but in vain;
Nor ever came again.
She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
Nor where he moulders now.
Had half a score of coxcombs died,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame,
But always in a flame.
SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-galled,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.
(PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.)
To purify their wine some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless thiiigs,
And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone—
Good cause why planters never try their own.
TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.
May 26, 1782.
Austin . accept a grateful verse from me,
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Friend of my friend !l I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
SONNET ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
Hayley, thy tenderness fraternal shown
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
Not more to admire the bard than love the man.
MARY AND JOHN.
If John marries Mary, and Mary alone,
Tis a very good match between Mary and John.
Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!
It can't be a match :—'tis a bundle of matches.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Dear President, whose art sublime
Thus say the sisterhood :—We come;
. — TC
We come to furnish you with hints.
First strike a curve, a graceful bow,
Iberia, trembling from afar,
AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE.!
The genius of the Augustan age
His head among Rome's ruins reared,
And bursting with heroic rage,
Thou hast, he cried, like him of old
By being scandalously bold,
And for traducing Virgil's name
Shalt share his merited reward;
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorred.
1 Nominally by Robert Heron, but written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785
June 22, 1782. MY DEAR FRIEND,
If reading verse be your delight,
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;
But what we would, so weak is man,
Lies oft remote from what we can.
For instance, at this very time,
I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,
To soothe my friend, and, had I power,
To cheat him of an anxious hour;
Not meaning, (for, I must confess,
It were but folly to suppress,)
His pleasure or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
In the centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once (and who but he ?)
The name for setting genius free,
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise,
And he by no uncommon lot
Was famed for virtues he had not;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His Highness may have taken huff,
So seldom sought with invocation.
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,
I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,
Than if I saw, through midnight vapour,
The glimmering of a farthing taper.
Oh for a succedaneum, then,
To accelerate a creeping pen!
Oh for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,
Et morbojam caliginosol
'Tis here; this oval box well filled
With best tobacco, finely milled,
Beats all Anticyra's pretences
To disengage the encumbered senses.
Oh nymph of Transatlantic fame,