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Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command,
Commissioned to presage a course

Of happier days at hand?

Thrice welcome then! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
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,
To make even January charm,

And every season Spring.

LINES

WRITTEN FCR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS AND SIGNATURES MAT)E BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.

March 6,1792.

In vain to live from age to age

While modern ban's endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,

And gain my point for ever.

W. Cowper.

EPITAPH

ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS.

March 1792.

These are not dew-drops, these are tears,

And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who she fears

With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand

As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perched, to stand

Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarmed she called him, and perplext

She sought him, but in vain;
That day he came not, nor the next,

Nor ever came again.

She therefore raised him here a tomb,

Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,

Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died,
In social Robin's stead,

Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold

Nor spiritlessly tame,
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,

But always in a flame.

SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
April 16, 1792.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious called
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled

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
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

From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

EPIGRAM.

(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,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dashed the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalising names which else had died.
And oh, could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health;

Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his art with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend !l I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

SONNET ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
June 3, 1792.

Hayley, thy tenderness fraternal shown
In our first interview, delightful guest 1
To Mary and me for her dear sake distressed,

Such as it is has made my heart thy own,

Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest

Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me; nor is God my foe,

Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know

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
Gives perpetuity to time,
And bids transactions of a day,
That fleeting hours would waft away
To dark futurity, survive.
And in unfading beauty live,—
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the Nine,
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the Muse.

Thus say the sisterhood :—We come;
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints,

1 Hayley.

. — TC

We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory,
Must be the subject of the story.

First strike a curve, a graceful bow,
Then slope it to a point below;
Your outline easy, airy, light,
Filled up becomes a paper kite.
Let independence, sanguiue, horrid,
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead:
Beneath (but lay aside your graces)
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,
Each with a staring, steadfast eye,
Fixed on his great and good ally.
France flies the kite—'tis on the wing-
Britannia's lightning cuts the string.
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases,
Just rends it into thirteen pieces,
Takes charge of every flutterin" ctset,
And lays them all at George's Teet.

Iberia, trembling from afar,
Renounces the confederate war;
Her efforts and her arts o'ercome,
France calls her shattered navies home;
Repenting Holland learns to mourn
The sacred treaties she has torn;
Astonishment and awe profound
Are stamped upon the nations round;
Without one friend, above all foes,
Britannia gives the world repose.

ON THE

AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE.!

The genius of the Augustan age

His head among Rome's ruins reared,

And bursting with heroic rage,
When literary Heron appeared,

Thou hast, he cried, like him of old
Who set the Ephesian dome on fir

By being scandalously bold,
Attained the mark of thy desire.

And for traducing Virgil's name

Shalt share his merited reward;
A perpetuity of fame,

That rots, and stinks, and is abhorred.

1 Nominally by Robert Heron, but written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785

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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,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed,
Which, whether pulverized it gain

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