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That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalises whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

TO JOHN JOHNSON,

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.
May 1793.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son by me!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.
Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be
Wise men and learned who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn: critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine,

I lose my precious years now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine,

Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou ;-like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE.

May 1793.

IF Gideon's fleece, which drenched with dew he found,
While moisture none refreshed the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the Church, endowed
With heavenly gifts to heathens not allowed;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen,-may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee !

A TALE.

June 1793.

IN Scotland's realm, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;

Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear;
Oh 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 doomed henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled worth,

But what is commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnished lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. July 15, 1793.

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 killed 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 theivish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
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
Impelled 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 fluttered all his strength away,
And panting pressed the floor;

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kissed his ruffled wing,
And licked 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 addressed 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.

1793.

To be remembered 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 memory stored
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved-a richer hoard,

But never lodged so well.

TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,

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

VERSE.

1793.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew;

And steeped not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.

2 D

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

Sept. 1793

THE suitors sinned, 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.

ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM MR. HAYLEY.
Oct. 1793.

I SHOULD have deemed 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.

Autumn of 1793.

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

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow ;

'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,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream ;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

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,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs nou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,

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!

ON THE ICE ISLANDS SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN

OCEAN.

March 19, 1799.

WHAT portents, from what distant region, ride,
Unseen till now in ours, the astonished tide?
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves

Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves ;
But now, descending whence of late they stood,
Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood;
Dire times were they, full-charged with human woes;
And these, scarce less calamitous than those.
What view we now? More wondrous still! Behold!
Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold;
And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,
And all around the ruby's fiery glow.
Come they from India, where the burning earth,
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;
And where the costly gems, that beam around
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found?
No. Never such a countless dazzling store
Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore;
Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes,

Should sooner far have marked and seized the prize.

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