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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

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(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 FOEM OF MR. Cowper's, LENT TO HER ON CONDITION SHE
SHOULD NEITHER SHOW IT, NOR TAKE A COPY.

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To be remembered thus is fame,

And in the first degree;
And did the/ew 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.

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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 1753.

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 I

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

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs inou 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 Maryl

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.

Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come

From Ves vius', or from .(Etna s burning womb?

Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display

The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day?

With borrowed beams they shine. The gales, that breathe

Now landward, and the current's force beneath,

Have borne them nearer; and the nearer sight,

Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.

Their lofty summits crested high, they show,

With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow,

The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,

Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year,

Their infant growth began. He bade arise

Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.

Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow

Left the tall cliff to join the flood below,

He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast

The current, ere it reached the boundless waste.

By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,

And long successive ages rolled the while,

Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claimed to stand

Tall as its rival mountains on the land.

Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill,

Or force of man, had stood the structure still;

But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yet

By pressure of its own enormous weight,

It left the shelving beach,—and with a sound

That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,

Self-launched, and swiftly, to the briny wave,

As if instinct with strong desire to lave,

Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old,

How Delos swam the ^Egean deep, have told.

But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore

Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crowned with laurel, wore

Even under wintry skies, a summer smile;

And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle.

But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you

He deems Cimmerian darkness only due.

Your hated birth he deigned not to survey,

But, scornful, turned his glorious eyes away.

Hence! Seek your home, nor longer rashly dare

The darts of Phcebus, and a softer air;

Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,

In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

MONTES GLACIALES,

IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTBS.

March n, 1799.
En, quae prodigia, ex oris allata remotis,
Oras adveniunt payefacta per aequora nostras!

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