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Each sense was sated. In my elbow chair
Half sitting, half recumbent, with one leg
Resting on earth, the other on the stove,
I mus'd on Robertson's historic page;
While captive kings, and e'en th' anointed head
With triple crown adorn'd, by adverse fate
Ordain'd to crouch beneath a conqueror's frown,
Gave birth to every tender sentiment, and show'd
That misery so intricately wove

Within the web of human life, by human art
Cannot be thence extracted, till the whole,
The gleam of bliss, the perdurable woe,
The warp, the woof, shall all together sink,
And find a refuge only in the grave.

"Thus musing, not asleep, nor well awake,
The postman found me; sold me thine epistle,
And with thy well-known scratches bless'd my sight.
Nay, start not that my ignominious pen

Thus terms them scratches- know — it fill'd my verse.

Poetic licence still I claim, although

--

The characters are traced by thy pen

As clear as are within thy friendly heart
The characters of goodness.

Thou say'st I must write verses

Since verses are not always poetry;

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- be it so

But surely thou might'st deign to give the theme.
No spark of Phoebus' fire e'er warm'd my breast,
Irregular lines and Hudibrastic rhymes

My utmost boast.

Oh, I am no Mainstone!

(Melodious Mainstone! minion of the muse !)

Was I but bless'd with half his powers of song,

Thou might'st then boast thy friend; then might loud fame

On her broad pinions bear my endless name

To ages yet unborn. - Stop, fancied bliss,
To me not given, though reserved for him!

Say, shall I tell yet how can I express
The soft sensations of a happy heart,
When it revisits scenes of peace and love,
Domestic peace, domestic happiness!

"Avaunt, ye sons of riot! ye

whose hearts

Ne'er knew a father's feelings, hence! nor dare
Intrude on scenes ye cannot understand!

"How shall I paint the unaw'd flash of joy Light'ning each servant face, who never knew The rigid sourness of a master's frown,

And gave that welcome, free but yet sincere,
Which attitudes and looks, not words, express?
How shall I,

The weakest of the followers of the Nine,
Explain the feelings which those only know,
Whose hearts, like yours, attuned to tenderness,
Feel bliss redoubled in their partner's joy?
You know (and you of all the unmarried tribe
There stand alone) the husband's happiness,
The soul-felt joy, (divinest bliss on earth)
Of giving happiness to those we love.

"How can I paint maternal tenderness,
Maternal love? No verse can show the tear,
The silent tear, which, sparkling in each eye,
Express'd the mother's feelings at the sight
Of those dear pledges of heav'n-hallow'd love,
Which absence had still more endear'd.

Nor less

The father, though by heav'n indued with strength,

With fortitude of mind, by heav'n forbid

To wear the weakness of a woman's heart,

Not less he feels the agonizing joy

At th' interesting tender moment, when
His children cling about his feet, while one,
Of age maturer, climbs his trembling knee,
The envied kiss to snatch; while all

In silent language, still most eloquent,
Language inspired, the immediate gift of heaven,
Explain the blessing of their sire's return.

"But stop, advent'rous bard-release thy friend,
And drop descriptions where thouʼrt sure to fail;
Descriptions which deserve the painter's toil,
Which Dance or Zoffany could best express,
And teach the glowing canvas to explain

To thy friend's eyes his heart. O may that heart
Long glow with vital warmth ! late be the day
When, yielding back its mortal part to earth,
It soars to join the beatific choir,

And taste those joys reserv'd for souls like thine!

" Nor think this wish unkind! The world requires, Thy friends demand examples such as thine.

Virtue abash'd, in this degen'rate age,

Needs that support which thou so well canst give.

Happy in nature's and in fortune's smiles,

'Tis thine to make the guilty blush, to show Virtue in her own form how lovely, thine To set religion in her fairest light,

And vindicate the ways of God to man.”

66

Lydd, May 30th, 1770. "I don't know how it was, but I could never bring myself to look upon you as in danger. Your temperance, and the vigour of your constitution, had almost quieted my fears, and then popped in a little vanity of my own; namely, that I could not recollect a crime I had been guilty of

worthy so severe a punishment as the loss of you. These were my thoughts while you were ill: but now you send me word you are recovered, I look back shuddering at the precipice I was at the brink of; each calm reflection points out the loss I should have endured, and philosophy does not bring in the necessary aids for the support of it. But religion does. I have returned my whole heart in thanksgiving for your recovery; not for your sake, but for my

own.

"I am glad you like my picture, though I find that when you are pleased you can flatter: but believe me, I am as sensible of all its faults as you are; nay, perhaps, as knowing more of the working part of a painter, I am more so. Upon the whole, I hope you will accept it as some small acknowledgement (the only one in my power) of the favours I have received of you, and particularly for the greatest, the honour of your acquaintance and friendship. Now for another subject. Mrs. Cobb is delivered of a fine boy, — and they are both very well. I beg the favour of you, jointly with our friend N., to be his male sponsors. To conclude with asking another favour. Mrs. Cobb and I apprehend that, after so severe an illness, the air of London may not be good for you, and we likewise imagine that an atmosphere impregnated with sea salts is the greatest of restoratives. Ergo, we should be much obliged to you, if it in any way suited you, if you would make use of our house for your recovery, where we will nurse you, if possible, as well as we love you. Adieu.

"R. C."

"Lydd, Sept. 26th, 1770.

"I wish, says I, the other morning, as I started from my bed; I wish, says I, rubbing my eyes, I knew where

Bowdler was. I would certainly write to him, if it was only for satisfaction in a point which has troubled my repose so long, and eluded all my researches. The point in question is this: that when the said Bowdler wrote to me last, he mentioned staying at Spring Grove only a fortnight; only a fortnight, as a reason why it was impossible for him to come to Lydd. Heavens! cried I, what can be the matter with the poor fellow? Has he got the gout, or the sciatica? how else can he have lost, thus suddenly, all his locomotive faculties? I was so uneasy, so alarmed at the dreadful picture fancy immediately painted on the retina of my imagination, that I should certainly have set out to see you immediately, but for reasons hereinafter to be mentioned. Methought I saw you stretched on the bed of affliction, supported in the arms of nature, while pain and disease were endeavouring to wrest you from her embrace. I heard the sigh of languor issue from your parching lips; I started at the pang which quivered on your cheek, yet (methinks I see you now) in the midst of the group I beheld religion pouring oil and wine into your wounds, and with rapture beheld the smile beaming on your countenance, that smile which you, and such alone as you, can ever experience amidst the horrors of dissolution.

"The only thing that prevented my visiting you was, that I did not return from my journey (and consequently did not receive your letter) till the day subsequent to that day whereon you had appointed me to come; and had it been earlier, the fatigue of a journey of four hundred miles, performed in nine days, and the disarrangement of my affairs, I fear would have prevented my attending even you; but, as it was, it was simply and solely impossible. You cannot conceive how I was delighted with my expedition. We visited the glorious dock at Portsmouth, and made an ex

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