May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thine odoriferous rites.
While clouds of incense half divine
Involve thy disappearing shrine;
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull
Be always filling, never full.

With juster claims she builds at length

Her empire on the sea.

And well may boast the waves her strength, Which strength restored to thee.

EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS,

SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

DEEM not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn,

Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd,
Can e'er forget the charms he left behind,
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!
In happier days to brighter prospects born.
O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind,
Like thee, content in every state may find,
And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn.
To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease;
To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream;
Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy,
The guide to pleasures which can never cease!

ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER.

COWPER had sinn'd with some excuse,

If. bound in rhyming tethers,

He had committed this abuse

Of changing ewes for wethers;*

But, male for female is a trope,

Or rather bold misnomer,

That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer.

ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS
MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHING IN
THE YEAR 1789.

O SOVEREIGN of an isle renown'd
For undisputed sway,
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound

Her navies wing their way.

* I have heard about my wether mutton from various quarters. It was a blunder hardly pardonable in a man who has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep,

ADDRESSED TO MISS — ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE*

AND dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous Heaven design'd,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined-

Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,

To smother in ignoble rest

At once both bliss and woe!

Far be the thought and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet so'er the verse complain,
Though Phoebus string the lyre.

Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise.)
Who, knowing them. can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell:

In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me. amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.

With lenient balın my Oberon hence
To fairy land be driven.
With every herb that blunts the sense
Mankind received from heaven.

Oh! if my sovereign Author please,
Far be it from my fate
To live unbless'd in torpid ease,

And slumber on in state;

"Each tender tie of life defied,

Whence social pleasures spring,
Unmoved with all the world beside,
A solitary thing-"

Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,
Thus braves the whirling blast,
Eternal winter doom'd to know,
No genial spring to taste.

In vain warm suns their influence shed,
The zephyrs sport in vain.

He rears unchanged his barren head,
Whilst beauty decks the plain.

What though in scaly armor dress'd,
Indifference may repel

The shafts of wo-in such a breast
No joy can ever dwell.

"Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by heaven's decree,"

almost these thirty years. I have accordingly satirize myself in two stanzas, which I composed last night, while I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant, therefore, you will know how to account for it.-Letter to Joseph Hill, Esq., dated April 15, 1792.

*For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. v. p. 202.

That all the true delights of man

Should spring from sympathy.

"Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws
Of nature we retain,
Our self-approving bosom draws
A pleasure from its pain.

Thus grief itself has comforts dear
The sordid never know;
And ecstacy attends the tear

When virtue bids it flow.

For, when it streams from that pure source,
No bribes the heart can win

To check, or alter from its course,
The luxury within.

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labor eased,
Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.

Let no low thought suggest the prayer,
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,
Long as I draw ethereal air,
Sweet Sensibility!

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,

With lustre-beaming eye,

A train, attendant on their queen,
(Her rosy chorus) fly;

The jocund loves in Hymen's band,
With torches ever bright,

And generous friendship, hand in hand
With pity's wat'ry sight.

The gentler virtues too are join'd

In youth immortal warm;

The soft relations, which, combined,
Give life her every charm.

The arts come smiling in the close,

And lend celestial fire;

The marble breathes, the canvas glows,
The muses sweep the lyre.

"Still may my melting bosom cleave
To sufferings not my own,
And still the sigh responsive heave
Where'er is heard a groan.

"So pity shall take virtue's part,
Her natural ally,

And fashioning my soften'd heart,
Prepare it for the sky."

This artless vow may Heaven receive,
And you, fond maid, approve:
So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love!

So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year.
And every joy, which now is yours.
Extend a larger sphere!

And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless

With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess!

1762.

FROM

A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH,

SAYS the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
1 give to the company-pray do but note 'em-
You would think that the wise men of Greece
were all there,
[of Gotham.

Or at least would suppose them the wise men My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,

While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of [hear.

noses,

Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, [gaging, And opening his mouth with a smile quite enThe box in reply was heard plainly to say, What a silly dispute is this we are waging!

WHEN a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like a loose heap of ribbon, of glittering show,
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow.
This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain
The thump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill for a delicate palate.

Alas for the poet! who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill-
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,
And catch in its progress a sensible glow.

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows,
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.

EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME

REDBREAST,

A FAVORITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS.

THESE are not dewdrops 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 perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd
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.
March, 1792.

SONNET,

ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown In our first interview, delightful guest! To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd, 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. June 2, 1792.

But of happier command, Neptune of the furrow'd land; And your wonder vain to shorten, Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 1792.

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE In language warm as could be breathed or penn'd Thy picture speaks the original. my friend. Not by those looks that indicate thy mindThey only speak thee friend of all mankind; Expression here more soothing still I see, That friend of all a partial friend to me. January, 1793.

ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER. DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.

THRIVE. gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me,

And deck with many a splendid flower,
Thy foliage large and free.

Thou camest from Eartham, and wilt shade (If truly I divine)

Some future day the illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honor'd brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;

For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crown'd with virgin's bower?
Spring of 1793.

ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL

FROM MR. HAYLEY.

I SHOULD have deem'd 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.

AN EPITAPH.

HERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd;
At his signified desire

Would advance, present, and fire-
Stout he was and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him!
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call'd, not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,

STANZAS.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH, BY A LADY,

In returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to the Writer,
on condition she should neither show it nor take a copy,
WHAT Wonder! if my wavering hand
Had dared to disobey,

When Hesketh gave a harsh comman·l,
And Cowper led astray.

Then take this tempting gift of thine,

By pen uncopied yet!

But canst thou Memory confine,
Or teach me to forget?

More lasting than the touch of art,
Her characters remain;

When written by a feeling heart
On tablets of the brain.

COWPER'S REPLY.

To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;

And did the few, like her, the same,
The press might rest for me.

So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd
Of many a Grecian belle,

Was once preserved-a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA
JANE COWPER.

WILLIAM was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.

Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit,
(So blest a thing is impudence,)
While others could not bear it.

But some a different notion had,

And at each other winking,
Observed, that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.

Howe'er, it happen'd, by degrees,
He mended, and grew better,
In company grew more at ease,
And dress'd a little smarter;

Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;

And sometimes said, or tried to say,

A witty thing or so.

He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,

So that there was, or seem'd to be,
No fear of a relapse.

The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,

"The creature might do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish."

At length improved from head to heel,
'Twas scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel,
Or half so dégagé.

Now that a miracle so strange

May not in vain be shown,

Let the dear maid who wrought the change E'en claim him for her own!

TO THE SAME.

How quick the change from joy to wo, How chequer'd is our lot below! Seldom we view the prospect fair; Dark clouds of sorrow. pain, and care, (Some pleasing intervals between) Scowl over more than half the scene. Last week with Delia, gentle maid! Far hence in happier fields I stray'd.

Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.
Next day the scene was overcast-
Such day till then I never pass'd,—
For on that day. relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.

Yet ere we look'd our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell,—-
"Fear not that time, where'er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love."

LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT.
SWEET babe! whose image here express'd
Does thy peaceful slumbers show;
Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,
Never did thy spirit know.

Soothing slumbers! soft repose,
Such as mock the painter's skill,
Such as innocence bestows,

Harmless infant! lull thee still.

LINES.

OH! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire,
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none,
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!

INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN
THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON.

HERE, free from riot's hated noise,
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,

A book or friend bestows;

Far from the storms that shake the great,
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat,

And sweeten my repose.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM
RUSSEL.

DOOM'D, as I am, in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost;
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mein,
The dull effect of humor, or of spleen!
Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day,
Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away;
And her thro' tedious years of doubt and pain,
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful-but in vain!
prone to pity, generous, and sincere,
Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear;
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;

* Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the young poet.

See me-ere yet my destin'd course half done,
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown!
See me neglected on the world's rude coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost!
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow,
And ready tears wait only leave to flow!
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,
All that delights the happy-palls with me!

ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH.

COCOA-NUT naught,
Fish too dear,
None must be bought
For us that are here:

No lobster on earth,
That ever I saw,

To me would be worth
Sixpence a claw.

So. dear madam, wait
Till fish can be got
At a reas'nable rate,
Whether lobster or not;

Till the French and the Dutch
Have quitted the seas,
And then send as much
And as oft as you please.

TO MRS. NEWTON.

A NOBLE theme demands a noble verse,
In such I thank you for your fine oysters.
The barrel was magnificently large,
But, being sent to Olney at free charge,
Was not inserted in the driver's list,
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd;
For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd
Inquir'd for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd;
Denying that his wagon or his wain
Did any such commodity contain.

In consequence of which, your welcome boon
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon;

In consequence of which some chanc'd to die,
And some, though very sweet, were very dry.
Now Madam says, (and what she says must still
Deserve attention, say she what she will.)
That what we call the diligence, be-case

It

goes to London with a swifter pace, Would better suit the carriage of your gift, Returning downward with a pace as swift; And therefore recommends it with this aimTo save at least three days,-the price the same; For though it will not carry or convey [may, For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you For oyster bred upon the salt sea-shore, Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more.

News have I none that I can deign to write, Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night; And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour, Caught in the first beginning of the show'r; But walking, running, and with much ado, Got home-just time enough to be wet through,

Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told. Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold And wishing just the same good hap to you, We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu'

VERSES PRINTED BY HIMSELF ON A
FLOOD AT OLNEY.

To watch the storms, and hear the sky
Give all our almanacks the lie;
To shake with cold, and see the plains
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains;
'Tis thus I spend my moments here,
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer;
I then should have no need of wit;
For lumpish Hollander unfit!
Nor should I then repine at mud.
Or meadows deluged with a flood;
But in a bog live well content,
And find it just my element;
Should be a clod, and not a man;
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann,
With charitable aid to drag
My mind out of its proper quag:
Should have the genius of a boor,

And no ambition to have more.

EXTRACT FROM A SUNDAY-SCHOOL
HYMN.

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r
In heaven, thy dwelling-place,
From infants, made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear-but, oh! impart
To each desires sincere,

That we may listen with our heart,
And learn, as well as hear.