See how they have safely survived

The frowns of a sky so severe;

Such Mary's true love, that has lived

Through many a turbulent year.

The charms of the late-blowing rose

Seem graced with a livelier hue,

And the winter of sorrow best shows

The truth of a friend such as you.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT.

An Oyster, cast upon the shore,

Was heard, though never heard before,

Complaining in a speech well worded,

And worthy thus to be recorded:--

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell

For ever in my native shell;

Ordain'd to move when others please,

Not for my own content or ease;

But toss'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water and now out.

'Twere better to be born a stone,

Of ruder shape, and feeling none,

Than with a tenderness like mine,

And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Fast rooted against every rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,

And felt the sneer with scorn enough:

Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,

And with asperity replied:

(When, cry the botanists, and stare,

Did plants call'd sensitive grow there?

No matter when--a poet's muse is

To make them grow just where she chooses)

You shapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almost a fish,

I scorn your coarse insinuation,

And have most plentiful occasion

To wish myself the rock I view,

Or such another dolt as you:

For many a grave and learned clerk

And many a gay unletter'd spark,

With curious touch examines me,

If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,

Says--Well, tis more than one would think!

Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't)

In being touch'd, and crying--Don't!

A poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your fine sense, he said, and yours,

Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,

Much to be pitied or commended.

Disputes, though short, are far too long,

Where both alike are in the wrong;

Your feelings in their full amount

Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto-work enclosed,

Complain of being thus exposed;

Yet nothing feel in that rough coat

Save when the knife is at your throat,

Wherever driven by wind or tide,

Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,

Who reckon every touch a blemish,

If all the plants, that can be found

Embellishing the scene around,

Should droop and wither where they grow,

You would not feel at all--not you.

The noblest minds their virtue prove

By pity, sympathy, and love:

These, these are feelings truly fine,

And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it

And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

Oh, happy shades--to me unblest!

Friendly to peace, but not to me!

How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders, quivering to the breeze,

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,

And please, if any thing could please.

But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within,

Shows the same sadness every where,

And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,

Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley musing, slow;

They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me to nourish woe!

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam;

These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

The lady thus address'd her spouse--

What a mere dungeon is this house!

By no means large enough; and was it,

Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,

Those hangings with their worn-out graces,

Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,

Are such an antiquated scene,

They overwhelm me with the spleen.

Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,

Makes answer quite beside the mark:

No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,

Engaged myself to be at home,

And shall expect him at the door

Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf, the lady cried,

(And raised her voice, and frown'd beside,)

You are so sadly deaf, my dear,

What shall I do to make you hear?

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;

Some people are more nice than wise:

For one slight trespass all this stir?

What if he did ride whip and spur,

'Twas but a mile--your favourite horse

Will never look one hair the worse.

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing--

Child! I am rather hard of hearing--

Yes, truly--one must scream and bawl:

I tell you, you can't hear at all!

Then, with a voice exceeding low,

No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife,

That sorest ill of human life,

A plague so little to be fear'd,

As to be wantonly incurr'd,

To gratify a fretful passion,

On every trivial provocation?

The kindest and the happiest pair

Will find occasion to forbear;

And something every day they live

To pity, and perhaps forgive.

But if infirmities, that fall

In common to the lot of all,

A blemish or a sense impair'd,

Are crimes so little to be spared,

Then farewell all that must create

The comfort of the wedded state;

Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,

And tumult, and intestine war.

The love that cheers life's latest stage,

Proof against sickness and old age,

Preserved by virtue from declension,

Becomes not weary of attention;

But lives, when that exterior grace,

Which first inspired the flame, decays.

'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,

To faults compassionate or blind,

And will with sympathy endure

Those evils it would gladly cure:

But angry, coarse, and harsh expression,

Shows love to be a mere profession;

Proves that the heart is none of his,

Or soon expels him if it is.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

Forced from home and all its pleasures,

Afric's coast I left forlorn;

To increase a stranger's treasures,

O'er the raging billows borne.

Men from England bought and sold me,

Paid my price in paltry gold;

But, though slave they have enroll'd me,

Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,

What are England's rights, I ask,

Me from my delights to sever,

Me to torture, me to task?

Fleecy locks and black complexion

Cannot forfeit nature's claim;

Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating Nature

Make the plant for which we toil?

Sighs must fan it, tears must water,

Sweat of ours must dress the soil.

Think, ye masters iron-hearted,

Lolling at your jovial boards,

Think how many backs have smarted

For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,

Is there One who reigns on high?

Has he bid you buy and sell us,

Speaking from his throne, the sky?

Ask him, if your knotted scourges,

Matches, blood-extorting screws,

Are the means that duty urges

Agents of his will to use?

Hark! he answers--wild tornadoes,

Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;

Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,

Are the voice with which he speaks.

He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's sons should undergo,

Fix'd their tyrants' habitations

Where his whirlwinds answer--no.

By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks received the chain;

By the miseries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main;

By our sufferings, since ye brought us

To the man-degrading mart,

All sustain'd by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart;

Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find

Worthier of regard, and stronger

Than the colour of our kind.

Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted powers,

Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere you proudly question ours!

PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.

Video meliora proboque,

Deteriora sequor.

.......

I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves,

And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;

What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans,

Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,

For how could we do without sugar and rum?

Especially sugar, so needful we see?

What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea!

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes

Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains;

If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will,

And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,

Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;

But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks,

Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind

A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd,

On purpose to answer you, out of my mint;

But I can assure you I saw it in print.

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,

Had once his integrity put to the test;

His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,

And ask'd him to go and assist in the job.

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, "Oh no!

What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you don't go;

Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread,

Then think of his children, for they must be fed."

"You speak very fine, and you look very grave,

But apples we want, and apples we'll have;

If you will go with us, you shall have a share,

If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear."

They spoke, and Tom pondered--"I see they will go;

Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!

Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could,

But staying behind will do him no good.

"If the matter depended alone upon me,

His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree;

But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too,

He will lose none by me, though I get a few."

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease,

And went with his comrades the apples to seize;

He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan:

He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

THE MORNING DREAM.

'Twas in the glad season of spring,

Asleep at the dawn of the day,

I dream'd what I cannot but sing,

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.

I dream'd that, on ocean afloat,

Far hence to the westward I sail'd,

While the billows high lifted the boat,

And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.

In the steerage a woman I saw,

Such at least was the form that she wore,

Whose beauty impress'd me with awe,

Ne'er taught me by woman before.

She sat, and a shield at her side

Shed light, like a sun on the waves,

And smiling divinely, she cried--

"I go to make freemen of slaves."

Then, raising her voice to a strain

The sweetest that ear ever heard,

She sung of the slave's broken chain,

Wherever her glory appear'd.

Some clouds, which had over us hung,

Fled, chased by her melody clear,

And methought while she liberty sung,

'Twas liberty only to hear.

Thus swiftly dividing the flood,

To a slave-cultured island we came,

Where a demon, her enemy, stood--

Oppression his terrible name.

In his hand, as the sign of his sway,

A scourge hung with lashes he bore,

And stood looking out for his prey

From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as, approaching the land,

That goddesslike woman he view'd,

The scourge he let fall from his hand,

With blood of his subjects imbrued.

I saw him both sicken and die,

And, the moment the monster expired,

Heard shouts, that ascended the sky,

From thousands with rapture inspired.

Awaking, how could I but muse

At what such a dream should betide?

But soon my ear caught the glad news,

Which served my weak thought for a guide;

That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves

For the hatred she ever has shown

To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,

Resolves to have none of her own.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN;

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME

AGAIN.

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A trainband captain eke was he

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear:

Though wedded we have been

These twice ten tedious years, yet we

No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair

Unto the Bell at Edmonton

All in a chaise and pair.

My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself, and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

On horseback after we.

He soon replied, I do admire

Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linendraper bold,

As all the world doth know,

And my good friend the calendrer

Will lend his horse to go.

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said;

And for that wine is dear,

We will be furnish'd with our own,

Which is both bright and clear.

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find,

That, though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allow'd

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,

Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folk so glad,

The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the flowing mane,

And up he got, in haste to ride,

But soon came down again;

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he,

His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,

Although it grieved him sore,

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming came down stairs,

"The wine is left behind!"

Good lack! quoth he--yet bring it me,

My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword

When I do exercise.

Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)

Had two stone bottles found,

To hold the liquor that she loved,

And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew,

And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be

Equipp'd from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,

He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed,

Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,

With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well shod feet,

The snorting beast began to trot,

Which gall'd him in his seat.

So, fair and softly, John he cried,

But John he cried in vain;

That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright,

He grasp'd the mane with both his hands,

And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort

Had handled been before,

What thing upon his back had got

Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;

Away went hat and wig;

He little dreamt, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,

Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern

The bottles he had slung;

A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd

Up flew the windows all;

And every soul cried out, Well done!

As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin--who but he?

His fame soon spread around,

He carries weight! he rides a race!

'Tis for a thousand pound!

And still, as fast as he drew near,

'Twas wonderful to view,

How in a trice the turnpike men

Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down

His reeking head full low,

The bottles twain behind his back

Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,

Most piteous to be seen,

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke,

As they had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight,

With leathern girdle braced;

For all might see the bottle necks

Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington

These gambols he did play,

Until he came unto the Wash

Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about

On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,

Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wondering much

To see how he did ride.

Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house!

They all at once did cry;

The dinner waits, and we are tired:

Said Gilpin--So am I!

But yet his horse was not a whit

Inclined to tarry there;

For why?--his owner had a house

Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,

Shot by an archer strong;

So did he fly--which brings me to

The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath,

And sore against his will,

Till at his friend the calendrer's

His horse at last stood still.

The calendrer, amazed to see

His neighbour in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,

And thus accosted him:

What news? what news? your tidings tell;

Tell me you must and shall--

Say why bareheaded you are come,

Or why you come at all?

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And loved a timely joke!

And thus unto the calendrer

In merry guise he spoke:

I came because your horse would come,

And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,

They are upon the road.

The calendrer, right glad to find

His friend in merry pin,

Return'd him not a single word,

But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig;

A wig that flow'd behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn

Thus show'd his ready wit:

My head is twice as big as yours,

They therefore needs must fit.

But let me scrape the dirt away

That hangs upon your face;

And stop and eat, for well you may

Be in a hungry case.

Said John, It is my wedding-day,

And all the world would stare,

If wife should dine at Edmonton,

And I should dine at Ware.

So turning to his horse, he said,

I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here,

You shall go back for mine.

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast!

For which he paid full dear;

For, while he spake, a braying ass

Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he

Had heard a lion roar,

And gallop'd off with all his might,

As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away,

Went Gilpin's hat and wig:

He lost them sooner than at first,

For why?--they were too big.

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw

Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said,

That drove them to the Bell,

This shall be yours, when you bring back

My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,

By catching at his rein;

But, not performing what he meant,

And gladly would have done,

The frighted steed he frighted more,

And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scampering in the rear,

They raised the hue and cry:--

Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!

Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;

The toll-men thinking as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;

Nor stopp'd till where he had got up

He did again get down.

Now let us sing, long live the king,

And Gilpin long live he;

And when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM.

A Nightingale, that all day long

Had cheer'd the village with his song,

Nor yet at eve his note suspended,

Nor yet when eventide was ended,

Began to feel, as well he might,

The keen demands of appetite;

When, looking eagerly around

He spied far off, upon the ground,

A something shining in the dark,

And knew the glowworm by his spark;

So stooping down from hawthorn top,

He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,

Harangued him thus, right eloquent--

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,

As much as I your minstrelsy,

You would abhor to do me wrong

As much as I to spoil your song;

For 'twas the self-same Power divine

Taught you to sing, and me to shine;

That you with music, I with light,

Might beautify and cheer the night.

The songster heard his short oration.

And, warbling out his approbation,

Released him, as my story tells,

And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn

Their real interest to discern;

That brother should not war with brother,

And worry and devour each other;

But sing and shine by sweet consent,

Till life's poor transient night is spent,

Respecting in each other's case

The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name

Who studiously make peace their aim;

Peace both the duty and the prize

Of him that creeps and him that flies.

AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

MADAM,

A stranger's purpose in these lays

Is to congratulate, and not to praise.

To give the creature the Creator's due

Were sin in me, and an offence to you.

From man to man, or e'en to woman paid,

Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,

A coin by craft for folly's use design'd,

Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone,

Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;

No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode,

Who found not thorns and briers in his road.

The world may dance along the flowery plain,

Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain,

Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,

With unshod feet they yet securely tread,

Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend,

Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.

But He, who knew what human hearts would prove,

How slow to learn the dictates of his love,

That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,

A life of ease would make them harder still,

In pity to the souls his grace design'd

To rescue from the ruins of mankind,

Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,

And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears."

O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!

O salutary streams, that murmur there!

These flowing from the fount of grace above,

Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.

The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;

Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;

An envious world will interpose its frown,

To mar delights superior to its own;

And many a pang, experienced still within,

Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin:

But ills of every shape and every name,

Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim:

And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast,

Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast

Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste!

No shepherd's tents within thy view appear,

But the chief Shepherd even there is near;

Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain

Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain;

Thy tears all issue from a source divine,

And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine--

So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,

And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

Unwin, I should but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,

Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page

That would reclaim a vicious age.

A union form'd, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, or in sport,

May be as fervent in degree

And faithful in its sort,

And may as rich in comfort prove,

As that of true fraternal love.

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,

Adorns, though differing in its kind,

The stock whereon it grows,

With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,

As if produced by nature there.

Not rich, I render what I may,

I seize thy name in haste,

And place it in this first essay,

Lest this should prove the last.

'Tis where it should be--in a plan

That holds in view the good of man.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart;

Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blazed by art.

No muses on these lines attend,

I sink the poet in the friend.

TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

The swallows in their torpid state

Compose their useless wing,

And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early Spring.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildest wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,

Secure of their repose.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys;

With present ills his heart must ache,

And pant for brighter days.

Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn;

But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chase him from the bowers,

And weave fresh garlands every day,

To crown the smiling hours.

And if a tear that speaks regret

Of happier times, appear,

A glimpse of joy, that we have met,

Shall shine, and dry the tear.

CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)

She came--she is gone--we have met--

And meet perhaps never again;

The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain.

Catharina has fled like a dream--

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)

But has left a regret and esteem

That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tone,

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witnessed her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,

And gave them a grace so divine,

As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more,

And e'en to myself never seem'd

So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed

In number the days of the year,

Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;

For the close-woven arches of limes

On the banks of our river, I know,

Are sweeter to her many times

Than aught that the city can show.

So it is when the mind is endued

With a well-judging taste from above,

Then, whether embellish'd or rude,

'Tis nature alone that we love.

The achievements of art may amuse,

May even our wonder excite;

But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse

A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess

Catharina alone can rejoice,

May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her sensible choice!

To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,

And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,

To wing all her moments at home;

And with scenes that new rapture inspire,

As oft as it suits her to roam;

She will have just the life she prefers,

With little to hope or to fear,

And ours would be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

A hermit, (or if 'chance you hold

That title now too trite and old,)

A man, once young, who lived retired

As hermit could have well desired,

His hours of study closed at last,

And finish'd his concise repast,

Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book,

Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, set forth to share

The sober cordial of sweet air,

Like Isaac, with a mind applied

To serious thought at evening-tide.

Autumnal rains had made it chill,

And from the trees, that fringed his hill,

Shades slanting at the close of day,

Chill'd more his else delightful way.

Distant a little mile he spied

A western bank's still sunny side,

And right toward the favour'd place

Proceeding with his nimblest pace,

In hope to bask a little yet,

Just reach'd it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!

Learns something from whate'er occurs--

And hence, he said, my mind computes

The real worth of man's pursuits.

His object chosen, wealth or fame,

Or other sublunary game,

Imagination to his view

Presents it deck'd with every hue,

That can seduce him not to spare

His powers of best exertion there,

But youth, health, vigour to expend

On so desirable an end.

Ere long approach life's evening shades

The glow that fancy gave it fades;

And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace

That first engaged him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,

Attendant at the senior's side--

But whether all the time it cost,

To urge the fruitless chase be lost,

Must be decided by the worth

Of that which call'd his ardour forth.

Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,

Must cause him shame or discontent;

A vicious object still is worse,

Successful there, he wins a curse;

But he, whom e'en in life's last stage

Endeavours laudable engage,

Is paid at least in peace of mind,

And sense of having well design'd;

And if, ere he attain his end,

His sun precipitate descend,

A brighter prize than that he meant

Shall recompense his mere intent.

No virtuous wish can bear a date

Either too early or too late.

THE FAITHFUL BIRD.

The greenhouse is my summer seat;

My shrubs displaced from that retreat

Enjoy'd the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song

Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang as blithe as finches sing,

That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;

Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,

But that delight they never knew,

And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast,

With force not easily suppress'd;

And Dick felt some desires,

That, after many an effort vain,

Instructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.

The open windows seem'd to invite

The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was still confined;

And Dick, although his way was clear,

Was much too generous and sincere

To leave his friend behind.

So settling on his cage, by play,

And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,

You must not live alone--

Nor would he quit that chosen stand

Till I, with slow and cautious hand,

Return'd him to his own.

O ye, who never taste the joys

Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout!

Blush when I tell you how a bird

A prison with a friend preferr'd

To liberty without.

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

There is a field, through which I often pass,

Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,

Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,

Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,

Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,

That he may follow them through brake and brier,

Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.

A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd,

Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;

Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,

But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;

And where the land slopes to its watery bourn

Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;

Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,

And horrid brambles intertwine below;

A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time,

For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,

With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed;

Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray,

With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;

But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,

Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,

With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats

With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes,

For which, alas! my destiny severe,

Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.

The sun, accomplishing his early march,

His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch,

When, exercise and air my only aim,

And heedless whither, to that field I came,

Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound

Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,

Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang

All Kilwick[824] and all Dinglederry[824] rang.

Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press'd

The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest;

Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,

Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook.

All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd,

To me their peace by kind contagion spread.

But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,

'Gan make his instrument of music speak,

And from within the wood that crash was heard,

Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd,

The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed,

All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,

Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,

Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;

But recollecting, with a sudden thought,

That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,

They gathered close around the old pit's brink,

And thought again--but knew not what to think.

The man to solitude accustom'd long,

Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;

Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees

Have speech for him, and understood with ease;

After long drought, when rains abundant fall,

He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all;

Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,

How glad they catch the largess of the skies;

But, with precision nicer still, the mind

He scans of every locomotive kind;

Birds of all feather, beasts of every name;

That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;

The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears

Have all articulation in his ears;

He spells them true by intuition's light,

And needs no glossary to set him right.

This truth premised was needful as a text,

To win due credence to what follows next.

Awhile they mused; surveying every face,

Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;

Their periwigs of wool and fears combined,

Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind,

That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt,

Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;

Or academic tutors, teaching youths,

Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;

When thus a mutton statelier than the rest,

A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd.

Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard

Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd.

Could I believe, that winds for ages pent

In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent,

And from their prison-house below arise,

With all these hideous howlings to the skies,

I could be much composed, nor should appear,

For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.

Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd

All night, me resting quiet in the fold.

Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,

I could expound the melancholy tone;

Should deem it by our old companion made,

The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,

And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,

Might be supposed to clamour for a guide.

But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,

That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear?

Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd

And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad;

I hold it therefore wisest and most fit

That, life to save, we leap into the pit.

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,

But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.

How! leap into the pit our life to save?

To save our life leap all into the grave?

For can we find it less? Contemplate first

The depth how awful! falling there, we burst:

Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall

In part abate, that happiness were small;

For with a race like theirs no chance I see

Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.

Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray,

Or be it not, or be it whose it may,

And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues

Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,

Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear,

We have at least commodious standing here.

Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast

From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.

While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,

For Reynard, close attended at his heels

By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse,

Through mere good fortune, took a different course.

The flock grew calm again, and I, the road

Following, that led me to my own abode,

Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found

Such cause of terror in an empty sound,

So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

[824] Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.

MORAL.

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,

Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief;

Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish--write that word

In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;

Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire,

Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow:

Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;

Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

HEROISM.

There was a time when Ætna's silent fire

Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire;

When, conscious of no danger from below,

She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.

No thunders shook with deep intestine sound

The blooming groves that girdled her around.

Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines

(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)

The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured,

In peace upon her sloping sides matured.

When on a day, like that of the last doom,

A conflagration labouring in her womb,

She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth,

That shook the circling seas and solid earth.

Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,

And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,

While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,

In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.

But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,

Can trace the torrent as it burns along?

Havoc and devastation in the van,

It marches o'er the prostrate works of man;

Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,

And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,

See it an uninformed and idle mass;

Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,

Or blade that might redeem it from despair.

Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)

Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.

Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,

And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.

O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,

O charming Paradise of shortlived sweets!

The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round

Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:

Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe,

Again pours ruin on the vale below.

Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,

That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,

Who write in blood the merits of your cause,

Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence,

Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;

Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!

Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain,

And tells you where you have a right to reign,

A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,

Studious of peace, their neighbour's and their own,

Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue

Their only crime, vicinity to you!

The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,

Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road;

At every step beneath their feet they tread

The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!

Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress

Before them, and behind a wilderness.

Famine, and Pestilence, her firstborn son,

Attend to finish what the sword begun;

And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,

And folly pays, resound at your return.

A calm succeeds--but Plenty, with her train

Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again:

And years of pining indigence must show

What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,

(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,)

Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,

Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,

Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain,

And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art

Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part;

And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,

That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say,

But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?

Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,

Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;

And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar,

To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

O place me in some heaven-protected isle,

Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile;

Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;

Where Power secures what Industry has won;

Where to succeed is not to be undone;

A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,

In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.

ON

THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,

"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here:

Who bidst me honour with an artless song,

Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:

And, while that face renews my filial grief,

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss--

Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.

I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

And turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,

And, disappointed still, was still deceived.

By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day,

Drew me to school along the public way,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,

'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair,

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks

That humour interposed too often makes;

All this still legible in memory's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)

Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart--the dear delight

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.--

But no--what here we call our life is such,

So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast

(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show

Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay:

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"[825]

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide

Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

Always from port withheld, always distress'd--

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd

Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,

And day by day some current's thwarting force

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.

But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

My boast is not that I deduce my birth

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise--

The son of parents pass'd into the skies.

And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;

To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,

Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee,

Time has but half succeeded in his theft--

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

[825] Garth.

FRIENDSHIP.

What virtue, or what mental grace

But men unqualified and base

Will boast it their possession?

Profusion apes the noble part

Of liberality of heart,

And dullness of discretion.

If every polish'd gem we find,

Illuminating heart or mind,

Provoke to imitation;

No wonder friendship does the same,

That jewel of the purest flame,

Or rather constellation.

No knave but boldly will pretend

The requisites that form a friend,

A real and a sound one;

Nor any fool, he would deceive,

But prove as ready to believe,

And dream that he had found one.

Candid, and generous, and just,

Boys care but little whom they trust,

An error soon corrected--

For who but learns in riper years

That man, when smoothest he appears,

Is most to be suspected?

But here again a danger lies,

Lest, having misapplied our eyes,

And taken trash for treasure,

We should unwarily conclude

Friendship a false ideal good,

A mere Utopian pleasure.

An acquisition rather rare

Is yet no subject of despair;

Nor is it wise complaining,

If, either on forbidden ground,

Or where it was not to be found,

We sought without attaining.

No friendship will abide the test,

That stands on sordid interest,

Or mean self-love erected;

Nor such as may awhile subsist

Between the sot and sensualist,

For vicious ends connected.

Who seek a friend should come disposed

To exhibit, in full bloom disclosed,

The graces and the beauties

That form the character he seeks,

For 'tis a union that bespeaks

Reciprocated duties.

Mutual attention is implied,

And equal truth on either side,

And constantly supported;

'Tis senseless arrogance to accuse

Another of sinister views,

Our own as much distorted.

But will sincerity suffice?

It is indeed above all price,

And must be made the basis;

But every virtue of the soul

Must constitute the charming whole,

All shining in their places.

A fretful temper will divide

The closest knot that may be tied,

By ceaseless sharp corrosion;

A temper passionate and fierce

May suddenly your joys disperse

At one immense explosion.

In vain the talkative unite

In hopes of permanent delight--

The secret just committed,

Forgetting its important weight,

They drop through mere desire to prate,

And by themselves outwitted.

How bright soe'er the prospect seems,

All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,

If envy chance to creep in;

An envious man, if you succeed,

May prove a dangerous foe indeed,

But not a friend worth keeping.

As envy pines at good possess'd,

So jealousy looks forth distress'd

On good that seems approaching;

And, if success his steps attend,

Discerns a rival in a friend,

And hates him for encroaching.

Hence authors of illustrious name,

Unless belied by common fame,

Are sadly prone to quarrel,

To deem the wit a friend displays

A tax upon their own just praise,

And pluck each other's laurel.

A man renown'd for repartee

Will seldom scruple to make free

With friendship's finest feeling,

Will thrust a dagger at your breast,

And say he wounded you in jest,

By way of balm for healing.

Whoever keeps an open ear

For tattlers will be sure to hear

The trumpet of contention;

Aspersion is the babbler's trade,

To listen is to lend him aid,

And rush into dissension.

A friendship that in frequent fits

Of controversial rage emits

The sparks of disputation,

Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates,

Most unavoidably creates

The thought of conflagration.

Some fickle creatures boast a soul

True as a needle to the pole,

Their humour yet so various--

They manifest their whole life through

The needle's deviations too,

Their love is so precarious.

The great and small but rarely meet

On terms of amity complete;

Plebeians must surrender,

And yield so much to noble folk,

It is combining fire with smoke,

Obscurity with splendour.

Some are so placid and serene

(As Irish bogs are always green)

They sleep secure from waking;

And are indeed a bog, that bears

Your unparticipated cares

Unmoved and without quaking.

Courtier and patriot cannot mix

Their heterogeneous politics

Without an effervescence,

Like that of salts with lemon juice,

Which does not yet like that produce

A friendly coalescence.

Religion should extinguish strife,

And make a calm of human life;

But friends that chance to differ

On points which God has left at large,

How freely will they meet and charge

No combatants are stiffer.

To prove at last my main intent

Needs no expense of argument,

No cutting and contriving--

Seeking a real friend, we seem

To adopt the chemist's golden dream,

With still less hope of thriving.

Sometimes the fault is all our own,

Some blemish in due time made known

By trespass or omission;

Sometimes occasion brings to light

Our friend's defect, long hid from sight,

And even from suspicion.

Then judge yourself, and prove your man

As circumspectly as you can,

And, having made election,

Beware no negligence of yours,

Such as a friend but ill endures,

Enfeeble his affection.

That secrets are a sacred trust,

That friends should be sincere and just,

That constancy befits them,

Are observations on the case,

That savour much of common place,

And all the world admits them.

But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone,

An architect requires alone

To finish a fine building--

The palace were but half complete,

If he could possibly forget

The carving and the gilding.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack,

And proves by thumps upon your back

How he esteems your merit,

Is such a friend, that one had need

Be very much his friend indeed

To pardon or to bear it.

As similarity of mind,

Or something not to be defined,

First fixes our attention;

So manners decent and polite,

The same we practised at first sight,

Must save it from declension.

Some act upon this prudent plan,

"Say little, and hear all you can."

Safe policy, but hateful--

So barren sands imbibe the shower,

But render neither fruit nor flower,

Unpleasant and ungrateful.

The man I trust, if shy to me,

Shall find me as reserved as he,

No subterfuge or pleading

Shall win my confidence again;

I will by no means entertain

A spy on my proceeding.

These samples--for alas! at last

These are but samples, and a taste

Of evils yet unmention'd--

May prove the task a task indeed,

In which 'tis much if we succeed,

However well intention'd.

Pursue the search, and you will find

Good sense and knowledge of mankind

To be at least expedient,

And, after summing all the rest,

Religion ruling in the breast

A principal ingredient.

The noblest Friendship ever shown

The Saviour's history makes known,

Though some have turn'd and turn'd it;

And, whether being crazed or blind,

Or seeking with a biass'd mind,

Have not, it seems, discern'd it.

O Friendship! if my soul forego

Thy dear delights while here below,

To mortify and grieve me,

May I myself at last appear

Unworthy, base, and insincere,

Or may my friend deceive me!

ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,

WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.

Go--thou art all unfit to share

The pleasures of this place

With such as its old tenants are,

Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides,

Aware of wintry storms,

And woodpeckers explore the sides

Of rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn

With frictions of her fleece;

And here I wander eve and morn,

Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah!--I could pity thee exiled

From this secure retreat--

I would not lose it to be styled

The happiest of the great.

But thou canst taste no calm delight;

Thy pleasure is to show

Thy magnanimity in fight,

Thy prowess--therefore, go--

I care not whether east or north,

So I no more may find thee;

The angry muse thus sings thee forth,

And claps the gate behind thee.

ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789.

WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY.

I ransack'd for a theme of song,

Much ancient chronicle, and long;

I read of bright embattled fields,

Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,

Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast

Prowess to dissipate a host;

Through tomes of fable and of dream

I sought an eligible theme,

But none I found, or found them shared

Already by some happier bard.

To modern times, with truth to guide

My busy search, I next applied;

Here cities won, and fleets dispersed,

Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,

Deeds of unperishing renown,

Our fathers' triumphs and our own.

Thus as the bee, from bank to bower,

Assiduous sips at every flower,

But rests on none till that be found

Where most nectareous sweets abound,

So I, from theme to theme display'd

In many a page historic, stray'd,

Siege after siege, fight after fight,

Contemplating with small delight,

(For feats of sanguinary hue

Not always glitter in my view,)

Till, settling on the current year,

I found the far-sought treasure near.

A theme for poetry divine,

A theme to ennoble even mine,

In memorable eighty-nine.

The spring of eighty-nine shall be

An æra cherish'd long by me,

Which joyful I will oft record,

And thankful at my frugal board;

For then the clouds of eighty-eight,

That threaten'd England's trembling state

With loss of what she least could spare,

Her sovereign's tutelary care,

One breath of heaven, that cried--Restore!

Chased, never to assemble more:

And for the richest crown on earth,

If valued by its wearer's worth,

The symbol of a righteous reign

Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possess'd

Our Queen's long-agitated breast;

Such joy and peace as can be known

By sufferers like herself alone,

Who losing, or supposing lost,

The good on earth they valued most,

For that dear sorrow's sake forego

All hope of happiness below,

Then suddenly regain the prize,

And flash thanksgivings to the skies!

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!

Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,

The eyes, that never saw thee, shine

With joy not unallied to thine;

Transports not chargeable with art

Illume the land's remotest part,

And strangers to the air of courts,

Both in their toils and at their sports,

The happiness of answer'd prayers,

That gilds thy features, show in theirs.

If they who on thy state attend,

Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,

'Tis but the natural effect

Of grandeur that ensures respect;

But she is something more than queen

Who is beloved where never seen.

HYMN,

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,

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 O impart

To each desires sincere,

That we may listen with our heart,

And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of older far than we,

What hope, that, at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take

Under thy gracious sway,

Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,

A sun that ne'er declines,

And be thy mercies shower'd on those

Who placed us where it shines.

STANZAS.

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF

ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,[826] ANNO DOMINI 1787.

[826] Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,

Regumque turres.--HORACE.

Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door

Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.

While thirteen moons saw smoothly run

The Nen's barge-laden wave,

All these, life's rambling journey done,

Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail

Than in foregoing years?

Did famine or did plague prevail,

That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their sires,

Nor plague nor famine came;

This annual tribute Death requires,

And never waves his claim.

Like crowded forest trees we stand,

And some are mark'd to fall;

The axe will smite at God's command,

And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay tree, ever green,

With its new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,

I pass'd--and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth

With which I charge my page;

A worm is in the bud of youth,

And at the root of age.

No present health can health ensure

For yet an hour to come;

No medicine, though it oft can cure,

Can always balk the tomb.

And O! that humble as my lot,

And scorn'd as is my strain,

These truths, though known, too much forgot,

I may not teach in vain.

So prays your clerk with all his heart,

And, ere he quits the pen,

Begs _you_ for once to take _his_ part,

And answer all--Amen!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1788.

Quod adest, memento

Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis

Ritu feruntur.--HORACE.

Improve the present hour, for all beside

Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide.

Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage

To whom the rising year shall prove his last,

As I can number in my punctual page,

And item down the victims of the past;

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet,

On which the press might stamp him next to die;

And, reading here his sentence, how replete

With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye!

Time then would seem more precious than the joys

In which he sports away the treasure now;

And prayer more seasonable than the noise

Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink

Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore,

Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think,

Told that his setting sun must rise no more.

Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say

Who next is fated, and who next to fall,

The rest might then seem privileged to play;

But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL.

Observe the dappled foresters, how light

They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade--

One falls--the rest, wide scatter'd with affright,

Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,

Still need repeated warnings, and at last,

A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,

Die self-accused of life run all to waste!

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones.

The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;

Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones,

But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught

Of all these sepulchres, instructors true,

That, soon or late, death also is your lot,

And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1789.

--Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit.--VIRG.

There calm at length he breathed his soul away.

"O most delightful hour by man

Experienced here below,

The hour that terminates his span,

His folly and his woe!

"Worlds should not bribe me back to tread

Again life's dreary waste,

To see again my day o'erspread

With all the gloomy past.

"My home henceforth is in the skies,

Earth, seas, and sun, adieu!

All heaven unfolded to my eyes,

I have no sight for you."

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd

Of faith's supporting rod,

Then breathed his soul into its rest,

The bosom of his God.

He was a man among the few

Sincere on virtue's side;

And all his strength from Scripture drew,

To hourly use applied.

That rule he prized, by that he fear'd,

He hated, hoped, and loved;

Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd,

But when his heart had roved.

For he was frail as thou or I,

And evil felt within;

But when he felt it, heaved a sigh,

And loathed the thought of sin.

Such lived Aspasio; and at last

Call'd up from earth to heaven,

The gulf of death triumphant pass'd,

By gales of blessing driven.

His joys be mine, each reader cries,

When my last hour arrives:

They shall be yours, my verse replies,

Such only be your lives.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1790.

Ne commonentem recta sperne.--BUCHANAN.

Despise not my good counsel.

He who sits from day to day

Where the prison'd lark is hung,

Heedless of his loudest lay,

Hardly knows that he has sung.

Where the watchman in his round

Nightly lifts his voice on high,

None, accustom'd to the sound,

Wakes the sooner for his cry.

So your verse-man I, and clerk,

Yearly in my song proclaim

Death at hand--yourselves his mark--

And the foe's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come,

Publishing to all aloud--

Soon the grave must be your home,

And your only suit, a shroud,

But the monitory strain,

Oft repeated in your ears,

Seems to sound too much in vain,

Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confess'd

Of such magnitude and weight,

Grow, by being oft impress'd,

Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins,

Hear it often as we may;

New as ever seem our sins,

Though committed every day.

Death and judgment, heaven and hell--

These alone, so often heard,

No more move us than the bell

When some stranger is interr'd.

O then, ere the turf or tomb

Cover us from every eye,

Spirit of instruction, come,

Make us learn that we must die.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1792.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,

Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum

Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

VIRG.

Happy the mortal who has traced effects

To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet,

And death and roaring hell's voracious fires!

Thankless for favours from on high,

Man thinks he fades too soon;

Though 'tis his privilege to die,

Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan

His blest concerns aright,

Would gladly stretch life's little span

To ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain,

To ages, where he goes

Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,

Enamour'd of its harm!

Strange world, that costs it so much smart,

And still has power to charm.

Whence has the world her magic power?

Why deem we death a foe?

Recoil from weary life's best hour,

And covet longer woe?

The cause is Conscience--Conscience oft

Her tale of guilt renews:

Her voice is terrible though soft,

And dread of death ensues.

Then anxious to be longer spared

Man mourns his fleeting breath:

All evils then seem light, compared

With the approach of death.

'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fear

That prompts the wish to stay:

He has incurr'd a long arrear,

And must despair to pay.

_Pay!_--follow Christ, and all is paid;

is death your peace ensures;

Think on the grave where _he_ was laid,

And calm descend to _yours_.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1793.

De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut conserventur.

CIC. DE LEG.

But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things sacred be

inviolate.

He lives who lives to God alone,

And all are dead beside;

For other source than God is none

Whence life can be supplied

To live to God is to requite

His love as best we may:

To make his precepts our delight,

His promises our stay.

But life, within a narrow ring

Of giddy joys comprised,

Is falsely named, and no such thing,

But rather death disguised.

Can life in them deserve the name,

Who only live to prove

For what poor toys they can disclaim

An endless life above?

Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel;

Much menaced, nothing dread;

Have wounds, which only God can heal,

Yet never ask his aid?

Who deem his house a useless place,

Faith, want of common sense;

And ardour in the Christian race,

A hypocrite's pretence?

Who trample order; and the day

Which God asserts his own

Dishonour with unhallow'd play,

And worship chance alone?

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd

On word and deed, imply

The better part of man unbless'd

With life that cannot die;

Such want it, and that want uncured

Till man resigns his breath,

Speaks him a criminal, assured

Of everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!

Yet so will God repay

Sabbaths profaned without remorse,

And mercy cast away.

ON A GOLDFINCH,

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

Time was when I was free as air,

The thistle's downy seed my fare,

My drink the morning dew;

I perch'd at will on every spray,

My form genteel, my plumage gay,

My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,

And form genteel were all in vain,

And of a transient date;

For, caught and caged, and starved to death,

In dying sighs my little breath

Soon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,

And thanks for this effectual close

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express;

And I, if you had shown me less,

Had been your prisoner still.

THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.

The pine-apples, in triple row,

Were basking hot, and all in blow;

A bee of most discerning taste

Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd,

On eager wing the spoiler came,

And search'd for crannies in the frame,

Urged his attempt on every side,

To every pane his trunk applied;

But still in vain, the frame was tight,

And only pervious to the light:

Thus having wasted half the day,

He trimm'd his flight another way.

Methinks, I said, in thee I find

The sin and madness of mankind.

To joys forbidden man aspires,

Consumes his soul with vain desires;

Folly the spring of his pursuit,

And disappointment all the fruit.

While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,

The nymph between two chariot glasses,

She is the pineapple, and he

The silly unsuccessful bee.

The maid who views with pensive air

The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,

Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,

But sighs at thought of empty pockets;

Like thine, her appetite is keen,

But ah, the cruel glass between!

Our dear delights are often such,

Exposed to view, but not to touch;

The sight our foolish heart inflames,

We long for pine-apples in frames;

With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;

One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;

But they whom truth and wisdom lead

Can gather honey from a weed.

VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks!

Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny

She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou cast

A treasure in her way; for neither meed

Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,

And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,

Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast,

Hopes she from this--presumptuous, though, perhaps

The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might.

Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon,

Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,

Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,

Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah!

Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!)

Conferr'dst thou, goddess! Thou art blind thou say'st:

Enough!--thy blindness shall excuse the deed.

Nor does my muse no benefit exhale

From this thy scant indulgence!--even here

Hints worthy sage philosophy are found;

Illustrious hints, to moralize my song!

This ponderous heel of perforated hide

Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,

Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks)

The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown

Upbore: on this, supported oft, he stretch'd,

With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,

Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time

(What will not cruel time?) on a wry step

Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas!

He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,

Pursue his destined way with symmetry,

And some proportion form'd, now on one side

Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,

Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!

With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on.

Thus fares it oft with other than the feet

Of humble villager--the statesman thus,

Up the steep road where proud ambition leads,

Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds

His prosperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,

While policy prevails, and friends prove true;

But, that support soon failing, by him left

On whom he most depended, basely left,

Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height

Headlong he falls; and through the rest of life

Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

1748.

AN ODE,

ON READING RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.

Say, ye apostate and profane,

Wretches, who blush not to disdain

Allegiance to your God,--

Did e'er your idly wasted love

Of virtue for her sake remove

And lift you from the crowd?

Would you the race of glory run,

Know, the devout, and they alone,

Are equal to the task:

The labours of the illustrious course

Far other than the unaided force

Of human vigour ask.

To arm against reputed ill

The patient heart too brave to feel

The tortures of despair:

Nor safer yet high-crested pride,

When wealth flows in with every tide

To gain admittance there.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword

The oppress'd; unseen and unimplored,

To cheer the face of woe;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right--a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd,

And these alone, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,

O with what matchless speed they leave

The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth

Virtues like these derive their birth?

Derived from Heaven alone,

Full on that favour'd breast they shine,

Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart:--but while the muse

Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,

Her feeble spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong,

The subject for an angel's song,

The hero, and the saint!

1753.

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.

'Tis not that I design to rob

Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,

For thou art born sole heir, and single,

Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;

Not that I mean, while thus I knit

My threadbare sentiments together,

To show my genius or my wit,

When God and you know I have neither;

Or such as might be better shown

By letting poetry alone.

'Tis not with either of these views

That I presumed to address the muse:

But to divert a fierce banditti,

(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty!)

That, with a black, infernal train,

Make cruel inroads in my brain,

And daily threaten to drive thence

My little garrison of sense;

The fierce banditti which I mean

Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen.

Then there's another reason yet,

Which is, that I may fairly quit

The debt, which justly became due

The moment when I heard from you;

And you might grumble, crony mine,

If paid in any other coin;

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows,

(I would say twenty sheets of prose,)

Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much

As one of gold, and yours was such.

Thus, the preliminaries settled,

I fairly find myself pitchkettled,[827]

And cannot see, though few see better,

How I shall hammer out a letter.

First, for a thought--since all agree--

A thought--I have it--let me see--

'Tis gone again--plague on't! I thought

I had it--but I have it not.

Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son,

That useful thing, her needle, gone!

Rake well the cinders--sweep the floor,

And sift the dust behind the door;

While eager Hodge beholds the prize

In old grimalkin's glaring eyes;

And Gammer finds it, on her knees,

In every shining straw she sees.

This simile were apt enough;

But I've another, critic-proof!

The virtuoso thus, at noon,

Broiling beneath a July sun,

The gilded butterfly pursues,

O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews;

And, after many a vain essay,

To captivate the tempting prey,

Gives him at length the lucky pat,

And has him safe beneath his hat:

Then lifts it gently from the ground;

But, ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;

Culprit his liberty regains,

Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains.

The sense was dark; 'twas therefore fit

With simile to illustrate it;

But as too much obscures the sight,

As often as too little light,

We have our similes cut short,

For matters of more grave import.

That Matthew's numbers run with ease,

Each man of common sense agrees!

All men of common sense allow

That Robert's lines are easy too:

Where then the preference shall we place,

Or how do justice in this case?

Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains

Smoothed and refined the meanest strains;

Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rhyme

To escape him at the idlest time;

And thus o'er all a lustre cast,

That, while the language lives shall last.

A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,)

For 'tis my business to reply;

Sure so much labour, so much toil,

Bespeak at least a stubborn soil:

Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,

Who both write well, and write full speed!

Who throw their Helicon about

As freely as a conduit spout!

Friend Robert, thus like _chien savant_

Lets fall a poem _en passant_,

Nor needs his genuine ore refine--

'Tis ready polish'd from the mine.

[827] Pitchkettled, a favourite phrase at the time when this Epistle

was written, expressive of being puzzled, or what in the Spectator's

time would have been called bamboozled.

A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT,

WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779.

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream

There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme;

In subterraneous caves his life he led,

Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread.

When on a day, emerging from the deep,

A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!)

The wages of his weekly toil he bore

To buy a cock--whose blood might win him more;

As if the noblest of the feather'd kind

Were but for battle and for death design'd;

As if the consecrated hours were meant

For sport, to minds on cruelty intent;

It chanced (such chances Providence obey)

He met a fellow labourer on the way,

Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed;

But now the savage temper was reclaim'd,

Persuasion on his lips had taken place;

For all plead well who plead the cause of grace.

His iron heart with scripture he assail'd,

Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd.

His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,

Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew.

He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,

To find a worse than he; but none he found.

He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel.

Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal.

Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies!

He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize.

That holy day was wash'd with many a tear,

Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear.

The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine

Learn'd, by his altered speech, the change divine!

Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day

Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they.

"No," said the penitent, "such words shall share

This breath no more; devoted now to prayer.

O! if Thou seest (thine eye the future sees)

That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these;

Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel,

Ere yet this heart relapses into steel;

Now take me to that heaven I once defied,

Thy presence, thy embrace!"--He spoke, and died!

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.

That ocean you have late survey'd,

Those rocks I too have seen;

But I, afflicted and dismay'd,

You, tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controlling steep

Saw stretch'd before your view,

With conscious joy, the threatening deep,

No longer such to you.

To me the waves, that ceaseless broke

Upon the dangerous coast,

Hoarsely and ominously spoke

Of all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have past,

And found the peaceful shore;

I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last,

Come home to port no more.

Oct. 1780.

LOVE ABUSED.

What is there in the vale of life

Half so delightful as a wife,

When friendship, love, and peace combine

To stamp the marriage-bond divine?

The stream of pure and genuine love

Derives its current from above;

And earth a second Eden shows,

Where'er the healing water flows:

But ah, if from the dykes and drains

Of sensual nature's feverish veins,

Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,

Impregnated with ooze and mud,

Descending fast on every side,

Once mingles with the sacred tide,

Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!

The banks that wore a smiling green,

With rank defilement overspread,

Bewail their flowery beauties dead.

The stream polluted, dark, and dull,

Diffused into a Stygian pool,

Through life's last melancholy years

Is fed with overflowing tears:

Complaints supply the zephyr's part,

And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN.

DEAR ANNA--between friend and friend

Prose answers every common end;

Serves, in a plain and homely way,

To express the occurrence of the day;

Our health, the weather, and the news;

What walks we take, what books we choose;

And all the floating thoughts we find

Upon the surface of the mind.

But when a poet takes the pen,

Far more alive than other men,

He feels a gentle tingling come

Down to his finger and his thumb,

Derived from nature's noblest part,

The centre of a glowing heart:

And this is what the world, who knows

No flights above the pitch of prose,

His more sublime vagaries slighting,

Denominates an itch for writing.

No wonder I, who scribble rhyme

To catch the triflers of the time,

And tell them truths divine and clear,

Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear;

Who labour hard to allure and draw

The loiterers I never saw,

Should feel that itching and that tingling,

With all my purpose intermingling,

To your intrinsic merit true,

When call'd to address myself to you.

Mysterious are His ways whose power

Brings forth that unexpected hour,

When minds, that never met before,

Shall meet, unite, and part no more:

It is the allotment of the skies,

The hand of the Supremely Wise,

That guides and governs our affections,

And plans and orders our connexions:

Directs us in our distant road,

And marks the bounds of our abode.

Thus we were settled when you found us,

Peasants and children all around us,

Not dreaming of so dear a friend,

Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.[828]

Thus Martha, e'en against her will,

Perch'd on the top of yonder hill;

And you, though you must needs prefer

The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,[829]

Are come from distant Loire, to choose

A cottage on the banks of Ouse.

This page of Providence quite new,

And now just opening to our view,

Employs our present thoughts and pains

To guess and spell what it contains:

But day by day, and year by year,

Will make the dark enigma clear;

And furnish us, perhaps, at last,

Like other scenes already past,

With proof, that we, and our affairs,

Are part of a Jehovah's cares;

For God unfolds by slow degrees

The purport of his deep decrees;

Sheds every hour a clearer light

In aid of our defective sight;

And spreads, at length, before the soul,

A beautiful and perfect whole,

Which busy man's inventive brain

Toils to anticipate in vain.

Say, Anna, had you never known

The beauties of a rose full blown,

Could you, though luminous your eye,

By looking on the bud descry,

Or guess with a prophetic power,

The future splendour of the flower?

Just so the Omnipotent, who turns

The system of a world's concerns,

From mere minutiæ can educe

Events of most important use;

And bid a dawning sky display

The blaze of a meridian day.

The works of man tend, one and all,

As needs they must, from great to small;

And vanity absorbs at length

The monuments of human strength.

But who can tell how vast the plan

Which this day's incident began?

Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion

For our dim-sighted observation;

It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird

That cleaves the yielding air unheard,

And yet may prove, when understood,

A harbinger of endless good.

Not that I deem, or mean to call

Friendship a blessing cheap or small:

But merely to remark, that ours,

Like some of nature's sweetest flowers,

Rose from a seed of tiny size

That seem'd to promise no such prize;

A transient visit intervening,

And made almost without a meaning,

(Hardly the effect of inclination,

Much less of pleasing expectation,)

Produced a friendship, then begun,

That has cemented us in one;

And placed it in our power to prove,

By long fidelity and love,

That Solomon has wisely spoken;

"A threefold cord is not soon broken."

Dec. 1781.

[828] An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of

Cowper, which faced the market-place.

[829] Lady Austen's residence in France.

THE COLUBRIAD.

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast

Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast.

I, passing swift and inattentive by,

At the three kittens cast a careless eye;

Not much concern'd to know what they did there;

Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.

But presently a loud and furious hiss

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"

When lo! upon the threshold met my view

With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,

A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue.

Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,

Darting it full against a kitten's nose;

Who, having never seen, in field or house,

The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;

Only projecting, with attention due,

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?"

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,

But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:

With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot,

To find the viper, but I found him not.

And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,

Found only that he was not be found.

But still the kittens, sitting as before,

Sat watching close the bottom of the door.

"I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill

Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill;

And if I make despatch, and follow hard,

No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:"

For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,

'Twas in the garden that I found him first.

E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat,

His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;

As curious as the kittens erst had been

To learn what this phenomenon might mean.

Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,

And fearing every moment he would bite,

And rob our household of our only cat

That was of age to combat with a rat;

With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door,

And taught him NEVER TO COME THERE NO MORE.

1782.

SONG. ON PEACE.

Written in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen, who

gave the sentiment.

AIR--"_My fond Shepherds of late._"

No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue;

O happiness! not to be found,

Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,

In the regions of pleasure and taste;

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,

But have proved thee a vision at last.

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires;

'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope,

And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind

That seeks it in meekness and love;

But rapture and bliss are confined

To the glorified spirits above.

SONG.

Also written at the request of Lady Austen.

AIR--"_The Lass of Pattie's Mill._"

When all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile!

Delights that never cease

The livelong day beguile.

From morn to dewy eve

With open hand she showers

Fresh blessings, to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives Nature power to please;

The mind that feels no smart

Enlivens all it sees;

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye

As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd

In Nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd,

Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best;

It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

VERSES SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL POEM ENTITLED "VALEDICTION."

Oh Friendship! cordial of the human breast!

So little felt, so fervently profess'd!

Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years;

The promise of delicious fruit appears:

We hug the hopes of constancy and truth,

Such is the folly of our dreaming youth;

But soon, alas! detect the rash mistake

That sanguine inexperience loves to make;

And view with tears the expected harvest lost,

Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost.

Whoever undertakes a friend's great part

Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart,

Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove

A thousand ways the force of genuine love.

He may be call'd to give up health and gain,

To exchange content for trouble, ease for pain,

To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan,

And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own.

The heart of man, for such a task too frail,

When most relied on is most sure to fail;

And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe,

Starts from its office like a broken bow.

Votaries of business and of pleasure prove

Faithless alike in friendship and in love.

Retired from all the circles of the gay,

And all the crowds that bustle life away,

To scenes where competition, envy, strife,

Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life,

Let me, the charge of some good angel, find

One who has known, and has escaped mankind;

Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away

The manners, not the morals, of the day:

With him, perhaps with her (for men have known

No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,)

Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot,

All former friends forgiven and forgot,

Down to the close of life's fast fading scene,

Union of hearts without a flaw between.

'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise,

If God give health, that sunshine of our days!

And if he add, a blessing shared by few,

Content of heart, more praises still are due--

But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd

Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest;

And giving one, whose heart is in the skies,

Born from above and made divinely wise,

He gives, what bankrupt nature never can,

Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man,

Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew,

A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true.

Nov. 1783.

EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.

Here Johnson lies--a sage by all allow'd,

Whom to have bred may well make England proud,

Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,

The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;

Whose verse may claim--grave, masculine, and strong--

Superior praise to the mere poet's song;

Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd,

And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.

O man, immortal by a double prize,

By fame on earth--by glory in the skies!

Jan. 1785.

TO MISS C----, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

How many between east and west

Disgrace their parent earth,

Whose deeds constrain us to detest

The day that gave them birth!

Not so when Stella's natal morn

Revolving months restore,

We can rejoice that she was born,

And wish her born once more!

1786.

GRATITUDE.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH.

This cap, that so stately appears,

With ribbon-bound tassel on high,

Which seems by the crest that it rears

Ambitious of brushing the sky:

This cap to my cousin I owe,

She gave it, and gave me beside,

Wreath'd into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied.

This wheel-footed studying chair,

Contrived both for toil and repose,

Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,

In which I both scribble and dose,

Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,

And rival in lustre of that

In which, or astronomy lies,

Fair Cassiopeia sat:

These carpets so soft to the foot,

Caledonia's traffic and pride!

Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot,

Escaped from a cross-country ride!

This table, and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust,

At which I oft shave cheek and chin

And periwig nicely adjust:

This moveable structure of shelves,

For its beauty admired and its use,

And charged with octavos and twelves,

The gayest I had to produce;

Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,

My poems enchanted I view,

And hope in due time, to behold

My Iliad and Odyssey too:

This china, that decks the alcove,

Which here people call a buffet,

But what the gods call it above

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet:

These curtains that keep the room warm

Or cool, as the season demands,

Those stoves that for pattern and form

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands:

All these are not half that I owe

To one, from our earliest youth,

To me ever ready to show

Benignity, friendship, and truth;

For Time, the destroyer declared

And foe of our perishing kind,

If even her face he has spared,

Much less could he alter her mind.

Thus compass'd about with the goods

And chattels of leisure and ease,

I indulge my poetical moods

In many such fancies as these;

And fancies I fear they will seem--

Poets' goods are not often so fine;

The poets will swear that I dream

When I sing of the splendour of mine.

1786.

LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ.

IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON.

Farewell! endued with all that could engage

All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age!

In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd

Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!)

Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd;

Through every period of this changeful state

Unchanged thyself--wise, good, affectionate!

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem

O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme,

Although thy worth be more than half supprest,

Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

June, 1788.

ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON.

THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH, 1789.

When, long sequester'd from his throne,

George took his seat again,

By right of worth, not blood alone,

Entitled here to reign,

Then loyalty, with all his lamps

New trimm'd, a gallant show!

Chasing the darkness and the damps,

Set London in a glow.

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares

Which form'd the chief display,

These most resembling cluster'd stars,

Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,

And rockets flew, self-driven,

To hang their momentary fires

Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,

The ocean serves, on high

Up-spouted by a whale in air,

To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world

In one procession join'd,

And all the banners been unfurl'd

That heralds e'er design'd,

For no such sight had England's queen

Forsaken her retreat,

Where George, recover'd, made a scene

Sweet always, doubly sweet.

Yet glad she came that night to prove,

A witness undescried,

How much the object of her love

Was loved by all beside.

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er

In aid of her design--

Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before

To veil a deed of thine!

On borrow'd wheels away she flies,

Resolved to be unknown,

And gratify no curious eyes

That night except her own.

Arrived, a night like noon she sees,

And hears the million hum;

As all by instinct, like the bees,

Had known their sovereign come.

Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd

On many a splendid wall,

Emblems of health and heavenly aid,

And George the theme of all.

Unlike the enigmatic line,

So difficult to spell,

Which shook Belshazzar at his wine

The night his city fell.

Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,

But with a joyful tear,

None else, except in prayer for him,

George ever drew from her.

It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feign'd,

And seem'd by some magician's art

Created and sustain'd.

But other magic there, she knew,

Had been exerted none,

To raise such wonders in her view,

Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd,

And, through the cumbrous throng,

Not else unworthy to be fear'd,

Convey'd her calm along.

So, ancient poets say, serene

The sea-maid rides the waves,

And fearless of the billowy scene

Her peaceful bosom laves.

With more than astronomic eyes

She view'd the sparkling show;

One Georgian star adorns the skies,

She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice,

Heaven grant us no such future sight,

Such previous woe the price!

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.[830]

[830] Written on reading the following in the obituary of

the Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789.--"At Tottenham,

John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and in the

splendour of his carriages and horses rivalled by few country

gentlemen. His table was that of hospitality, where, it may be

said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his

foibles he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr.

A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and had a favourite cock,

upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he

laid upon this cock he lost; which so enraged him, that he had

the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire.

The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that

some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which

so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a poker, and with the most

furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who

interposed; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations,

he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the

circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of

humanity."