VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON (part 1 of 2)

VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON (part 1 of 2)

THE ARGUMENT.

Bells at a distance--Their effect--A fine noon in winter--A sheltered walk--Meditation better than books--Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is--The transformation that spring effects in a shrubbery described--A mistake concerning the course of nature corrected--God maintains it by an unremitted act--The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved--Animals happy, a delightful sight--Origin of cruelty to animals--That it is a great crime proved from scripture--That proof illustrated by a tale--A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of them--Their good and useful properties insisted on--Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals--Instances of man's extravagant praise of man--The groans of the creation shall have an end--A view taken of the restoration of all things--An invocation and an invitation of Him who shall bring it to pass--The retired man vindicated from the charge of uselessness--Conclusion.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds; And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave: Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs, And with it all its pleasures and its pains. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, That in a few short moments I retrace (As in a map the voyager his course) The windings of my way through many years. Short as in retrospect the journey seems, It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. Yet, feeling present evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, How readily we wish time spent revoked, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) We miss'd that happiness we might have found! Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, A father, whose authority, in show When most severe, and mustering all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love: Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, And utter now and then an awful voice, But had a blessing in its darkest frown, Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured By every gilded folly, we renounced His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent That converse, which we now in vain regret, How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire! a mother too, That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed The playful humour; he could now endure (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) And feel a parent's presence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth Till time has stolen away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. The night was winter in his roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; And through the trees I view the embattled tower Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And Learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smooth'd, and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinth and wilds Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought, And swallowing therefore without pause or choice The total grist unsifted, husks and all. But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, Not shy, as in the world, and to be won By slow solicitation, seize at once The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. What prodigies can power divine perform More grand than it produces year by year, And all in sight of inattentive man? Familiar with the effect, we slight the cause, And, in the constancy of nature's course, The regular return of genial months, And renovation of a faded world, See nought to wonder at. Should God again, As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race Of the undeviating and punctual sun, How would the world admire! but speaks it less An agency divine, to make him know His moment when to sink and when to rise, Age after age, than to arrest his course? All we behold is miracle; but, seen So duly, all is miracle in vain. Where now the vital energy that moved, While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph Through the imperceptible meandering veins Of leaf and flower? It sleeps; and the icy touch Of unprolific winter has impress'd A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, Barren as lances, among which the wind Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, Shall put their graceful foliage on again, And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread, Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. Then each, in its peculiar honours clad, Shall publish, even to the distant eye, Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich In streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure; The scentless and the scented rose; this red, And of an humbler growth, the other[816] tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf That the wind severs from the broken wave; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if, Studious of ornament, yet unresolved Which hue she most approved, she chose them all: Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late; Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset With blushing wreaths, investing every spray; Althæa with the purple eye; the broom, Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd, Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars.-- These have been, and these shall be in their day; And all this uniform, uncolour'd scene Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, And flush into variety again. From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes The grand transition, that there lives and works A soul in all things, and that soul is God. The beauties of the wilderness are his, That make so gay the solitary place, Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, That cultivation glories in, are his. He sets the bright procession on its way, And marshals all the order of the year; He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass, And blunts his pointed fury; in its case, Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, Uninjured, with inimitable art; And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, Designs the blooming wonders of the next. Some say that, in the origin of things, When all creation started into birth, The infant elements received a law, From which they swerve not since; that under force Of that controlling ordinance they move, And need not his immediate hand, who first Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God The incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare The great Artificer of all that moves The stress of a continual act, the pain Of unremitted vigilance and care, As too laborious and severe a task. So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, To span omnipotence, and measure might, That knows no measure, by the scanty rule And standard of his own, that is to-day, And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. But how should matter occupy a charge, Dull as it is, and satisfy a law So vast in its demands, unless impell'd To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, And under pressure of some conscious cause? The Lord of all, himself through all diffused, Sustains and is the life of all that lives. Nature is but a name for an effect, Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, By which the mighty process is maintain'd, Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight Slow circling ages are as transient days; Whose work is without labour; whose designs No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts; And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, With self-taught rites, and under various names, Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earth With tutelary goddesses and gods That were not; and commending as they would To each some province, garden, field, or grove. But all are under one. One spirit, His Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, Rules universal nature. Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, Or what he views of beautiful or grand In nature, from the broad majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God. His presence, who made all so fair, perceived Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. Though winter had been none, had man been true, And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake, Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, So soon succeeding such an angry night, And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned To contemplation, and within his reach A scene so friendly to his favourite task, Would waste attention at the chequer'd board, His host of wooden warriors to and fro Marching and countermarching, with an eye As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridged And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand Trembling, as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin? Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, Who pant with application misapplied To trivial joys, and pushing ivory balls, Across a velvet level, feel a joy Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds Its destined goal of difficult access. Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon To miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shop Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks The polish'd counter, and approving none, Or promising with smiles to call again. Nor him who, by his vanity seduced, And soothed into a dream that he discerns The difference of a Guido from a daub, Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there As duly as the Langford of the show, With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease: Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls, He notes it in his book, then raps his box, Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate That he has let it pass--but never bids. Here unmolested, through whatever sign The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. E'en in the spring and playtime of the year, That calls the unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarm'd Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, That age or injury has hollow'd deep, Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, He has outslept the winter, ventures forth To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play: He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud, With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce. The heart is hard in nature, and unfit For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life, Nor feels their happiness augment his own. The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet, That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels, Starts to the voluntary race again; The very kine that gambol at high noon, The total herd receiving first from one That leads the dance a summons to be gay, Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent To give such act and utterance as they may To ecstacy too big to be suppress'd-- These, and a thousand images of bliss, With which kind Nature graces every scene, Where cruel man defeats not her design, Impart to the benevolent, who wish All that are capable of pleasure pleased, A far superior happiness to theirs, The comfort of a reasonable joy. Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave, When he was crown'd as never king was since. God set the diadem upon his head, And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd, All happy, and all perfect in their kind, The creatures, summon'd from their various haunts To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. Vast was his empire, absolute his power, Or bounded only by a law, whose force 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel And own, the law of universal love. He ruled with meekness, they obey'd with joy; No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart, And no distrust of his intent in theirs. So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, Where kindness on his part, who ruled the whole, Begat a tranquil confidence in all, And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. But sin marr'd all; and the revolt of man, That source of evils not exhausted yet, Was punish'd with revolt of his from him. Garden of God, how terrible the change Thy groves and lawns then witness'd! Every heart, Each animal, of every name, conceived A jealousy and an instinctive fear, And, conscious of some danger, either fled Precipitate the loathed abode of man, Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort, As taught him too to tremble in his turn. Thus harmony and family accord Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd To such gigantic and enormous growth, Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. Hence date the persecution and the pain That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, Or his base gluttony, are causes good And just in his account, why bird and beast Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed With blood of their inhabitants impaled. Earth groans beneath the burden of a war Waged with defenceless innocence, while he, Not satisfied to prey on all around, Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs Needless, and first torments ere he devours. Now happiest they that occupy the scenes The most remote from his abhorr'd resort, Whom once, as delegate of God on earth, They fear'd, and as his perfect image loved. The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves, Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains, Unvisited by man. There they are free, And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd; Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude Within the confines of their wild domain: The lion tells him--I am monarch here! And, if he spare him, spares him on the terms Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn To rend a victim trembling at his foot. In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, Or by necessity constrain'd, they live Dependent upon man; those in his fields, These at his crib, and some beneath his roof; They prove too often at how dear a rate He sells protection. Witness at his foot The spaniel dying for some venial fault, Under dissection of the knotted scourge; Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells Driven to the slaughter, goaded, as he runs, To madness; while the savage at his heels Laughs at the frantic sufferer's fury, spent Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. He too is witness, noblest of the train That wait on man, the flight-performing horse: With unsuspecting readiness he takes His murderer on his back, and, push'd all day, With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life, To the far distant goal, arrives and dies. So little mercy shows who needs so much! Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None. He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts (As if barbarity were high desert) The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praise Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose The honours of his matchless horse his own. But many a crime deem'd innocent on earth Is register'd in heaven; and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, But God will never. When he charged the Jew To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise; And when the bush-exploring boy that seized The young, to let the parent bird go free; Proved he not plainly that his meaner works Are yet his care, and have an interest all, All, in the universal Father's love? On Noah, and in him on all mankind, The charter was conferr'd, by which we hold The flesh of animals in fee, and claim O'er all we feed on power of life and death. But read the instrument, and mark it well: The oppression of a tyrannous control Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute! The Governor of all, himself to all So bountiful, in whose attentive ear The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed, Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smite The injurious trampler upon Nature's law, That claims forbearance even for a brute. He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart; And, prophet as he was, he might not strike The blameless animal, without rebuke, On which he rode. Her opportune offence Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died. He sees that human equity is slack To interfere, though in so just a cause; And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb And helpless victims with a sense so keen Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, And such sagacity to take revenge, That oft the beast has seem'd to judge the man. An ancient, not a legendary tale, By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, (If such who plead for Providence may seem In modern eyes,) shall make the doctrine clear. Where England, stretch'd towards the setting sun, Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. He journey'd; and his chance was as he went To join a traveller, of far different note, Evander, famed for piety, for years Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. Fame had not left the venerable man A stranger to the manners of the youth, Whose face too was familiar to his view. Their way was on the margin of the land, O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. The charity that warm'd his heart was moved At sight of the man monster. With a smile Gentle, and affable, and full of grace, As fearful of offending whom he wish'd Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. "And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man Exclaimed, "that me the lullabies of age, And fantasies of dotards such as thou, Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave Need no such aids as superstition lends, To steel their hearts against the dread of death." He spoke, and to the precipice at hand Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave. But though the felon on his back could dare The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round, Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, Baffled his rider, saved against his will. The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd By medicine well applied, but without grace The heart's insanity admits no cure. Enraged the more by what might have reform'd His horrible intent, again he sought Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood. But still in vain. The Providence, that meant A longer date to the far nobler beast, Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere Incurable obduracy evinced, His rage grew cool; and pleased perhaps to have earn'd So cheaply the renown of that attempt, With looks of some complacence he resumed His road, deriding much the blank amaze Of good Evander, still where he was left Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread. So on they fared. Discourse on other themes Ensuing seem'd to obliterate the past; And tamer far for so much fury shown, (As is the course of rash and fiery men,) The rude companion smiled, as if transform'd. But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. The impious challenger of power divine Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath, Is never with impunity defied. His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd, Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood. At once the shock unseated him: he flew Sheer o'er the craggy barrier; and, immersed Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, The death he had deserved, and died alone. So God wrought double justice; made the fool The victim of his own tremendous choice, And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path: But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathesome to the sight, And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, The chamber, or refectory, may die: A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field: There they are privileged; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. The sum is this. If man's convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all--the meanest things that are, As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring-time of our years Is soon dishonour'd and defiled in most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. Mercy to him that shows it is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man; And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more By our capacity of grace divine, From creatures that exist but for our sake, Which, having served us, perish, we are held Accountable; and God, some future day, Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust. Superior as we are, they yet depend Not more on human help than we on theirs. Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given In aid of our defects. In some are found Such teachable and apprehensive parts, That man's attainments in his own concerns, Match'd with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, Are ofttimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind. Some show that nice sagacity of smell, And read with such discernment, in the port And figure of the man, his secret aim, That ofttimes we owe our safety to a skill We could not teach, and must despair to learn. But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop To quadruped instructors, many a good And useful quality, and virtue too, Rarely exemplified among ourselves-- Attachment never to be wean'd or changed By any change of fortune; proof alike Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat Can move or warp; and gratitude for small And trivial favours, lasting as the life And glistening even in the dying eye. Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit Patiently present at a sacred song, Commemoration-mad; content to hear (O wonderful effect of music's power!) Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake. But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve-- (For was it less, what heathen would have dared To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath, And hang it up in honour of a man?) Much less might serve, when all that we design Is but to gratify an itching ear, And give the day to a musician's praise. Remember Handel? Who, that was not born Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, Or can, the more than Homer of his age? Yes--we remember him; and while we praise A talent so divine, remember too That His most holy book, from whom it came, Was never meant, was never used before, To buckram out the memory of a man. But hush!--the muse perhaps is too severe; And, with a gravity beyond the size And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed Less impious than absurd, and owing more To want of judgment than to wrong design. So in the chapel of old Ely House, When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third, Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, Sung to the praise and glory of King George! --Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next, When time hath somewhat mellow'd it, and made The idol of our worship while he lived The god of our idolatry once more, Shall have its altar; and the world shall go In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. The theatre, too small, shall suffocate Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return Ungratified: for there some noble lord Shall stuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch, Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare, To show the world how Garrick did not act-- For Garrick was a worshipper himself; He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites And solemn ceremonial of the day, And call'd the world to worship on the banks Of Avon, famed in song. Ah, pleasant proof That piety has still in human hearts Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths; The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance; The mulberry-tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs; And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree Supplied such relics as devotion holds Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. So 'twas a hallow'd time: decorum reign'd, And mirth without offence. No few return'd, Doubtless much edified, and all refresh'd. --Man praises man. The rabble, all alive, From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day, A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes. Some shout him, and some hang upon his car, To gaze in his eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy; While others, not so satisfied, unhorse The gilded equipage, and turning loose His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he saved the state? No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out every crevice of the head That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near And his own cattle must suffice him soon. Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, And dedicate a tribute, in its use And just direction sacred, to a thing Doom'd to the dust, or lodged already there. Encomium in old time was poet's work; But poets, having lavishly long since Exhausted all materials of the art, The task now falls into the public hand; And I, contented with an humble theme, Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds Among her lovely works with a secure And unambitious course, reflecting clear, If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. And I am recompensed, and deem the toils Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine May stand between an animal and woe, And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. The groans of Nature in this nether world, Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes. Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh Fulfill'd their tardy and disastrous course Over a sinful world; and what remains Of this tempestuous state of human things Is merely as the working of a sea Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest: For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds The dust that waits upon his sultry march, When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot, Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend Propitious in his chariot paved with love; And what his storms have blasted and defaced For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch: Nor can the wonders it records be sung To meaner music, and not suffer loss. But when a poet, or when one like me, Happy to rove among poetic flowers, Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, Such is the impulse and the spur he feels, To give it praise proportion'd to its worth, That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a task more arduous still. O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplish'd bliss! which who can see, Though but in distant prospect, and not feel His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy? Rivers of gladness water all the earth, And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean, Or fertile only in its own disgrace, Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd. The various seasons woven into one, And that one season an eternal spring, The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, For there is none to covet, all are full. The lion, and the libbard, and the bear Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon Together, or all gambol in the shade Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. Antipathies are none. No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees, And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, To stroke his azure neck, or to receive The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. All creatures worship man, and all mankind One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; That creeping pestilence is driven away; The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart No passion touches a discordant string, But all is harmony and love. Disease Is not: the pure and uncontaminate blood Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. One song employs all nations; and all cry, "Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy; Till, nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise fill'd; See Salem built, the labour of a God; Bright as a sun, the sacred city shines; All kingdoms and all princes of the earth Flock to that light; the glory of all lands Flows into her; unbounded is her joy, And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;[817] The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls, And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there Kneels with the native of the farthest west; And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand, And worships. Her report has travell'd forth Into all lands. From every clime they come To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, O Sion! an assembly such as earth Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once Perfect, and all must be at length restored. So God has greatly purposed; who would else In his dishonour'd works himself endure Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress. Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world, Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) A world that does not dread and hate his law And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair The creature is that God pronounces good, How pleasant in itself what pleases him. Here every drop of honey hides a sting; Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers; And e'en the joy that haply some poor heart Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint From touch of human lips, at best impure. O for a world in principle as chaste As this is gross and selfish! over which Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, That govern all things here, shouldering aside The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her To seek a refuge from the tongue of Strife In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men: Where Violence shall never lift the sword, Nor Cunning justify the proud man's wrong, Leaving the poor no remedy but tears: Where he, that fills an office, shall esteem The occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite: where Law shall speak Seldom, and never but as Wisdom prompts And Equity; not jealous more to guard A worthless form, than to decide aright:-- Where Fashion shall not sanctify abuse, Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace) With lean performance ape the work of Love! Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine By ancient covenant, ere Nature's birth; And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, And overpaid its value with thy blood. Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Thy title is engraven with a pen Dipp'd in the fountain of eternal love. Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see The dawn of thy last advent, long desired, Would creep into the bowels of the hills, And flee for safety to the falling rocks. The very spirit of the world is tired Of its own taunting question, ask'd so long, "Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?" The infidel has shot his bolts away, Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd, And aims them at the shield of Truth again. The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, That hides divinity from mortal eyes; And all the mysteries to faith proposed, Insulted and traduced, are cast aside, As useless, to the moles and to the bats. They now are deem'd the faithful, and are praised; Who, constant only in rejecting thee, Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, And quit their office for their error's sake. Blind, and in love with darkness! yet e'en these Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man! So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare The world takes little thought. Who will may preach, And what they will. All pastors are alike To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none. Two gods divide them all--Pleasure and Gain: For these they live, they sacrifice to these, And in their service wage perpetual war With Conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth To prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce, High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down The features of the last degenerate times, Exhibit every lineament of these. Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest, Due to thy last and most effectual work, Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world! He is the happy man whose life e'en now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; And, occupied as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss, Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer--None. His warfare is within. There unfatigued His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never-withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at even-tide, And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an encumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rendering none. His sphere, though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe; Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise; But he may boast, what few that win it can, That, if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite Refinement offers him in vain Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and, for decorum sake, Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceived; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice, Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd, Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowers Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away! and so, at last, My share of duties decently fulfill'd, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me then that once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light task; but soon, to please her more, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and roved for fruit; Roved far, and gather'd much: some harsh, 'tis true, Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth; Insipid else, and sure to be despised. But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek. In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If he regard not, though divine the theme. 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation--prosper even mine.

[816] The Guelder Rose.

[817] Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to, may be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large.

AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

Dear Joseph--five-and-twenty years ago-- Alas, how time escapes!--'tis even so-- With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, And always friendly, we were wont to cheat A tedious hour--and now we never meet! As some grave gentleman in Terence says, ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days,) Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-- Strange fluctuation of all human things! True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, But distance only cannot change the heart: And, were I call'd to prove the assertion true, One proof should serve--a reference to you. Whence comes it then, that, in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, We find the friends we fancied we had won, Though numerous once, reduced to few or none? Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? No; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overawed Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. Go, fellow!--whither?--turning short about-- Nay--stay at home--you're always going out. 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end.-- For what?--An please you, sir, to see a friend.-- A friend! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start-- Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. And fetch my cloak; for though the night be raw, I'll see him too--the first I ever saw. I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose. Perhaps, his confidence just then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. But not to moralize too much, and strain To prove an evil of which all complain; (I hate long arguments verbosely spun;) One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. Once on a time an emperor, a wise man, No matter where, in China or Japan, Decreed that whosoever should offend Against the well-known duties of a friend, Convicted once, should ever after wear But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. The punishment importing this, no doubt, That all was naught within, and all found out. Oh, happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law like that which I relate Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.

TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS.

Κεφαλαιον δη παιδειας ορθη τροφη.--PLATO,

Αρχη κολιτειας απασης τροφα.--DIOG. LAERT.

To the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in Essex, the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, recommending private tuition in preference to an education at school, is inscribed, by his affectionate friend,

WILLIAM COWPER.

Olney, Nov. 6, 1784.

It is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, That man, the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, the associate of a mind Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of Almighty skill, Framed for the service of a freeborn will, Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own. For her the memory fills her ample page With truths pour'd down from every distant age; For her amasses an unbounded store, The wisdom of great nations, now no more; Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil; When copiously supplied, then most enlarged; Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged. For her the Fancy, roving unconfined, The present muse of every pensive mind, Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. At her command winds rise and waters roar, Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies, Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife That Grace and Nature have to wage through life, Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her power on every shore he laves? Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.-- 'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced, Had not its Author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws Finds in a sober moment time to pause, To press the important question on his heart, "Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?" If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, The next mere dust and ashes in the grave; Endued with reason only to descry His crimes and follies with an aching eye; With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, The force he spends against their fury vain; And if, soon after having burnt, by turns, With every lust with which frail Nature burns, His being end where death dissolves the bond, The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond; Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philosophic pains; But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life away Down to the sunset of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that heaven required of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could reverence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame. But reason heard, and nature well perused, At once the dreaming mind is disabused. If all we find possessing earth, sea, air, Reflect His attributes who placed them there, Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind, 'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to invest With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, Received his nobler nature, and was made Fit for the power in which he stands arrayed; That first, or last, hereafter, if not here, He too might make his author's wisdom clear, Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, Suffer his justice in a world to come. This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied To prove a consequence by none denied, That we are bound to cast the minds of youth Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, That taught of God they may indeed be wise, Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies. In early days the conscience has in most A quickness, which in later life is lost: Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, Or guilty soon relenting into tears. Too careless often, as our years proceed, What friends we sort with, or what books we read, Our parents yet exert a prudent care To feed our infant minds with proper fare; And wisely store the nursery by degrees With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease. Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, A book (to please us at a tender age 'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page) Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach, Which children use, and parsons--when they preach. Lisping our syllables, we scramble next Through moral narrative, or sacred text; And learn with wonder how this world began, Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man: Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain, The wisest heads might agitate in vain. Oh thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober grey, Revere the man whose PILGRIM marks the road, And guides the PROGRESS of the soul to God. 'Twere well with most, if books that could engage Their childhood pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, And not with curses on his heart, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. The stamp of artless piety impress'd By kind tuition on his yielding breast, The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw, Regards with scorn, though once received with awe; And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. Touch but his nature in its ailing part, Assert the native evil of his heart, His pride resents the charge, although the proof[818] Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough: Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, The young apostate sickens at the view, And hates it with the malice of a Jew. How weak the barrier of mere nature proves, Opposed against the pleasures nature loves! While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone, She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. Try now the merits of this blest exchange Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. Time was, he closed as he began the day, With decent duty, not ashamed to pray; The practice was a bond upon his heart, A pledge he gave for a consistent part; Nor could he dare presumptuously displease A power confess'd so lately on his knees. But now farewell all legendary tales, The shadows fly, philosophy prevails; Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves; Religion makes the free by nature slaves. Priests have invented, and the world admired What knavish priests promulgate as inspired; Till Reason, now no longer overawed, Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraud; And, common sense diffusing real day, The meteor of the Gospel dies away. Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth Learn from expert inquirers after truth; Whose only care, might truth presume to speak, Is not to find what they profess to seek. And thus, well tutor'd only while we share A mother's lectures and a nurse's care; And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,[819] But sound religion sparingly enough; Our early notices of truth disgraced, Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced. Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once; That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste For loose expense and fashionable waste Should prove your ruin, and his own at last; Train him in public with a mob of boys, Childish in mischief only and in noise, Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten In infidelity and lewdness men. There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold; That pedantry is all that schools impart, But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays, Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise, His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove, And some street-pacing harlot his first love. Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong, Detain their adolescent charge too long; The management of tiros of eighteen Is difficult, their punishment obscene. The stout tall captain, whose superior size The minor heroes view with envious eyes, Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit, With them is courage; his effrontery wit. His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets, His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes, Transport them, and are made their favourite themes. In little bosoms such achievements strike A kindred spark: they burn to do the like. Thus, half accomplish'd ere he yet begin To show the peeping down upon his chin; And, as maturity of years comes on, Made just the adept that you design'd your son; To ensure the perseverance of his course, And give your monstrous project all its force, Send him to college. If he there be tamed, Or in one article of vice reclaim'd, Where no regard of ordinances is shown Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. Some sneaking virtue, lurks in him, no doubt, Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking bout, Nor gambling practices can find it out. Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you: Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. The slaves of custom and establish'd mode, With packhorse constancy we keep the road, Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells. To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think: And such an age as ours balks no expense, Except of caution and of common sense; Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain, Would turn our steps into a wiser train. I blame not those who, with what care they can, O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan; Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare Promise a work of which they must despair. Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, A ubiquarian presence and control, Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd, Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd? Yes--ye are conscious; and on all the shelves Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. Or if, by nature sober, ye had then, Boys as ye were, the gravity of men, Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, And evils not to be endured endure, Lest power exerted, but without success, Should make the little ye retain still less. Ye once were justly famed for bringing forth Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth; And in the firmament of fame still shines A glory, bright as that of all the signs, Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines. Peace to them all! those brilliant times are fled, And no such lights are kindling in their stead. Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays As set the midnight riot in a blaze; And seem, if judged by their expressive looks, Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. Say, muse, (for education made the song, No muse can hesitate, or linger long,) What causes move us, knowing, as we must, That these ménageries all fail their trust, To send our sons to scout and scamper there, While colts and puppies cost us so much care? Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. Hark! how the sire of chits, whose future share Of classic food begins to be his care, With his own likeness placed on either knee, Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee; And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks, That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; Then turning, he regales his listening wife With all the adventures of his early life; His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays; What shifts he used, detected in a scrape, How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape; What sums he lost at play, and how he sold Watch, seals, and all--till all his pranks are told. Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,) He gives the local bias all its sway; Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play, And destines their bright genius to be shown Just in the scene where he display'd his own. The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught To be as bold and forward as he ought; The rude will scuffle through with ease enough, Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, The event is sure; expect it, and rejoice! Soon see your wish fulfill'd in either child, The pert made perter, and the tame made wild. The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth, Are best disposed of where with most success They may acquire that confident address, Those habits of profuse and lewd expense, That scorn of all delights but those of sense, Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn, With so much reason, all expect from them. But families of less illustrious fame, Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, Whose heirs, their honours none, their income small, Must shine by true desert, or not at all, What dream they of, that, with so little care They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure, there? They dream of little Charles or William graced With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist; They see the attentive crowds his talents draw, They hear him speak--the oracle of law. The father, who designs his babe a priest, Dreams him episcopally such at least; And, while the playful jockey scours the room Briskly, astride upon the parlour broom, In fancy sees him more superbly ride In coach with purple lined, and mitres on its side. Events improbable and strange as these, Which only a parental eye foresees, A public school shall bring to pass with ease. But how? resides such virtue in that air, As must create an appetite for prayer? And will it breathe into him all the zeal That candidates for such a prize should feel, To take the lead and be the foremost still In all true worth and literary skill? "Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught The knowledge of the World, and dull of thought! Church-ladders are not always mounted best By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. The exalted prize demands an upward look, Not to be found by poring on a book. Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek, Is more than adequate to all I seek. Let erudition grace him, or not grace, I give the bauble but the second place; His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend, Subsist and centre in one point--a friend. A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, Shall give him consequence, heal all defects. His intercourse with peers and sons of peers-- There dawns the splendour of his future years: In that bright quarter his propitious skies Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. Your Lordship, and Your Grace! what school can teach A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech? What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, Sweet interjections! if he learn but those? Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke, Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch, The parson knows enough who knows a duke." Egregious purpose! worthily begun In barbarous prostitution of your son; Press'd on his part by means that would disgrace A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place, And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. It may succeed; and, if his sins should call For more than common punishment, it shall; The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth Least qualified in honour, learning, worth, To occupy a sacred, awful post, In which the best and worthiest tremble most. The royal letters are a thing of course, A king, that would, might recommend his horse; And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice, As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. Behold your bishop! well he plays his part, Christian in name, and infidel in heart, Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. Dumb as a senator, and as a priest A piece of mere church furniture at best; To live estranged from God his total scope, And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. But, fair although and feasible it seem, Depend not much upon your golden dream; For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, In spite of all the wrigglers into place, Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace; And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be rare, We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. Besides, school friendships are not always found, Though fair in promise, permanent and sound; The most disinterested and virtuous minds, In early years connected, time unbinds New situations give a different cast Of habit, inclination, temper, taste; And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, Soon shows the strong similitude reversed. Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, And make mistakes for manhood to reform. Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, Whose scent and hues are rather guess'd than known; Each dreams that each is just what he appears, But learns his error in maturer years, When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd, Shows all its rents and patches to the world. If, therefore, e'en when honest in design, A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart With just abhorrence of so mean a part, Than set your son to work at a vile trade For wages so unlikely to be paid. Our public hives of puerile resort, That are of chief and most approved report, To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. A principle, whose proud pretensions pass Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass-- That with a world, not often over-nice, Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice; Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride-- Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their fame; And emulation is its specious name. Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal, Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. The spirit of that competition burns With all varieties of ill by turns; Each vainly magnifies his own success, Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less, Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, Deems his reward too great if he prevail, And labours to surpass him day and night, Less for improvement than to tickle spite. The spur is powerful, and I grant its force; It pricks the genius forward in its course, Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; And, felt alike by each, advances both: But judge, where so much evil intervenes, The end, though plausible, not worth the means. Weigh, for a moment, classical desert Against a heart depraved and temper hurt; Hurt too perhaps for life; for early wrong Done to the nobler part affects it long; And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause, If you can crown a discipline, that draws Such mischiefs after it, with much applause. Connexion form'd for interest, and endear'd By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd; And emulation, as engendering hate, Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate: The props of such proud seminaries fall, The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. Great schools rejected then, as those that swell Beyond a size that can be managed well, Shall royal institutions miss the bays, And small academies win all the praise? Force not my drift beyond its just intent, I praise a school as Pope a government; So take my judgment in his language dress'd, "Whate'er is best administer'd is best." Few boys are born with talents that excel, But all are capable of living well; Then ask not, whether limited or large? But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge? If anxious only that their boys may learn, While morals languish, a despised concern, The great and small deserve one common blame, Different in size, but in effect the same. Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; Therefore in towns and cities they abound, For there the game they seek is easiest found; Though there, in spite of all that care can do, Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain, Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, Your son come forth a prodigy of skill; As, wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will; The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, Claims more than half the praise as his due share. But if, with all his genius, he betray, Not more intelligent than loose and gay, Such vicious habits as disgrace his name, Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame; Though want of due restraint alone have bred The symptoms that you see with so much dread; Unenvied there, he may sustain alone The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. Oh! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused, By all whom sentiment has not abused; New-fangled sentiment, the boasted grace Of those who never feel in the right place; A sight surpass'd by none that we can show, Though Vestris on one leg still shine below; A father blest with an ingenuous son, Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one. How!--turn again to tales long since forgot, Æsop, and Phædrus, and the rest?--Why not? He will not blush, that has a father's heart, To take in childish plays a childish part; But bends his sturdy back to any toy That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy: Then why resign into a stranger's hand A task as much within your own command, That God and nature, and your interest too, Seem with one voice to delegate to you? Why hire a lodging in a house unknown For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own? This second weaning, needless as it is, How does it lacerate both your heart and his! The indented stick, that loses day by day, Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, Bears witness, long ere his dismission come, With what intense desire he wants his home. But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof Bid fair enough to answer in the proof, Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, A disappointment waits him even there: Arrived, he feels an unexpected change; He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease, His favourite stand between his father's knees, But seeks the corner of some distant seat, And eyes the door, and watches a retreat, And, least familiar where he should be most, Feels all his happiest privileges lost. Alas, poor boy!--the natural effect Of love by absence chill'd into respect. Say, what accomplishments, at school acquired, Brings he, to sweeten fruits so undesired? Thou well deserv'st an alienated son, Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge--none; None that, in thy domestic snug recess, He had not made his own with more address, Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling mind, And better never learn'd, or left behind. Add too, that, thus estranged, thou canst obtain By no kind arts his confidence again; That here begins with most that long complaint Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint, Which, oft neglected, in life's waning years A parent pours into regardless ears. Like caterpillars, dangling under trees By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace The boughs in which are bred the unseemly race; While every worm industriously weaves And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves; So numerous are the follies that annoy The mind and heart of every sprightly boy; Imaginations noxious and perverse, Which admonition can alone disperse. The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand, Patient, affectionate, of high command, To check the procreation of a breed Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 'Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page, At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage; E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend To warn, and teach him safely to unbend; O'er all his pleasures gently to preside, Watch his emotions, and control their tide; And levying thus, and with an easy sway, A tax of profit from his very play, To impress a value, not to be erased, On moments squander'd else, and running all to waste. And seems it nothing in a father's eye That unimproved those many moments fly? And is he well content his son should find No nourishment to feed his growing mind, But conjugated verbs and nouns declined? For such is all the mental food purveyed By public hackneys in the schooling trade; Who feed a pupil's intellect with store Of syntax, truly, but with little more; Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock, Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock. Perhaps a father, blest with any brains, Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains, To improve this diet, at no great expense, With savoury truth and wholesome common sense; To lead his son, for prospects of delight, To some not steep, though philosophic, height, Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size, The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, And the harmonious order of them all; To show him in an insect or a flower Such microscopic proof of skill and power, As, hid from ages past, God now displays To combat atheists with in modern days; To spread the earth before him, and commend, With designation of the finger's end, Its various parts to his attentive note, Thus bringing home to him the most remote; To teach his heart to glow with generous flame, Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; And, more than all, with commendation due, To set some living worthy in his view, Whose fair example may at once inspire A wish to copy what he must admire. Such knowledge, gain'd betimes, and which appears, Though solid, not too weighty for his years, Sweet in itself, and not forbidding sport, When health demands it, of athletic sort, Would make him--what some lovely boys have been, And more than one perhaps that I have seen-- An evidence and reprehension both Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. Art thou a man professionally tied, With all thy faculties elsewhere applied, Too busy to intend a meaner care Than how to enrich thyself, and next thine heir; Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art) But poor in knowledge, having none to impart:-- Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad; His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad; Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then Heard to articulate like other men; No jester, and yet lively in discourse, His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force; And his address, if not quite French in ease, Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please; Low in the world, because he scorns its arts; A man of letters, manners, morals, parts; Unpatronized, and therefore little known; Wise for himself and his few friends alone-- In him thy well-appointed proxy see, Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee; Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth, To form thy son, to strike his genius forth; Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove The force of discipline when back'd by love; To double all thy pleasure in thy child, His mind inform'd, his morals undefiled. Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show No spots contracted among grooms below, Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd By footman Tom for witty and refined. There, in his commerce with the liveried herd, Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd; For since (so fashion dictates) all, who claim A higher than a mere plebeian fame, Find it expedient, come what mischief may, To entertain a thief or two in pay, (And they that can afford the expense of more, Some half a dozen, and some half a score,) Great cause occurs to save him from a band So sure to spoil him, and so near at hand; A point secured, if once he be supplied With some such Mentor always at his side. Are such men rare? perhaps they would abound Were occupation easier to be found, Were education, else so sure to fail, Conducted on a manageable scale, And schools, that have outlived all just esteem, Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme.-- But, having found him, be thou duke or earl, Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl, And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine heir In all good faculties beneath his care, Respect, as is but rational and just, A man deem'd worthy of so dear a trust. Despised by thee, what more can he expect From youthful folly than the same neglect? A flat and fatal negative obtains That instant upon all his future pains; His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend, And all the instructions of thy son's best friend Are a stream choked, or trickling to no end. Doom him not then to solitary meals; But recollect that he has sense, and feels; And that, possessor of a soul refined, An upright heart, and cultivated mind, His post not mean, his talents not unknown, He deems it hard to vegetate alone. And, if admitted at thy board he sit, Account him no just mark for idle wit; Offend not him, whom modesty restrains From repartee, with jokes that he disdains; Much less transfix his feelings with an oath; Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth.-- And, trust me, his utility may reach To more than he is hired or bound to teach; Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone, Through reverence of the censor of thy son. But, if thy table be indeed unclean, Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene, And thou a wretch, whom, following her old plan, The world accounts an honourable man, Because forsooth thy courage has been tried, And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side; Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove That any thing but vice could win thy love;-- Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife, Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life; Who, just when industry begins to snore, Flies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowded door; And thrice in every winter throngs thine own With half the chariots and sedans in town Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst; Not very sober though, nor very chaste; Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank, If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank, And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood, A trifler vain, and empty of all good;-- Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none, Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. Saved from his home, where every day brings forth Some mischief fatal to his future worth, Find him a better in a distant spot, Within some pious pastor's humble cot, Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean, The most seducing, and the oftenest seen) May never more be stamp'd upon his breast, Not yet perhaps incurably impress'd. Where early rest makes early rising sure, Disease or comes not, or finds easy cure, Prevented much by diet neat and plain; Or, if it enter, soon starved out again: Where all the attention of his faithful host, Discreetly limited to two at most, May raise such fruits as shall reward his care, And not at last evaporate in air: Where, stillness aiding study, and his mind Serene, and to his duties much inclined, Not occupied in day dreams, as at home, Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come, His virtuous toil may terminate at last In settled habit and decided taste.-- But whom do I advise? the fashion-led, The incorrigibly wrong, the deaf, the dead! Whom care and cool deliberation suit Not better much than spectacles a brute; Who, if their sons some slight tuition share, Deem it of no great moment whose, or where; Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one unknown, And much too gay to have any of their own. But courage, man! methought the Muse replied, Mankind are various, and the world is wide: The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind, And form'd of God without a parent's mind, Commits her eggs, incautious, to the dust, Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust; And, while on public nurseries they rely, Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why, Irrational in what they thus prefer, No few, that would seem wise, resemble her. But all are not alike. Thy warning voice May here and there prevent erroneous choice; And some, perhaps, who, busy as they are, Yet make their progeny their dearest care, (Whose hearts will ache, once told what ills may reach Their offspring, left upon so wild a beach,) Will need no stress of argument to enforce The expedience of a less adventurous course: The rest will slight thy counsel, or condemn; But they have human feelings--turn to them. To you, then, tenants of life's middle state, Securely placed between the small and great, Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains, Who, wise yourselves, desire your sons should learn Your wisdom and your ways--to you I turn. Look round you on a world perversely blind; See what contempt is fallen on human kind; See wealth abused, and dignities misplaced, Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced, Long lines of ancestry, renown'd of old, Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold; See Bedlam's closeted and handcuff'd charge Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large; See great commanders making war a trade, Great lawyers, lawyers without study made; Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ Is odious, and their wages all their joy, Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves; See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed With infamy too nauseous to be named, Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien, Civited fellows, smelt ere they are seen, Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung, Now flush'd with drunkenness, now with whoredom pale, Their breath a sample of last night's regale; See volunteers in all the vilest arts, Men well endow'd, of honourable parts, Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools; All these, and more like these, were bred at schools. And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still; Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark, Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark: As here and there a twinkling star descried Serves but to show how black is all beside. Now look on him, whose very voice in tone Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own, And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red, And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head, And say, My boy, the unwelcome hour is come, When thou, transplanted from thy genial home, Must find a colder soil and bleaker air, And trust for safety to a stranger's care; What character, what turn thou wilt assume From constant converse with I know not whom; Who there will court thy friendship, with what views, And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose; Though much depends on what thy choice shall be, Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me. Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids, And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids; Free too, and under no constraining force, Unless the sway of custom warp thy course; Lay such a stake upon the losing side, Merely to gratify so blind a guide? Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart, Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part. Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea, Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea, Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way; Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule Of natural pity, send him not to school. No--guard him better. Is he not thine own, Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone? And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,) That, since thy strength must with thy years elope, And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age, That then, in recompence of all thy cares, Thy child shall show respect to thy grey hairs, Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft, And give thy life its only cordial left? Aware then how much danger intervenes, To compass that good end, forecast the means. His heart, now passive, yields to thy command; Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand; If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide, Nor heed what guests there enter and abide, Complain not if attachments lewd and base Supplant thee in it and usurp thy place. But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure From vicious inmates and delights impure, Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, And keep him warm and filial to the last; Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say But, being man, and therefore frail, he may?) One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools--what!--all the schools i' th' land; Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms, Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms? A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) Deserves an answer similar, or none. Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ (Apprised that he is such) a careless boy, And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, Merely to sleep, and let them run astray? Survey our schools and colleges, and see A sight not much unlike my simile. From education, as the leading cause, The public character its colour draws; Thence the prevailing manners take their cast, Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. And though I would not advertise them yet, Nor write on each--This Building to be Let, Unless the world were all prepared to embrace A plan well worthy to supply their place; Yet, backward as they are, and long have been, To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean, (Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, Or better managed, or encouraged less.

[818] See 2 Chron. xxvi. 19.

[819] The author begs leave to explain.--Sensible that, without such knowledge, neither the ancient poets nor historians can be tasted, or indeed understood, he does not mean to censure the pains that are taken to instruct a schoolboy in the religion of the heathen, but merely that neglect of Christian culture which leaves him shamefully ignorant of his own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining of the sisagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the Dues at the Parsonage.

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, To laugh it would be wrong, The troubles of a worthy priest, The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe Three quarters of a year: But oh! it cuts him like a scythe, When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears, As one at point to die, And long before the day appears, He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good.

In sooth the sorrow of such days Is not to be express'd, When he that takes and he that pays Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates-- He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come--each makes his leg, And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg, And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do, The little boy and all?" "All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit, Were e'er such hungry folk? There's little talking, and no wit; It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, One spits upon the floor, Yet not to give offence or grieve, Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins. "Come, neighbours, we must wag"-- The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has lost By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear: But yet, methinks, to tell you true, You sell it plaguy dear."

O why are farmers made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine? A kick, that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home; 'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET, ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.

Cowper, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,[820] (poets, by report, Not oft so well agree,) Sweet harmonist of Flora's court! Conspire to honour thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.

We therefore pleased extol thy song, Though various, yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise, Though, could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would--they must at thine.

But we, in mutual bondage knit Of friendship's closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for thee, Unworthy of his own.

[820] Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.

ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their every hue To dress a room for Montagu. The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes; The pheasant plumes, which round enfold His mantling neck with downy gold; The cock his arch'd tail's azure show; And, river-blanch'd, the swan his snow. All tribes beside of Indian name, That glossy shine, or vivid flame, Where rises, and where sets the day, Whate'er they boast of rich and gay, Contribute to the gorgeous plan, Proud to advance it all they can. This plumage neither dashing shower, Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower, Shall drench again or discompose, But, screen'd from every storm that blows, It boasts a splendour ever new, Safe with protecting Montagu. To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move, Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove-- Imagination scattering round Wild roses over furrow'd ground, Which Labour of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smile-- Wit flashing on Religion's side, Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, The gem, though luminous before, Obtrude on human notice more, Like sunbeams on the golden height Of some tall temple playing bright-- Well tutor'd Learning, from his books Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks, Their order on his shelves exact, Not more harmonious or compact Than that to which he keeps confined The various treasures of his mind-- All these to Montagu's repair, Ambitious of a shelter there. There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, Their ruffled plumage calm refit, (For stormy troubles loudest roar Around their flight who highest soar,) And in her eye, and by her aid, Shine safe without a fear to fade. She thus maintains divided sway With yon bright regent of the day; The Plume and Poet both we know Their lustre to his influence owe; And she the works of Phoebus aiding, Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.

* * * * *

VERSES,

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, O, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE

RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.

Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot! In vain recorded in historic page, They court the notice of a future age: Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand; Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. So when a child, as playful children use, Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire-- There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE,

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court-- Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but-- That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!

ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.

TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND.

Round Thurlow's head in early youth, And in his sportive days, Fair Science pour'd the light of truth, And Genius shed his rays.

See! with united wonder cried The experienced and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied With all the skill of age!

Discernment, eloquence, and grace, Proclaim him born to sway The balance in the highest place, And bear the palm away.

The praise bestow'd was just and wise; He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conquest, where the prize Attends superior worth.

So the best courser on the plain Ere yet he starts is known, And does but at the goal obtain What all had deem'd his own.

ODE TO PEACE.

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view; We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From avarice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles? For whom, alas! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make? And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequestered shed, To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted, thee I prized, For thee I gladly sacrificed Whatever I loved before; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say-- Farewell! we meet no more?

HUMAN FRAILTY.

Weak and irresolute is man; The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain; But Passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent, But Pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

THE MODERN PATRIOT.

Rebellion is my theme all day; I only wish 'twould come (As who knows but perhaps it may?) A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight On t'other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right, But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court, That man shall be my toast, If breaking windows be the sport, Who bravely breaks the most.

But O! for him my fancy culls The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight, Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them.

A rope! I wish we patriots had Such strings for all who need 'em-- What! hang a man for going mad! Then farewell British freedom.

ON THE BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.

So then--the Vandals of our isle, Sworn foes to sense and law, Have burnt to dust a nobler pile Than ever Roman saw!

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, And many a treasure more, The well-judged purchase, and the gift That graced his letter'd store.

Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, The loss was his alone; But ages yet to come shall mourn The burning of his own.

ON THE SAME.

When wit and genius meet their doom In all devouring flame, They tell us of the fate of Rome, And bid us fear the same.

O'er Murray's loss the muses wept, They felt the rude alarm, Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept His sacred head from harm.

There Memory, like the bee that's fed From Flora's balmy store, The quintessence of all he read Had treasured up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind, Have done him cruel wrong; The flowers are gone--but still we find The honey on his tongue.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED;

OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.[821]

[821] It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part express'd, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarr'd; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These choose the back, the belly those; By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mahometans eat up the hog. You laugh--'tis well--the tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world--the preacher cries. We do--a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play; Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd; Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he: With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed, O share Maria's grief! Her favourite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung; And, though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well taught he all the sounds express'd Of flageolet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole, His bosom of the hue With which Aurora decks the skies, When piping winds shall soon arise, To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house, Dire foe alike of bird and mouse No cat had leave to dwell; And Bully's cage supported stood On props of smoothest shaven wood, Large-built and latticed well.

Well latticed--but the grate, alas! Not rough with wire of steel or brass, For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure: When, led by instinct sharp and sure, Subsistence to provide, A beast forth sallied on the scout, Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, And badger-colour'd hide.

He, entering at the study door, Its ample area 'gan explore; And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round, Better than all the books he found, Food chiefly for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest; In sleep he seem'd to view A rat fast clinging to the cage, And, screaming at the sad presage, Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent, Right to his mark the monster went-- Ah, muse! forbear to speak Minute the horrors that ensued; His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-- He left poor Bully's beak.

O had he made that too his prey; That beak, whence issued many a lay Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well, I wote, For silencing so sweet a throat, Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps--the Muses mourn-- So when, by Bacchanalians torn, On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, His head alone remain'd to tell The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd, The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner a while; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE DOVES.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way While meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late, And heard the voice of love; The turtle thus address'd her mate, And soothed the listening dove:

Our mutual bond of faith and truth No time shall disengage, Those blessings of our early youth Shall cheer our latest age:

While innocence without disguise, And constancy sincere, Shall fill the circles of those eyes, And mine can read them there;

Those ills, that wait on all below, Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so, As being shared with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees, Or kites are hovering near, I fear lest thee alone they seize, And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife, And press thy wedded side, Resolved a union form'd for life Death never shall divide.

But oh! if, fickle and unchaste, (Forgive a transient thought,) Thou couldst become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot,

No need of lightnings from on high, Or kites with cruel beak; Denied the endearments of thine eye, This widow'd heart would break.

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird, Soft as the passing wind, And I recorded what I heard, A lesson for mankind.

A FABLE.

A raven, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, And, on her wicker-work high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted, (A fault philosophers might blame, If quite exempted from the same,) Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 'Twas April, as the bumpkins say, The legislature call'd it May. But suddenly a wind, as high As ever swept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill'd her with a thousand fears, Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. But just at eve the blowing weather And all her fears were hush'd together: And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 'Tis over, and the brood is safe; (For ravens, though, as birds of omen, They teach both conjurors and old women To tell us what is to befall, Can't prophesy themselves at all.) The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge, And destined all the treasure there A gift to his expecting fair, Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray, And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours: Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape; An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oft'nest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

Patron of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains, And little or no meaning;

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, That water all the nations, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, In constant exhalations;

Why, stooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd perhaps, ere summer flies, Combined with millions more, To form an iris in the skies, Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then Beyond the happiest lot, Of all that ever pass'd my pen, So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design. To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine With equal grace below.

A COMPARISON.

The lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restless stream, The silent pace, with which they steal away, No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay; Alike irrevocable both when past, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. Though each resemble each in every part, A difference strikes at length the musing heart; Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound, How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd! But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.

ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes. Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And heaven reflected in her face.

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON.

Maria! I have every good For thee wish'd many a time, Both sad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need, More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour then not yet possess'd Can I for thee require, In wedded love already blest, To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part: Full bliss is bliss divine; There dwells some wish in every heart, And doubtless one in thine.

That wish on some fair future day, Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) I wish it all fulfill'd.

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau[822]

[822] it was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. but what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?

If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret, by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love, And with much twitter and much chatter Began to agitate the matter. At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd, Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet. A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied: Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, Opposite in the apple tree, By his good will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado, My dear Dick Redcap, what say you? Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments so well express'd Influenced mightily the rest, All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But, though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow, Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled; Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser, Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL.

Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs[823] adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd His lilies newly blown; Their beauties I intent survey'd, And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd; Beau, trotting far before, The floating wreath again discern'd, And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed:

But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.

[823] Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

What Nature, alas! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied, And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats From the cruel assaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of snow, These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May.

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."

Muse--hide his name of whom I sing, Lest his surviving house thou bring For his sake into scorn, Nor speak the school from which he drew The much or little that he knew, Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem Worthy of record (if the theme Perchance may credit win) For proof to man, what man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild Disclaims him, man he must be styled) Wanted no good below, Gentle he was, if gentle birth Could make him such, and he had worth, If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest, He shone superior at the feast, And qualities of mind, Illustrious in the eyes of those Whose gay society he chose, Possess'd of every kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red, With bushy locks his well-dress'd head Wing'd broad on either side, The mossy rosebud not so sweet; His steeds superb, his carriage neat, As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel? Such can be Cruel as hell, and so was he; A tyrant entertain'd With barbarous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight 'Twixt birds to battle train'd.

One feathered champion he possess'd, His darling far beyond the rest, Which never knew disgrace, Nor e'er had fought but he made flow The life-blood of his fiercest foe, The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced at last, when, on a day, He push'd him to the desperate fray, His courage droop'd, he fled. The master storm'd, the prize was lost, And, instant, frantic at the cost, He doom'd his favourite dead.

He seized him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, And, Bring me cord, he cried; The cord was brought, and, at his word, To that dire implement the bird, Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil; And all the terrors of the tale That can be shall be sunk-- Led by the sufferer's screams aright His shock'd companions view the sight, And him with fury drunk.

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate For the old warrior at the grate: He, deaf to pity's call, Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel His culinary club of steel, Death menacing on all.

But vengeance hung not far remote, For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat, And heaven and earth defied, Big with a curse too closely pent, That struggled vainly for a vent, He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, To point the judgment of the skies; But judgments plain as this, That, sent for man's instruction, bring A written label on their wing, 'Tis hard to read amiss.

May, 1789.

TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.

BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER.

Hastings! I knew thee young, and of a mind, While young, humane, conversable, and kind, Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, Now grown a villain, and the worst of men. But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd And worried thee, as not themselves the best.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, "AD LIBRUM SUUM."

Maria, could Horace have guess'd What honour awaited his ode To his own little volume address'd, The honour which you have bestow'd; Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat, He had laugh'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

And sneer, if you please, he had said, A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies; Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well.

Feb. 1790.

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT,

ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784.

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd, Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste? Roar as they might, the overbearing winds That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe-- And in thy minikin and embryo state, Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. Indebted to no magnet and no chart, Nor under guidance of the polar fire, Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, Grazing at large in meadows submarine, Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps Above the brine--where Caledonia's rocks Beat back the surge--and where Hibernia shoots Her wondrous causeway far into the main. --Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thoughtst, And I not more, that I should feed on thee. Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish, To him who sent thee! and success, as oft As it descends into the billowy gulf, To the same drag that caught thee!--Fare thee well! Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE

ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, ESQ. 1790.

Other stones the era tell When some feeble mortal fell; I stand here to date the birth Of these hardy sons of earth. Which shall longest brave the sky, Storm and frost--these oaks or I? Pass an age or two away, I must moulder and decay, But the years that crumble me Shall invigorate the tree, Spread its branch, dilate its size, Lift its summit to the skies. Cherish honour, virtue, truth, So shalt thou prolong thy youth. Wanting these, however fast Man be fix'd and form'd to last, He is lifeless even now, Stone at heart, and cannot grow.

June, 1790.

ANOTHER,

For a stone erected on a similar occasion at the same place in the following year.

Reader! behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here.

June, 1790.

Anno 1791.

TO MRS. KING,

On her kind present to the author, a patchwork counterpane of her own making.

The bard, if e'er he feel at all, Must sure be quicken'd by a call Both on his heart and head, To pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a lady fair, Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time, On Ida's barren top sublime, (As Homer's epic shows) Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Without the aid of sun or showers, For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which in the scorching day Receives the weary swain, Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, Till roused to toil again.

What labours of the loom I see! Looms numberless have groan'd for me! Should every maiden come To scramble for the patch that bears The impress of the robe she wears, The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue! This bright display of every hue All in a moment fled! As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers-- Each pocketing a shred.

Thanks then to every gentle fair Who will not come to peck me bare As bird of borrow'd feather, And thanks to one above them all, The gentle fair of Pertenhall, Who put the whole together.

August, 1790.

IN MEMORY OF

THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man, And, next, commemorating worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most. Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore, Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine, I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, Sweet as the privilege of healing woe By virtue suffer'd combating below? That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Thou hadst an industry in doing good, Restless as his who toils and sweats for food; Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable or by stealth, And if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end, Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. And, though God made thee of a nature prone To distribution boundless of thy own, And still by motives of religious force Impell'd thee more to that heroic course, Yet was thy liberality discreet, Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat; And, though in act unwearied, secret still, As in some solitude the summer rill Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. Such was thy charity: no sudden start, After long sleep, of passion in the heart, But stedfast principle, and, in its kind, Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, Traced easily to its true source above, To him whose works bespeak his nature, love. Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake; That the incredulous themselves may see Its use and power exemplified in thee.

Nov. 1790.

THE FOUR AGES.

(A BRIEF FRAGMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED POEM.)

"I could be well content, allowed the use Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such, To recommence life's trial, in the hope Of fewer errors, on a second proof!" Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side, Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused, And held accustom'd conference with my heart; When from within it thus a voice replied: "Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length This wisdom, and but this, from all the past? Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, Time wasted, violated laws, abuse Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far Than opportunity vouchsafed to err With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect?" I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind I pass'd, and next consider'd--what is man. Knows he his origin? can he ascend By reminiscence to his earliest date? Slept he in Adam? And in those from him Through numerous generations, till he found At length his destined moment to be born? Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb? Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toil'd To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still. It is an evil incident to man, And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves Truths useful and attainable with ease, To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies Not to be solved, and useless if it might. Mysteries are food for angels; they digest With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean His manna from the ground, or starve and die.

May, 1791.

THE RETIRED CAT.[831]

[831] Cowper's partiality to animals is well known. Lady Hesketh, in one of her letters, states, "that he had, at one time, five rabbits, three hares, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a jay, and a starling; besides two goldfinches, two canary birds, and two dogs. It is amazing how the three hares can find room to gambol and frolic (as they certainly do) in his small parlour;" and she adds, "I forgot to enumerate a squirrel, which he had at the same time, and which used to play with one of the hares continually. One evening, the cat giving one of the hares a sound box on the ear, the hare ran after her, and, having caught her, punished her by drumming on her back with her two feet as hard as drum-sticks, till the creature would have actually been killed, had not Mrs. Unwin rescued her."

A poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick-- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique, Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonnair, An apple tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering pot: There, wanting nothing save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan Apparell'd in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court. But love of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wish'd instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode. A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use, A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Survey'd the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lull'd by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast; By no malignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) "Was ever cat attended thus? The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed, How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet! O what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out." The evening came, the sun descended, And Puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away, (With her indeed 'twas never day,) The sprightly morn her course renew'd, The evening grey again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entomb'd the day before. With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room, She now presaged approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd, Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. That night, by chance, the poet watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said--"What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him and dispell'd his fears: He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence: The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around, in all that's done, Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

1791.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possess'd, A warm dispute once chanced to wage, Whose temper was the best.

The worth of each had been complete Had both alike been mild: But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown'd oftener than she smiled.

And in her humour, when she frown'd, Would raise her voice, and roar, And shake with fury to the ground The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast, From all such frenzy clear, Her frowns were seldom known to last, And never proved severe.

To poets of renown in song The nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, And gave misplaced applause.

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, The flippant and the scold, And though she changed her mood so oft, That failing left untold.

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, Or so resolved to err-- In short the charms her sister had They lavish'd all on her.

Then thus the god, whom fondly they Their great inspirer call, Was heard, one genial summer's day, To reprimand them all.

"Since thus ye have combined," he said, "My favourite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid, With June's undoubted right,

"The minx shall, for your folly's sake, Still prove herself a shrew, Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, And pinch your noses blue."

May, 1791.

YARDLEY OAK.[832]

[832] This tree had been known by the name of Judith for many ages. Perhaps it received that name on being planted by the Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, whom he gave in marriage to the English Earl Waltheof, with the counties of Northampton and Huntingdon as her dower. Vide Letters, p. 301.

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past,) A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away! Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, could'st thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right-- Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And time hath made thee what thou art--a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship--first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose--till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all That we account most durable below? Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last, Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds-- Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live, plant, animal, and man, And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates not unimpair'd; But worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root--and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load![833] But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest waged For senatorial honours. Thus to time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour which had, far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverized of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white; And some memorial none where once they grew. Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. But since, although well-qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme....

1791.

[833] Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE,

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Whence is it that, amazed, I hear From yonder wither'd spray, This foremost morn of all the year, The melody of May?

And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favour shown, Am I selected from the crowd To witness it alone?

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long Have practised in the groves like thee, Though not like thee in song?

Or sing'st thou, rather, under force Of some divine command, Commission'd to presage a course Of happier days at hand!

Thrice welcome then! for many a long And joyless year have I, As thou to-day, put forth my song Beneath a wintry sky.

But thee no wintry skies can harm, Who only need'st to sing To make e'en January charm, And every season spring.

1792.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM

OF MISS PATTY MORE'S, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.

In vain to live from age to age While modern bards endeavour, I write my name in Patty's page, And gain my point for ever.

W. COWPER. March 6, 1792.

SONNET

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain. Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; [pause Hope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold caution And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe, By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth and all the blest above.

April 16, 1792.

EPIGRAM

PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.

To purify their wine, some people bleed A lamb into the barrel, and succeed; No nostrum, planters say, is half so good To make fine sugar as a negro's blood. Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs, 'Tis in the blood of innocence alone-- Good cause why planters never try their own.

TO DR. AUSTIN,

OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.

Austin! accept a grateful verse from me, The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind Pleasing requital in my verse may find; Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, Immortalizing names which else had died: And O! could I command the glittering wealth With which sick kings are glad to purchase health! Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, Were in the power of verse like mine to give, I would not recompense his arts with less, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. Friend of my friend![834] I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

May 26, 1792.

[834] Hayley.

CATHARINA:

THE SECOND PART: ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.

Believe it or not, as you choose, The doctrine is certainly true, That the future is known to the muse, And poets are oracles too. I did but express a desire To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire, And lo--she is actually come!

Such prophecy some may despise, But the wish of a poet and friend Perhaps is approved in the skies, And therefore attains to its end. 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth From a bosom effectually warm'd With the talents, the graces, and worth Of the person for whom it was form'd.

Maria[835] would leave us, I knew, To the grief and regret of us all, But less to our grief, could we view Catharina the Queen of the Hall. And therefore I wish'd as I did, And therefore this union of hands: Not a whisper was heard to forbid, But all cry--Amen--to the bans.

Since, therefore, I seem to incur No danger of wishing in vain When making good wishes for her, I will e'en to my wishes again-- With one I have made her a wife, And now I will try with another, Which I cannot suppress for my life-- How soon I can make her a mother.

June, 1792.

[835] Lady Throckmorton.

EPITAPH ON FOP,

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chace-- Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. "Yes,"--the indignant shade of Fop replies-- "And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies."

August, 1792.

SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS,

Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792.

Romney, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face-- With strokes that time ought never to erase, Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace.

But this I mark--that symptoms none of woe In thy incomparable work appear. Well--I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

October, 1792.

MARY AND JOHN.

If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches! It can't be a match--'tis a bundle of matches.

EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER,

OF CHICHELEY.

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Till all who knew him follow to the skies. Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep; Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep-- And justly--few shall ever him transcend As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

April, 1793.

TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,

On receiving from her a network purse made by herself.

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, When I was young, and thou no more Than plaything for a nurse, I danced and fondled on my knee, A kitten both in size and glee, I thank thee for my purse.

Gold pays the worth of all things here; But not of love;--that gem's too dear For richest rogues to win it; I, therefore, as a proof of love, Esteem thy present far above The best things kept within it.

May 4, 1793.

INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN.

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to--the last retreat.

May, 1793.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

May, 1793.

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.

On his presenting me with an antique bust of Homer.

Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me! When I behold the fruit of thy regard, The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee: Joy too and grief--much joy that there should be, Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn; critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou--like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

May, 1793.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

On his arriving at Cambridge wet when no rain had fallen there.

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church, endow'd With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd; In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry: Heaven grant us half the omen--may we see Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

May, 1793.

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees.

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat And ease a doggish pain, For him, though chased with furious heat, You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort, Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains, Since teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains, So much resemble man?

July 15, 1793.

BEAU'S REPLY.

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to withstand.

You cried--Forbear!--but in my breast A mightier cried--Proceed!-- 'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet, much as nature I respect, I ventured once to break (As you perhaps may recollect) Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day, Passing his prison door, Had flutter'd all his strength away, And panting press'd the floor.

Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destined to my tooth, I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggrieved bow-wow:

If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see,) What think you, Sir, of killing time With verse address'd to me!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, Worthier to stand for ever, if they could, Than any built of stone or yet of wood, For back of royal elephant to bear!

O for permission from the skies to share, Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth! But what his commentator's happiest praise?

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, Which they who need them use, and then despise.

June 29, 1793.

ANSWER

To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy.

To be remember'd thus is fame, And in the first degree; And did the few like her the same, The press might sleep for me.

So Homer in the memory stored Of many a Grecian belle, Was once preserved--a richer hoard, But never lodged so well.

1793.

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, Whom all this elegance might well seduce; Nor can our censure on the husband fall, Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.

September, 1793.

TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,

On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, And steep'd not now in rain, But in Castilian streams by you, Will never fade again.

1793.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.

Pause here, and think: a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein; Seems it to say--"Health here has long to reign?" Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh? Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease, Anticipates a day it never sees; And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud Exclaims "Prepare thee for an early shroud."

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel, And, when his juicy salads fail'd, Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile.

But now beneath this walnut shade He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks, From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.

EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM.

Hic etiam jacet, Qui totum novennium vixit, Puss. Siste paulisper, Qui præteriturus es, Et tecum sic reputa-- Hunc neque canis venaticus, Nec plumbum missile, Nec laqueus, Nec imbres nimii, Confecêre: Tamen mortuus est-- Et moriar ego.

The following account of the treatment of his hares was inserted by Cowper in the Gentleman's Magazine.

In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind and body, incapable of diverting myself either with company or books, and yet in a condition that made some diversion necessary, I was glad of any thing that would engage my attention, without fatiguing it. The children of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given them for a plaything; it was at that time about three months old. Understanding better how to tease the poor creature than to feed it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they readily consented that their father, who saw it pining and growing leaner every day, should offer it to my acceptance. I was willing enough to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving that, in the management of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I should find just that sort of employment which my case required. It was soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased with the present, and the consequence was, that in a short time I had as many leverets offered to me as would have stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which it is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I gave them--Puss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you, that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I built them houses to sleep in; each had a separate apartment, so contrived that their ordure would pass through the bottom of it; an earthen pan placed under each received whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the day time they had the range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into that of another.

Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples. He would suffer me to take him up, and to carry him about in my arms, and has more than once fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, during which time I nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows, that they might not molest him (for, like many other wild animals, they persecute one of their own species that is sick,) and by constant care, and trying him with a variety of herbs, restored him to perfect health. No creature could be more grateful than my patient after his recovery; a sentiment which he most significantly expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then every finger separately, then between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of it unsaluted; a ceremony which he never performed but once again upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made it my custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden, where he hid himself generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing the cud till evening; in the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite repast. I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he began to be impatient for the return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden by drumming upon my knee, and by a look of such expression as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of my coat between his teeth, and pull it with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tamed; the shyness of his nature was done away, and on the whole it was visible by many symptoms, which I have not room to enumerate, that he was happier in human society than, when shut up with his natural companions.

Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had not the least effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness had an equal share of my attention; but if, after his recovery, I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. He was however very entertaining in his way; even his surliness was matter of mirth, and in his play he preserved such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such a solemnity of manner, that in him too I had an agreeable companion.

Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss was tamed by gentle usage; Tiney was not to be tamed at all; and Bess had a courage and confidence that made him tame from the beginning. I always admitted them into the parlour after supper, when, the carpet affording their feet a firm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. One evening, the cat being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drumming upon her back with such violence that the cat was happy to escape from under his paws, and hide herself.

I describe these animals as having each a character of his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so expressive of that character, that, when I looked only on the face of either, I immediately knew which it was. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that he can, by that indication only, distinguish each from all the rest; and yet, to a common observer, the difference is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimination in the cast of countenances would be discoverable in hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of them no two could be found exactly similar: a circumstance little suspected by those who have not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have a singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration that is made in the place to which they are accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a new object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a patch, and that patch in a moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of their favourites: to some persons, though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled, and would even scream when they attempted to touch them; but a miller coming in engaged their affections at once; his powdered coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens of the kind has taught me to hold the sportman's amusement in abhorrence; he little knows what amiable creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of life, and that, impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives them peculiar cause for it.

That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short summary of those articles of diet that suit them best.

I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but it is an erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple; they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, are their favourite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered by accident that fine white sand is in great estimation with them; I suppose as a digestive. It happened, that I was cleaning a birdcage when the hares were with me; I placed a pot filled with such sand upon the floor, which, being at once directed to it by a strong instinct, they devoured voraciously; since that time I have generally taken care to see them well supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy, both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat: straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their dainties: they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished with clean straw never want them; it serves them also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed require aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them with great relish, and are particularly fond of the plant called musk; they seem to resemble sheep in this, that, if their pasture be too succulent, they are very subject to the rot; to prevent which, I always made bread their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with it cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night; during the winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrot, adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin; for, though they are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. These however not being a sufficient substitute for the juice of summer herbs, they must at this time be supplied with water; but so placed, that they cannot overset it into their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of the common brier, eating even the very wood when it is of considerable thickness.

Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall; Puss is still living, and has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor even of age, except that he is grown more discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot conclude without observing, that I have lately introduced a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, but there was no real need of it. Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symptom of hostility. There is therefore, it should seem, no natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions the flight of the other, and the dog pursues because he is trained to it; they eat bread at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all respects sociable and friendly.

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with a brush under each foot; and that they are never infested by any vermin.

May 28, 1784.

MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER'S PAPERS.

Tuesday, March 9, 1786.

This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven months. He died between twelve and one at noon, of mere old age, and apparently without pain.

* * * * *

A TALE[836]

[836] This tale is founded on an article which appeared in the Buckinghamshire Herald, Saturday, June 1, 1793;--"Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food."

In Scotland's realms, where trees are few, Nor even shrubs abound; But where, however bleak the view, Some better things are found;

For husband there and wife may boast Their union undefiled, And false ones are as rare almost As hedgerows in the wild--

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare The history chanced of late-- The history of a wedded pair, A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd; They pair'd, and would have built a nest, But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd and the moors Except with snow and sleet, Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought, Till both grew vex'd and tired; At length a ship arriving brought The good so long desired.

A ship!--could such a restless thing Afford them place of rest? Or was the merchant charged to bring The homeless birds a nest?

Hush--silent hearers profit most-- This racer of the sea Proved kinder to them than the coast, It served them with a tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal, The tree they call a mast, And had a hollow with a wheel Through which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor With russet specks bedight-- The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea, As she had changed her kind; But goes the male? Far wiser, he Is doubtless left behind.

No--soon as from ashore he saw The winged mansion move, He flew to reach it, by a law Of never-failing love;

Then, perching at his consort's side, Was briskly borne along, The billows and the blast defied, And cheer'd her with a song.

The seaman with sincere delight His feather'd shipmates eyes, Scarce less exulting in the sight Than when he tows a prize.

For seamen much believe in signs, And from a chance so new Each some approaching good divines, And may his hopes be true!

Hail, honour'd land! a desert where Not even birds can hide, Yet parent of this loving pair Whom nothing could divide.

And ye who, rather than resign Your matrimonial plan, Were not afraid to plough the brine In company with man;

For whose lean country much disdain We English often show, Yet from a richer nothing gain But wantonness and woe--

Be it your fortune, year by year The same resource to prove, And may ye, sometimes landing here, Instruct us how to love!

June, 1793.

TO MARY.

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

Thy spirits have a fainter flo I see thee daily weaker gro 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more; My Mary!

For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream: Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest, My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!

Autumn of 1793.

THE CASTAWAY.

Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I, Wash'd headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away: But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevail'd, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delay'd not to bestow: But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld: And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repell'd: And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried--"Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear; And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date: But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd, No light propitious shone; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

March 20, 1799.

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

DEAR President, whose art sublime Gives perpetuity to time, And bids transactions of a day, That fleeting hours would waft away To dark futurity, survive, And in unfading beauty live,-- You cannot with a grace decline A special mandate of the Nine-- Yourself, whatever task you choose, So much indebted to the Muse. Thus say the sisterhood:--We come-- Fix well your pallet on your thumb, Prepare the pencil and the tints-- We come to furnish you with hints. French disappointment, British glory, Must be the subject of the story. First strike a curve, a graceful bow, Then slope it to a point below; Your outline easy, airy, light, Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. Let independence, sanguine, horrid, Blaze like a meteor in the forehead: Beneath (but lay aside your graces) Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces, Each with a staring, stedfast eye, Fix'd on his great and good ally. France flies the kite--'tis on the wing-- Britannia's lightning cuts the string. The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, Just rends it into thirteen pieces, Takes charge of every fluttering sheet, And lays them all at George's feet. Iberia, trembling from afar, Renounces the confederate war. Her efforts and her arts o'ercome, France calls her shatter'd navies home. Repenting Holland learns to mourn The sacred treaties she has torn; Astonishment and awe profound Are stamp'd upon the nations round: Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.

ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE.[837]

[837] Nominally by Robert Heron, Esq., but supposed to have been written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785.

The Genius of the Augustan age His head among Rome's ruins rear'd, And, bursting with heroic rage, When literary Heron appear'd;

Thou hast, he cried, like him of old Who set the Ephesian dome on fire, By being scandalously bold, Attain'd the mark of thy desire.

And for traducing Virgil's name Shalt share his merited reward; A perpetuity of fame, That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.

THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;

OR, LABOUR IN VAIN.

A New Song, to a Tune never sung before.

I sing of a journey to Clifton,[838] We would have performed, if we could; Without cart or barrow, to lift on Poor Mary[839] and me through the mud. Slee, sla, slud, Stuck in the mud; Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!

So away we went, slipping and sliding; Hop, hop, à la mode de deux frogs; 'Tis near as good walking as riding, When ladies are dressed in their clogs. Wheels, no doubt, Go briskly about, But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.

[838] A village near Olney.

[839] Mrs. Unwin.

DIALOGUE.

SHE.

"Well! now, I protest it is charming; How finely the weather improves! That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming, How slowly and stately it moves."

HE.

"Pshaw! never mind, 'Tis not in the wind, We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind."

SHE.

"I am glad we are come for an airing, For folks may be pounded, and penn'd, Until they grow rusty, not caring To stir half a mile to an end."

HE.

"The longer we stay, The longer we may; It's a folly to think about weather or way."

SHE.

"But now I begin to be frighted, If I fall, what a way I should roll! I am glad that the bridge was indicted, Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole!"

HE.

"Nay never care, 'Tis a common affair; You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there."

SHE.

"Let me breathe now a little, and ponder On what it were better to do; That terrible lane I see yonder, I think we shall never get through."

HE.

"So think I:-- But, by the bye, We never shall know, if we never should try."

SHE.

"But should we get there, how shall we get home? What a terrible deal of bad road we have past! Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last! Oh this lane! Now it is plain That struggling and striving is labour in vain."

HE.

"Stick fast there while I go and look;"

SHE.

"Don't go away, for fear I should fall:"

HE.

"I have examined it, every nook, And what you see here is a sample of all. Come, wheel round, The dirt we have found Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound."

Now, sister Anne,[840] the guitar you must take, Set it, and sing it, and make it a song: I have varied the verse, for variety's sake, And cut it off short--because it was long. 'Tis hobbling and lame, Which critics won't blame, For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.

[840] The late Lady Austen.

STANZAS

ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF MILTON.[841] ANNO 1790.

[841] The bones of Milton, who lies buried in Cripplegate church, were disinterred; a pamphlet by Le Neve was published at the time, giving an account of what appeared on opening his coffin.

"Me too, perchance, in future days, The sculptured stone shall show, With Paphian myrtle or with bays Parnassian on my brow.

"But I, or ere that season come, Escaped from every care, Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, And sleep securely there."[842]

So sang, in Roman tone and style, The youthful bard, ere long Ordain'd to grace his native isle With her sublimest song.

Who then but must conceive disdain, Hearing the deed unblest Of wretches who have dared profane His dread sepulchral rest?

Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones[843] Where Milton's ashes lay, That trembled not to grasp his bones And steal his dust away!

O ill requited bard! neglect Thy living worth repaid, And blind idolatrous respect As much affronts thee dead.

August, 1790.

[842]

Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus, Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri Fronde comas--At ego secura pace quiescam.

Milton in Manso.

[843] Cowper, no doubt, had in his memory the lines said to have been written by Shakspeare on his tomb:

"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear To dig the dust inclosed here. Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones."

TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.

June 22, 1782. MY DEAR FRIEND,

If reading verse be your delight, 'Tis mine as much, or more, to write; But what we would, so weak is man, Lies oft remote from what we can. For instance, at this very time I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme To soothe my friend, and, had I power, To cheat him of an anxious hour; Not meaning (for I must confess, It were but folly to suppress) His pleasure, or his good alone, But squinting partly at my own. But though the sun is flaming high In the centre of yon arch, the sky, And he had once (and who but he?) The name for setting genius free, Yet whether poets of past days Yielded him undeserved praise. And he by no uncommon lot Was famed for virtues he had not; Or whether, which is like enough, His Highness may have taken huff, So seldom sought with invocation, Since it has been the reigning fashion To disregard his inspiration, I seem no brighter in my wits, For all the radiance he emits, Than if I saw, through midnight vapour, The glimmering of a farthing taper. Oh for a succedaneum, then, To accelerate a creeping pen! Oh for a ready succedaneum, Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium Pondere liberet exoso, Et morbo jam caliginoso! 'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd With best tobacco, finely mill'd, Beats all Anticyra's pretences To disengage the encumber'd senses. Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame, Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name, Whether reposing on the side Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide, Or listening with delight not small To Niagara's distant fall, 'Tis thine to cherish and to feed The pungent nose-refreshing weed Which, whether pulverized it gain A speedy passage to the brain, Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise In circling eddies to the skies, Does thought more quicken and refine Than all the breath of all the Nine-- Forgive the bard, if bard he be, Who once too wantonly made free, To touch with a satiric wipe That symbol of thy power, the pipe; So may no blight infest thy plains, And no unseasonable rains; And so may smiling peace once more Visit America's sad shore; And thou, secure from all alarms, Of thundering drums and glittering arms, Rove unconfined beneath the shade Thy wide expanded leaves have made; So may thy votaries increase, And fumigation never cease. May Newton with renew'd delights Perform thine odoriferous rites, While clouds of incense half divine Involve thy disappearing shrine; And so may smoke-inhaling Bull Be always filling, never full.

EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.

Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come: Believers have a silent field to fight, And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. They in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell; Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

1791.

SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn, Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd, Can e'er forget the charms he left behind, Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn! In happier days to brighter prospects born, O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind, Like thee, content in every state may find, And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn. To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme Of idle mirth, and affectation coy; To blend good sense with elegance and ease; To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream; Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy, The guide to pleasures which can never cease!

ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER.

Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse, If, bound in rhyming tethers, He had committed this abuse Of changing ewes for wethers;[844]

But, male for female is a trope, Or rather bold misnomer, That would have startled even Pope, When he translated Homer.

[844] I have heard about my wether mutton from various quarters. It was a blunder hardly pardonable in a man who has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, almost these thirty years. I have accordingly satirized myself in two stanzas which I composed last night, while I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant, therefore, you will know how to account for it.--Letter to Joseph Hill, Esq. dated April 15, 1792.

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

O sovereign of an isle renown'd For undisputed sway, Wherever o'er yon gulf profound Her navies wing their way,

With juster claims she builds at length Her empire on the sea, And well may boast the waves her strength, Which strength restored to thee.

ADDRESSED TO MISS ---- ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.[845]

[845] For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. v. p. 202.

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

Dwells there a wish in such a breast Its nature to forego, To smother in ignoble rest At once both bliss and woe!

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

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

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

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

"Oh! if my sovereign Author please, Far be it from my fate To live unbless'd in torpid ease, And slumber on in state;

"Each tender tie of life defied, Whence social pleasures spring, Unmoved with all the world beside, A solitary thing--"

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

In vain warm suns their influence shed, The zephyrs sport in vain, He rears unchanged his barren head, Whilst beauty decks the plain.

What though in scaly armour dress'd, Indifference may repel The shafts of woe--in such a breast No joy can ever dwell.

'Tis woven in the world's great plan, And fix'd by Heaven's decree, That all the true delights of man Should spring from sympathy.

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

Thus grief itself has comforts dear The sordid never know; And ecstasy attends the tear When virtue bids it flow.

For, when it streams from that pure source, No bribes the heart can win To check, or alter from its course, The luxury within.

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

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

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen, With lustre-beaming eye, A train, attendant on their queen, (Her rosy chorus) fly;

The jocund loves in Hymen's band, With torches ever bright, And generous friendship, hand in hand With pity's wat'ry sight.

The gentler virtues too are join'd In youth immortal warm; The soft relations, which, combined, Give life her every charm.

The arts come smiling in the close, And lend celestial fire; The marble breathes, the canvas glows, The muses sweep the lyre.

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

"So pity shall take virtue's part. Her natural ally, And fashioning my soften'd heart, Prepare it for the sky."