University of Virginia Library

SONNETS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.

SONNET TO THE EARL OF HARDWICKE

Hardwicke! whose bright applause a poet crown'd
Unknown to thee and to the Muse's quire;
Permit his hand with joyous pride to sound
A note of gratitude on freedom's lyre!
And fear not flattery's song from one plac'd higher
Than she has power to raise her menial crew;
From one who, proud of independent fire,
Scorns the base Noble, but reveres the true.
The liberal spirit feels thy generous praise
Fall from pure honour's sphere, like genial dew;
Blest if its vital influence shall raise
A future flower more worthy of thy view!
Blest if in these re-polish'd lays thou find
Some light reflected from thy letter'd mind!

SONNET TO EDWARD GIBBON, Esq.

SONNET TO THE SAME.

How may I, Gibbon, to thy taste confide
This artless copy of a Gallic gem?
Wilt thou not cast th' unpolish'd work aside,
And with just scorn my failing line condemn?
No! thou wilt never, with pedantic phlegm,
Spurn the first produce of a female mind;
Young flowers! that, trembling on a tender stem,
Court thy protection from each ruder wind.
Tho' I may injure, by a coarser style,
The work that Lambert's graceful hand design'd,
I still, if favour'd by thy partial smile,
Shall boast like her of friendship's joys refin'd;
Nor fear from age her list of female woes,
If, as my years increase, thy friendship grows.

SONNET TO EDMUND ANTROBUS, Esq.

Kind Host! who bordering on the vale of years,
Keep'st in thy generous heart a youthful glow,
Whose liberal elegance of soul endears
The joy thy bounty glories to bestow;
Accept a volume, in whose pages flow
The mild effusions of a female mind!
First of the letter'd fair that France can show,
Of sprightly wit with moral truth combin'd!
In the faint copy may thy candour see
Some slight resemblance of her style refin'd:
Whate'er the merits of the book, in thee
May all the blessings of its theme be join'd!
Thine be that joy which friendship's bosom fills;
And thine the peace of age, without its ills!

SONNET TO Dr. HARINGTON

Harmonious friend! to whom my honour'd Muse
Is eager to declare how much she owes,
Accept, and with indulgent eye peruse
Her hasty verse, impatient to disclose
How from your aid her new attraction flows.
Cold as the figure of unfinish'd clay,
Which by Prometheus' plastic hand arose,
My lifeless song in half existence lay:
I could not add the spark of heav'nly flame:
To harmony's high sphere I dar'd not stray
To steal from thence—but in this languid frame
You pour, without a theft, the vital ray:
Your generous art the quick'ning spirit gives,
And by your tuneful fire the Ballad lives.

SONNET TO WILLIAM MELMOTH, Esq.

Melmoth! in talents and in virtues blest!
Pleas'd I contemplate thy attractive page,
Where thy mild Pliny, and Rome's guardian Sage,
Of purer eloquence, thy powers attest,
And rare felicity:—near half an age
Our polish'd tongue has rank'd thee with the best
Of England's classics; yet detraction's rage
Has fail'd to point her arrows at thy breast:
Rich in those palms that taste and truth bestow,
Who praise in learning's field thy long career,
By what nice skill, that worth can seldom show,
Hast thou eluded slander's envious sneer?
Blest who excel! but tenfold bliss they know,
Who in excelling live without a foe.

SONNET TO Mrs. HAYLEY

Thou vext Atlantic, who hast lately seen
Britain's vain thunder on her offspring hurl'd,
And the blind parent, in her frantic spleen,
Pouring weak vengeance on a filial world!
Thou, whose rough billows, in loud fury curl'd,
Have roar'd indignant under many a keel;
And, while contention all her sails unfurl'd,
Have groan'd the weight of ill-starr'd war to feel;
Now let thy placid waters gaily bear
A freight far differing from blood-thirsty steel;
See Hayley now to cross thy flood prepare,
A female merchant, fraught with friendly zeal!
Give her kind gales, ye spirits of the air,
Kind as her heart, and as her purpose fair!

SONNET TO JOHN SARGENT, Esq.

Away with diffidence and modest fear,
Thou happy fav'rite of Castalia's quire!
Withhold no longer from the public ear
The rich delight thy varied lays inspire!
Nor from the Press with trembling awe retire!
That dread essay is dangerous alone,
When mimic dross adulterates the lyre:
Thine is of purest gold—its perfect tone
The fancy and the heart alike obey:
Invention's self has made her Mine thy own;
Give its new gems to blaze in open day,
And seat that bounteous queen on glory's throne,
A brother Bard, if he may boast the name,
Sounds with proud joy this prelude to thy fame.

SONNET ON ROMNEY's Picture of Cassandra.

Ye fond idolaters of antient art,
Who near Parthenope, with curious toil,
Forcing the rude sulphureous rocks to part,
Draw from the greedy earth her buried spoil
Of antique tablature; and from the soil
Of time, restoring some fair form, acquire
A fancied jewel, know, 'tis but a foil
To this superior gem, of richer fire!
In Romney's tints behold the Trojan maid!
See beauty blazing in prophetic ire!
From palaces engulph'd could earth retire,
And shew thy works, Apelles, undecay'd,
E'en thy Campaspe would not dare to vie
With the wild splendor of Cassandra's eye.

SONNET TO Mrs. SMITH

Thou whose chaste song simplicity inspires,
Attractive poetess of plaintive strain!
Speak not unjustly of poetic fires,
Nor the pure bounty of thy Muse arraign:
No, not the source, the soother she of pain.
If thy soft breast the thorns of anguish knew,
Ah! think what myriads with thy truth complain
Of fortune's thorny paths! and think how few
Of all those myriads know thy magic art,
The fiercer pangs of sorrow to subdue,
By those melodious tears that ease thy heart,
And bid the breath of fame thy life renew;
Sure to excite, till nature's self decays,
Her lasting sympathy, her endless praise!

SONNET TO Mr. WILLIAM LONG

Blest be the day which bids my grief subside,
Rais'd by the sickness of my distant friend!
Blest the dear lines, so long to hope deny'd,
By languor's aching fingers kindly penn'd!
How keen the fear to feel his letters end,
Whose wit was my delight, whose truth my guide!
But how did joy that painful fear transcend,
When I again his well-known hand descried!
Such was the dread of new-created man,
When first he miss'd the setting orb of day;
Such the delight that thro' his bosom ran,
When he perceiv'd the re-ascending ray.
Ah no! his thoughts endur'd less anxious strife;
Thou, Friendship! art the sun of mental life.

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM BRYANT,

Aged 91, Parish Clerk of Eartham.

By sportive youth and busy manhood blest,
Here, thou meek father of our village, rest!
If length of days, in toilsome duties spent,
With chearful honesty, and mild content;
If age, endur'd with firm and patient mind;
If life with willing piety resign'd;
If these are certain proofs of human worth,
Which, dear to Heaven, demand the praise of earth;
E'en Pride shall venerate this humble sod,
That holds a Christian worthy of his God,

ON FRANCES KENT,

Aged 19; buried in Eartham Church-Yard.

Here youthful innocence, of humble birth,
Is sunk untimely into silent earth:
This quiet hamlet knew no gentler mind,
“In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.”
Thou peaceful villager, whoe'er thou art,
Now bending o'er her grave with feeling heart,
Learn from her blameless life, tho' short the date,
Each modest virtue that becomes thy state!

ON MARY HAYLEY.

Spirit of Truth, thy warmest language give!
Let all the Mother on this marble live!
The stone may boast, that in her frame combin'd
Woman's soft heart and man's undaunted mind:
But O, fond Parent! no sepulchral lay
Can speak thy kindness, or thy care repay:
Death bore thee to the Power, whose love alone,
Whose love parental could exceed thy own.
Still, thou blest being! still my soul inspire!
Breathe from thy tomb religion's holy fire!
And teach me, ere this fleeting breath shall cease,
To tread that aweful path in mental peace,
That path, which thou without a pang hast trod,
To meet thee at the throne of mercy's God:
The God, whose worship from thy lips I caught,
Shall fix thy image in my faithful thought:
So thou my spirit to his presence raise,
Who as thy Maker most commands my praise!

ODE TO DEATH.

SONG.

[Ye cliffs! I to your airy steep]

SONG.

[From glaring shew, and giddy noise]

SONG.

['Tis Memory's aid my vows implore]

SONG.

[Stay! O stay, thou lovely shade]

SONG.

[Enjoy, my child, the balmy sleep]

ODE TO RICHARD VERNON SADLEIR, Esq.

A CARD of INVITATION TO Mr. GIBBON,

at Brighthelmstone.

An English Sparrow, pert and free,
Who chirps beneath his native tree,
Hearing the Roman Eagle's near,
And feeling more respect than fear,
Thus, with united love and awe,
Invites him to his shed of straw.
Tho' he is but a twittering Sparrow,
The field he hops in rather narrow,
When nobler plumes attract his view
He ever pays them homage due,
And looks with reverential wonder
On him whose talons bear the thunder;
Nor could the Jack-daws e'er inveigle
His voice to vilify the Eagle,
Tho', issuing from those holy tow'rs
In which they build their warmest bow'rs,
Their Sovereign's haunt they slily search,
In hopes to find him on his perch
(For Pindar says, beside his God
The thunder-bearing Bird will nod)
Then, peeping round his still retreat,
They pick from underneath his feet
Some moulted feather he lets fall,
And swear he cannot fly at all.—
Lord of the sky! whose pounce can tear
These croakers, that infest the air,
Trust him, the Sparrow loves to sing
The praise of thy imperial wing!
He thinks thou'lt deem him, on his word,
An honest, tho' familiar Bird;
And hopes thou soon wilt condescend
To look upon thy little friend;
That he may boast around his grove
A visit from the Bird of Jove.

TO Mr. MASON,

On his sending the Author his Translation of DuFresnoy, with Notes by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

IMPROMPTU TO Mr. MEYER.

On his sending the Author, from the Continent, two Prints, representing The Coronation of Voltaire, and Rousseau's Arrival in Elysium.

IMPROMPTU, TO EYLES IRWIN, Esq.

at Eartham.

A RECEIPT TO MAKE A TRAGEDY.

Take a Virgin from Asia, from Afric, or Greece,
At least a king's daughter, or emperor's niece:
Take an elderly Miss for her kind confidant,
Still ready with pity or terror to pant,
While she faints and revives like the sensitive plant:
Take a Hero thought buried some ten years or more,
But with life enough left him to rattle and roar:
Take a horrid old Brute who deserves to be rack'd,
And call him a tyrant ten times in each act:
Take a Priest of cold blood, and a Warrior of hot,
And let them alternately bluster and plot:
Then throw in of Soldiers and Slaves quantum suff.
Let them march, and stand still, fight, and halloo enough.
Now stir all together these separate parts,
And season them well with Ohs! faintings, and starts:
Squeeze in, while they're stirring, a potent infusion
Of Rage and of Horror, of Love and Illusion;
With madness and murder complete the conclusion.
Let your Princess, tho' dead by the murderous dagger,
In a wanton bold epilogue ogle and swagger:
Prove her past scenes of virtue are vapour and smoke,
And the stage's morality merely a joke:
Let her tell with what follies our country is curst,
And wisely conclude that play-writing's the worst.
Now serve to the public this olio complete,
And puff in the papers your delicate treat.

TO Miss SEWARD,

On her being at Eartham, in the variable Weather,

CONTENT.