Harvest-Home (1805) :: :: University of Virginia Library

What tho' the Muse, with gen'rous sire,
Struck to deep tones of scorn the lyre,
While every chord expressed her rage,
To check that mania of the age,
Which gives a dark insidious band
To deal destruction round the land;
The licens'd murderers, who kill
With magic drug or mystic pill;
With compounds villanous and base,
E'en till they thin the human race!

What tho', with reprobation strong,
She aim'd at that fell tribe her song,
Who make the credulous their prey,
Lead fashion, sense, and worth, astray;
Then wanton with a nation's health,
And by imposture rise to wealth:
Thrive on the mischiefs they create,
And multiply the shafts of Fate!

Ah! think not, friend of human kind!
The Muse to genuine Science blind,
Or that the Bard's enraptur'd lay
Twines not for those the choicest bay,

Whom Wisdom has to Science given,
To aid, like thee, the work of Heaven;
Man's ever-trembling frame to save
From those dire agents of the grave,
Who, as in contract foul with Death,
Stop, ere its time, the fleeting breath,
And each fine spring of life invade
With evils Nature never made.

Within the wide and ample bound
Of sacred Truth's capacious round,
Wherever Genius wings his way,
And seems to lend a beam to day,
Tints every cloud with softer hue,
And gives the sphere a brighter blue;
Wherever Science may reside,
Whether in caves she seems to hide,
Or climbs the mountain topp'd with snow,
Where only Science learns to glow;
Where'er the lovely or the grand,
The mild or the terrific band,
Wherever nature can be trac'd,
In the gay field or thistled waste,
In manhood's strength, in woman's form,
In summer's calm, in winter's storm;
Where'er the goddess moves the heart,
Wherever follows useful Art;
On earth, on ocean, or in air,
With these the Muse her wreath shall share.

And who in all this ample bound,
This vast and never-ending round,

Say, who of all this sacred train
Demand the tributary strain
Like those, to whom the healing Mind
And healing Virtues are assign'd?

When erring man, from Eden driven,
Had lost the attributes of Heaven,
The awful front, the radiant eye,
That commun'd with its native sky;
The angel form, the cherub soul,
And all that mark'd a perfect whole;
When scarce a trace of seraph birth
Was left this Paragon of earth,
Whose own frail fragments but declare
Himself the greatest ruin there;
Depriv'd of his immortal bloom,
And destin'd to an early tomb!
Ah see! to mark his lasting shame,
What hosts of dire Diseases came!
Behold, his foul offence to strike,
His body and his mind alike,
The evil-genii seem'd to meet,
In fierce extremes of cold and heat,
And, muttering a witch's spell—
In thoughts more foul, in deeds more fell,
Or cas'd in ice, or scorch'd in flame,
Some seiz'd his spirit, some his frame;
Some pierc'd him with a fiery dart,
Some froze the life-blood at his heart;
And some dread ministers of fate
On all his “days of nature” wait.

And hence life's scenes, however fair,
A fall from Heaven to Earth declare!

Poisoning the cradle where the child
In waking sport, or slumber smil'd:
E'en on the down that form'd its bed,
Some venom of the serpent spread.
The matron who the smiler bore,
With labour-tears was cover'd o'er;
Polluted Being, in each stage,
Like a wide pest, smote youth and age;
Canker'd the rose on beauty's cheek,
Or lurk'd within the dimple sleek,
And all man's relicks were at strife
To blast the blooms and fruits of life.

But pity touch'd th'Almighty mind,
To drop some balm on human kind.
At length—and blessed be her name,
A Phœnix from the ashes came!
Wisdom was suffer'd to illume
The deep and universal gloom;
For, guided by the spark divine,
Fair Wisdom bow'd at Nature's shrine;
By Nature aided, Wisdom drew
E'en from those poisons as they grew,
From wounding thorn, and noxious weed,
From stubborn roots, and latent seed,
From various bodies harsh and rude,
From metals dark and minerals crude,
Some principle of life, to save
The lorn offender from the grave:
A chosen few, whom Wisdom bless'd,
Skilful and sage, reliev'd the rest.

But long was medic power confin'd
To here and there a sapient mind.

The bruised reed was forc'd to bear
The “skyey influence” of the air;
Long time the sick ill-shelter'd lay

If we look back to the origin of Medicine, we shall find its first foundations to be owing to mere chance, unforeseen events, and natural instinct. In the early ages the sick were placed in cross-ways, and in other public places, to receive the advice of those passengers who knew an efficacious remedy suitable to their disorder; and the better to preserve the memory of a remarkable cure, both the disease and the remedy were engraven on pillars, or written on the walls of temples, that patients in the like cases might have recourse to them for instruction and relief. Thus, what mere accident had discovered, was registered in those chronicles of health. This art arose from repeated trials and long experience, which gave an insight into the virtues of herbs and plants, metals and minerals.

,
Sad victims in the public way;
Their litters scatter'd o'er the grass,
Till some Samaritan might pass;
Some seer, whose knowledge might impart
The succour of the healing art.
But oft the rigours of the sky
Prov'd mortal ere relief was nigh.

Yet Wisdom's still-increasing store
Her sage pursuit unwearied bore;
Till, leagued with Science in the chace,
They half redeem'd our fallen race.
Blithe health they drew from noxious powers,
And remedies from fruits and flowers.
From lowly, mounting to sublime,
Ardent they measur'd space and time;
And onward press'd with patient toil,
Explor'd the sea, and tam'd the soil;
With wondrous art they knew to bring
A virtue from the serpent's sting;
The force of medicine chang'd the earth,
Gave fruits and flowers a second birth:
And thus—tho' Sin and Death still reign'd—
Man something of his God regain'd.

At length the true Physician came,
An honour'd and a sacred name!
His office hallow'd, and his power
Of magic use in life's brief hour.
But not to words of solemn sound,
Nor gait austere, nor look profound;

The hand receiv'd with awful state,
While life and death were thought to wait
The fiat of his dreadful nod,
That symbol of this wig-veil'd God:
Nor to imposing dress or show,
That marks the medicinal beau;
Nor yet to modern medic prigs,
Disguis'd in crops instead of wigs;
Who, with a tyro-coxcomb's phrase,
Betwixt a fop and pedant's pace,
With voluble routine of face,
Descant on politics and plays,
On weather, Pitt's and Fox's speeches,
And ladies in their muslin breeches;
With statement of effects and causes—
Divided properly by pauses—
And many a hem! and many a ha!
Of use in physic as in law,
A whisper now, and now a smile,
Feeling, so wise, the pulse the while,
The fee in sight, prescriptions wrote,
To drug the patient to the throat.

Ah, no! to neither of the two,
To coxcomb old or coxcomb new,
Belongs the true Physician's praise:
He, vers'd in Wisdom's various ways,
Devotes what many an aching thought,
And many a midnight hour has taught,
And what the precepts of the sage,
And practice of experienc'd age,
And many an agonizing sight,
That might the stoutest heart affright,

The sinner's couch, the spendthrift's groan,
The husband's gasp, the widow's moan,
The miser, when his world recedes,
The wild self-murderer when he bleeds,—
All these, with many a fate beside,
The fall of youth in beauty's pride,
The pangs that rend the manly frame,
And rack the joints—too dread to name,
The true Physician must endure,
And bear the shock and try the cure:
Nor bear alone, but seem to be
Part of the sick man's family!

And such there are

Amongst this number are to be reckoned Baillie, Pepys, Saunders, and Latham, Vaughan, Pincard, Heberden, Sims, Rowley, and many others of established reputation or rising celebrity, in that great centre of genius and science, the metropolis. Likewise those ornaments of the country, Parry and Haygarth, of Bath; Bree, Carmichael, Gilby, the Johnstones, &c. of Birmingham; Page and Wall, of Oxford; Lubbock, of Norwich; Wilson, of Worcester; Currie, of Liverpool; Baddeley, of Chelmsford; Mackie, Hacket, and Whiteman, of Southampton.

, and bless'd are they
Who own of such the gentle sway.
Oh ye! whom dire Disease has torn
Far from the cheering eye of morn;
And ye, who, when your hearts beat high,
And Fancy painted rapture nigh,
And Hope, to charm those hearts, had wove
The choicest wreaths of tender love;
When Truth had nam'd the bridal day,
And Hymen met you on the way;
Ah! when from these pale Sickness led
Your fainting footsteps to the bed,
And bore you to the chilling glooms
Deep-gathering in your prison-rooms;
And fell Distemper seem'd to twine
Those wither'd wreaths round Sorrow's shrine!
And ye, who saw the powers of Death
Stand ready to arrest the breath,
E'en just as fades the half-glaz'd eye,
And love prepares to catch the sigh,

Say, in that crisis of your fate,
While grief-wrung friends in stupor wait
The last deep groan, and think they hear
The passing-bell assail the ear . . . .
Say, what you felt while flitting life
With death and nature was at strife,
When, ere th'affrighted spirit flew,
The grave wide opening to your view,
The Man of Science eas'd your pain,
And charm'd the spirit back again?
When he, with more than guardian's care,
Those grief-stunn'd friends from dumb despair
Raised to new hope, as fix'd he sat
To watch the awful turns of fate;
The fearful changes to descry,
That flush the cheek or tinge the eye,
Then, as the vital powers return'd,
And nature's fires rekindled, burn'd
Nor here too weak, nor there too strong,
Bearing the ruddy tide along;
Ah! if you can, ye rescu'd train

It has been elsewhere observed, by the Author of the preceding Poem, that it should always be considered as amongst the foremost of the duties of a Physician to assuage the mind, as well as relieve the person of his patient; and although a press of daily practice makes it necessary that he should set a just value upon time, he should never be governed by the stop-watch, to hurry away from the invalid, who he believes might be as much assisted by his Physician's society as by his prescription. On the contrary, it should be his constant practice to solace and cheer, by the prevailing aids of gentle and encouraging conversation, as much as by medicine; and if he really feels for the sufferings of man in general, and of his patient in particular, he would be disposed to devote many of those minutes not seized upon by other engagements, to quiet the throbbing pulse, and incline the wakeful eye to that sleep which, indeed, “ministers to both a body and a mind diseased,” and so often really “knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.” An apparently slight, but in truth a most important office! Few, it is presumed, of the readers of the poem before them, who have not, at one time or another, by some one of the innumerable maladies “to which our flesh is heir,” been consigned to the chamber of disease; and of these, we will venture to say, there is not a single being who has not felt his languor of body and misery of mind gain somewhat of strength and ease, or additionally to groan under the aggravation of both, as the medical gentleman called in, whether physician, surgeon, or apothecary, has been of a courteous or stern demeanour. The failing frame and the desolated spirit are as much raised by the one as sunk by the other. A kind look, a soft word, is sometimes of the utmost consequence: and the breath of hope in life, or of a happy reception in heaven after death, though conveyed in whispers to the ear and heart of a sick person, has done more than all the nostrums of the Materia Medica. The Author has been the more earnest to bring forward this quality, because, having been often a nurse and companion of the sick and sorrowful, he has sometimes seen in medical practitioners the very reverse of this amiable conduct adopted—a fundamental, and not unfrequently a fatal error. He hesitates not, finally, to say on this subject, that next to professional skill, the modes and manners of applying it, of addressing and conversing with the valetudinary, whatever be their disorder, should be relied upon as much as the most salutary medicines he can give: they are the best lenitives of pain; they are the soft balms of a distempered imagination, and most potent cathartics of the body and soul of man.

,
Redeem'd from agonizing pain,
Say what to his blest skill ye owe,
Who freed you from the realms of woe?
For, who but patients can reveal
The hopes and fears that patients feel?

Yes, the Physician's self, more true,
Can bring these touching scenes to view;
Can speak the bliss of friend restor'd,
And paint the pangs of friend deplor'd;
Can tell the gratitude that springs
To greet the man, whom Science brings,

And Heaven permits, with lenient art
To pour a balm upon the heart.

The sages of our isle agree,
To part their consecrated tree,
Of deep and venerable root,
Into three mighty arms, whence shoot
Branches innumerous, which bear
Unfading leaf and fruitage fair:
Those mighty arms, august and strong,
The gaze and wonder of the throng,
The nation's proud supporters rise,
And lift their tops from earth to skies!

On one, to keep the world in awe,
Is marked the letter of the Law!
And one our holy Church sustains!
A prop of Life! the third remains;
The last, in deep utility,
Not the least potent of the three.

Ye fathers of the purple vest,
And ye in sweeping sables drest:
Great tho' your office, and sublime,
Beyond the praise of loftiest rhyme,
Think not the Muse at random sings,
Or partial strikes the plausive strings,
If, while with reverence she deems
Of spiritual and legal themes,
She places equal by your side,
Our equal boast and equal pride,
The men who often give to you
The powers improv'd of judgment true,

The renovated frame, to bear
The pleader's cause, the preacher's care;
The eye to see, the voice to teach,
The noblest aims of lofty speech!
For, ah! how soon the vigorous mind
The frailty such of human kind,
Loses the vital springs of thought,
And is to infant weakness brought!
A megrim or a restless night
May cloud, alas! the mental light;
An ague strike some noble part,
And Erskine's self seems cold at heart;
A fever slightly burns the veins,
And Porteus but a clod remains!
In vain their powers, so bright before,
Are urg'd—their occupation's o'er;
Nor equity, nor awful laws,
Nor e'en religion's sacred cause,
Their chosen advocates can find:
The body has dethron'd the mind!

But lo! some true Machaon tries
The Pæan art—the megrim flies!
The fever yields to medic aid,
And all the chilling symptoms fade;
Again th'impassion'd periods roll
From their rich source in Erskine's soul;
Again from London's mitred pride
Pours forth devotion's warmest tide.

'Tis plain, to make the man complete,
A healthy frame and mind should meet

Sana mens in corpore sano.

And virtue, genius, wit, and sense,
Tho' sometimes they o'erleap the fence
Of ills corporeal, that chain
The feeble body down to pain;
Tho' sometimes soul will buoyant rise,
And spite of clouds attempt the skies;
Traverse in thought the realms of day,
While yet pent up in suffering clay;—
Far more effulgent is their force,
And far more rapid is their course,
When all the energies of mind
Are with the body's functions join'd,
And to preserve of both the play
The true Physician points the way.

Say, who like him, when at the bed
Where anguish lays the proud one's head,
Can urge him to unlock his breast,
And make Humility a guest?
Or bid the sinner, as he lies,
Woo sweet Repentance e'er he dies?
Or teach the miser, robb'd of health,
The idle impotence of wealth?
Or the half-ruin'd spendthrift show
He still is rich, who will bestow
On pleasure less, on virtue more,
And gain the blessing of the poor?
Here Turton's maxims, Millman's rules,
Outpreach the wisdom of the schools;
And Farquhar, when the hand he holds,
And the dread line of life unfolds,
The hist'ry of the pulse records
In a few glad or mournful words;

And Lettsom whispering in the ear,
Reviving hope or fixing fear—
The fear that bids the mind prepare
The pang of parting life to bear!
And Reynolds, when his eyes foretell
The knolling of the funeral bell . . . . . .
And Bree

Author of an excellent Practical Enquiry into the Causes of Asthma, a work highly spoken of by Drs. Currie and Gregory: and the principles laid down in the Enquiry are confirmed by a most successful practice by the ingenious Author.

, while the obstructed breath
Seems lab'ring at the gasp of death,
And the deep heaving of the sigh
Denotes the fierce convulsion nigh;
When Bree exerts his magic power
O'er Asthma dire at such an hour;
The renovating breath to give,
And the life-weary wretch relieve . . . .
These stronger morals can impart,
And fix them deeper in the heart,
Than judge or bishop e'er attain,
Or from the bar or pulpit's strain.

Nor less the true Physician's pow'r
O'er virtue in her trying hour.
As at the good man's couch he stays,
While pain has fix'd, and reason strays;
Or, in the phrensies of disease
From fiercer throes, the senses seize;
Or yet more dire while thought prevails,
More keen—and more than reason fails:
The sharpest ill that man can know—
The dire effect of various woe,
When the soft charm of hope is o'er,
And spirits sink to rise no more!
Or, if there be a fate more dread,
When e'en a future hope is dead,

That ray in tender mercy giv'n,
Which guides the harass'd soul to Heav'n!

All these deep wounds of frame and mind,
To virtue as to vice assign'd,
The true Physician sees and hears

These observations apply and extend to a true Surgeon and Family Apothecary, whose influence and power in their respective departments are no less important and vital, not only to the health but happiness of society.

,
Long ere the summon'd priest appears.
He views the wild and madd'ning eye,
Hears the loud shriek, the piercing sigh;
He knows each harbinger of death,
The livid lip, the catching breath,
The change that mocks the pow'r to save,
Or lift the body from the grave;
He marks the glance of dumb despair,
Or silent tear that melts in pray'r;
E'en here his lenitives avail,
His words may sooth where med'cines fail

Sunt verba et voces, quibus hanc lenire dolorem
Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem.

Horat.

Go then, my friend! for none more true
To Nature's wholesome laws than you;
And none who better knows the art
To guide the person or the heart;
With temperate wisdom each to steer,
And with experienc'd skill to clear
Those treach'rous rocks, that smiling lie
Beneath the waves of Luxury!
Oh hasten where the sufferer calls,
Where beauty fades, and sorrow falls;
At once to sickness and to grief
O bring the cordial of relief;
For ev'ry scene of joy and woe,
The Muse has mark'd, full well you know:

And well the crowds that throng your door
Can paint your bounties to the poor;
And well the rich, releas'd from pain,
Can paint the blessings they regain.

But see on yonder hill a train

The residence of Colonel Wall, whose lady was recovered from a very dangerous illness, under the care of Dr. M. She still continues in the perfect enjoyment of health.

That claims the Poet's loftiest strain!
Yet whose the strain, however high,
Can give the husband's, father's sigh?
Or paint the terror-started tear,
That freezes on the cheek of fear;
While life and death alternate seize
That tender victim of disease?
Or who the high-ton'd bliss can speak,
That thaws the tear upon that cheek,
While sister, husband, parent, friend, and wife,
Seem, in Louisa's health, restor'd to second life?

PRAYER TO HEALTH:

WRITTEN WHILE SEVERAL OF THE AUTHOR'S FRIENDS WERE SUFFERING FROM SICKNESS.

Soft'ner of every ill below,
And crown of every good we know;
Thou only pure and sterling wealth,
Blessing of blessings—roseate Health!

At thy approach each drooping flower
Shall spring more fresh than from the shower;
The Graces on thy steps attend,
And all the Loves before thee bend
As from thy breathings they inhale
More than Arabia's spicy gale:
All Nature, while it owns thy sway,
To Thee shall willing homage pay;
The Sun himself more bright shall shine,
The lustre his, the rapture thine!

Come then, fair daughter of the sky,
The sun-beams playing in thine eye,
Come on the pinions of the breeze,
And chase away the fiend Disease,
And hover round the cheerless bed
Where the stern tyrant bends the head;

Haste to the couch where Charlotte lies

An amiable and highly accomplished young lady, who died soon after this poem was written. A tender tribute to her memory, by her father, will be found amongst the original poetic contributions.

,
Or arm the father ere she dies;
Arm him to bear the death-blow giv'n,
The pang that lifts his child to heaven.
And where yon mourning matron strays,
While at her feet a cherub plays,
Fling from the sphere a softer air,
And sooth a tender mother's care;
Revisit pale Sibylla's cheek

The Author's beloved and ingenious relative, whose happy poetical powers have given an attraction to his former publications, and will be found to adorn part of the present volume under her accustomed signature—Unaltered in worth and talents, but, alas! still the victim of sickness.

,
Where mirth, like morn-beams, used to break:
And Genius shall resume his reign,
And Fancy pour her richest strain.
Then wave thy wand o'er Harriet's brow

The wife of William Moody, Esq. of Beau-Desert Park, near Henly in Arden. A woman of uncommon felicity of expression, and of a most generous heart. More than one effusion to her memory will be seen in the course of this division of Harvest Home.

,
And Sense shall charm, and Wit shall flow.

And give the Friend with wisdom fraught

Rev. Dr. Mavor, then suffering heavily; but now happily restored to his Friends and the Public, both of whom know how to appreciate the qualities of his head and heart.

The power to use his stores of thought;
Stores to enrich the rising age,
Diffus'd thro' many a moral page.

Nor, ah! to that time-honour'd Seer

Rev. Mr. Graves; of whose intellectual energy at the age of ninety-two , an extraordinary specimen will be given in the course of this volume, amongst the poetical republications.

Deny thy smile his age to cheer.
Age such as his shall still be gay,
If thou but deign to gild his way:
Sweet Shenstone's friend then still shall be
Blithe as his own Euphrosyne;
And, number'd 'midst the tuneful throng,
Shall still repay thee with his song.

And he, whose cup of joy ran o'er

Rev. G. Glasse, who, in describing the misery which befel his family from his house having fallen down at Hanwell, and many other severe misfortunes that preceded the yet greater calamity mentioned in these Verses, observed—“All these sorrows have been heaped upon me, in order, no doubt, to prune the over-luxuriance of prosperity, that had known but little interruption; in order, I trust, to make me wiser and better—to harrow up the soul, as Ogden beautifully has it, in order to make it capable of producing the seeds of virtue.”

With Fortune's and thy richer store;
While Nature, Sense, and Beauty smil'd,
In the soft forms of wife and child:

But ah! who now on distant shores
At once a child and wife deplores,
Hides from himself, and vainly tries
To lose swift Mem'ry as he flies!
Bereaved man! O sooth his woe,
For Health can still a balm bestow;
Can give the struggling mind relief,
Or strength to bear the sharpest grief;
Can the just breaking heart sustain,
And bid it beat to hope again;
Can urge the sinking soul to prove
The force of piety and love.

Nor yet to yonder laurell'd Sage,
The far-fam'd Nestor of the age

Rev. Mr. Potter; a notice of whose recent death, and a tribute to whose memory, will be seen, in the beginning of the Poem of “Sympathy,” in close of the Harvest-Home.

,
Refuse thy salutary aid;
But wing thy way to Lowestoff's shade,
Where still the Grecian Muse is seen
In classic robes, and awful mien;
And woos the Zephyrs, as they rise
From azure waves and salient skies.

Then, if a boon remains with thee,
Deign to bestow that boon on me!
The frame which many a shock has worn,
The heart which many a pang has borne,
The nerves which Sickness oft has struck,
And Sorrow wrung, and Envy shook:
And foul Ingratitude, and Care,
Have bow'd to earth,—do thou repair;
O mitigate each suppliant's pain,
Nor let the Poet's prayer be vain!

Now in his ninety-third year.

THE POET'S COTTAGE

TO DR. MAVOR, WHO ZEALOUSLY ENFORCED THE EXPEDIENCY OF RAISING A FUND, TO SECURE THE COMFORTS OF THE AUTHOR FOR THE DECLINE OF LIFE.

Written at Oxford, Dec. 1, 1803.

Yes, Friend, the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.
What, tho' Imagination's ray
Yet shines on life's autumnal day,
And time allows me to prolong,
As Thought invites, my evening song:
What tho' my verse-enamour'd heart
To Poetry's enchanting art
Still fondly thrills; and with a smile
His garland Friendship weaves the while,
Affection's laurels to bestow,
And twine them round the fading brow,
Which, ere another lustrum fly,
Shall show the Wrinkles as they lie

Insidious in their furrows dark,
And deeply stamp the envious Mark—
The Mark indelible,—which Fate
Indents to note our mortal date—
Of these the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.

Fancy, thy lov'd and frolic play,
And magic touch and welcome sway,
And all thy pleasures must be o'er,
Nor charm thy drooping votary more.
And thou long-cherish'd, gentle Muse,
Thy smile withdrawing, shalt refuse,
When wanted most, thy soothing aid,
And leave me in the desert shade,
Deny one kind inspiring strain,
In days of weakness and of pain.
Ev'n like some Bird, whom Tyrant Fate
Has plunder'd of his faithful mate;
Left him where late embower'd he sung,
While thro' the Woods his love-notes rung:
Of this the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.

And ah! a Lot more dire behind
Awaits debility of Mind.
Alas! when ev'ry Muse is fled,
How wretched He who writes for bread!
Who, when the joyous years are flown,
And Reason totters on her throne,
And Fancy fails, and Nature tires,
And Fame herself no more inspires,

And ev'n the sweet return of Spring
No more can make the Poet sing,
Tho' each Musician of the Fields,
Soft to the tuneful Season yields
The glossy plume, the warbling throat,
To Passion's and to Rapture's note,
And ev'ry shrub and ev'ry tree
Resounds with Nature's minstrelsy!
How wretched He who strives to shun
The clamour of the frowning Dun,
Or to keep Famine from the door—
That fiercest Wolf that haunts the poor!
How dire, that He, who many a year
Had rais'd the smile or caus'd the tear
Of wholesome Mirth and tender Grief,
Should want himself the Poor's relief!—
Condemn'd to eat the beggar's meal
In pangs that beggars ne'er can feel;
Or, when deserted by the Nine,
Forc'd to elaborate the line,
To labour more, yet less to please,
In the Mind's anguish or disease—
Of these the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.

Ere thy lov'd Bard, dear Friend, is thrown
Upon the Poet's frozen zone—
Where ev'ry flower shall cease to blow,
And ev'ry stream forget to flow,—
To gild with a sun-setting light
The cheerless hours of mental night,
To fix the Gleaner is your care
In tranquil-Age's elbow chair;

To guard him from those days of grief,
And make his last a Golden Sheaf.—
Yes, well I know, ere Time advance,
And urge grim Death to lift his lance,
When Age on Memory is cast
To catch an Image of the past;
To give me then all life can give,
With wise and mild content to live;
The decencies of age secure,
And smooth what age must still endure:
It is for this the Voice I hear,
The Warning of a Friend sincere.—

Ah think, you cry, how sweet to sit
Sequester'd in some calm retreat,
When all your blossom'd years are flown,
In wicker chair, in cot your own!
How sweet, in Nature's icy hour
To think upon the glowing power,
On Summer scenes long past to muse
In memory's retrospective views;
In fond soliloquy to dwell,
And to yourself youth's story tell,
The school adventure, stripling feat,
The truant prank, and sportive cheat,
Or descant on that prouder time
When first the Muse inspir'd a rhime,
When She you prais'd did first impart
That grove of Laurel to your Heart—
The Smile of Love—to thought still dear,
And sweeter music to the ear
Than all that Fame has since bestow'd,
Ev'n when her wreath with roses glow'd.

And think how sweet, by Memory's light,
To give the mind a second sight,
Life's halcyon moments to renew;
And seem to have them still in view!
Now skimming o'er the level ground;
Now breathing up the steep profound;
Now basking in the sunny gale;
Now rushing to the bowery vale;
Now seeking more umbrageous groves,
Which Contemplation ever loves;
Eye the soft moon-beams from the shade,
While dew-drops tremble on the glade!
O think how sweet, ere life decline,
To make these balmy blessings thine!

But recollected scenes, like those
From whence in real life they rose,
At length progressively decay,
And Life's last day-dream melts away.
Oh, ere that awful hour shall come,
If such an hour must be thy doom,
When not a gleam is left behind,
Darkness of body and of mind,
When man can neither sow nor reap,
Mayst thou secure thy little heap,
That in thy double night shall give,
Till Heaven's good time, the wish to live;
The Harvest-home, thy blest supply,
Till Heav'n approves the wish to die.

Mavor, all this I seem to hear,
The Warning of a Friend sincere.

Rous'd at the thought, at length my soul
Shall own, Self-love, thy strong controul;
Henceforth I worship at thy shrine,
The Gleaner's Harvest shall be mine.
You tell me, Friend, the fund is nigh
Which may the Gleaner's Cottage buy;
Which, ere the joyless time shall come,
May give the comforts of a home.

Congenial to a Poet's cot,
Each Muse-lov'd shrub must grace the spot;
A purling stream, a shady bower,
And many a fair Parnassian flower:
A rose,—What Bard's without his rose?
In ev'ry song it buds or blows;—
A rose of moss its sweets must yield,
Perfuming garden, house, and field:
The primrose too must grace the scene,
The violet blue, and ivy green;
And ev'ry other bloom be there
That's hallow'd by the Muse's care.
But if this golden aim succeeds,
May each kind wish to which it leads
Be crown'd with Plenty's best reward,
The richest harvest of the Bard!

Oh, when the independent cot
And social hearth shall be my lot,
May those who chang'd, with generous power,
The fancied to the real flower;
Who help'd so well to store my purse,
And realize the scenes of Verse;

When visionary meadows yield
To Alma Mater's actual field,
And bonâ fide cottage fare
Succeeds to palaces in air;
And Fairy-land, where Poets range,
To solid Terra Firma change;
May those who help'd to build my cot,
And beautify and bless the spot,
Be at my little mansion found,
The Patrons of the smiling ground!
Without endearing Friendship's power,
Unlov'd the cot, unblest the bower:
Unless a Friend partake the fire,
What comfort can the blaze inspire?
Unless a Friend partake the board,
What pleasure can the feast afford?
Then may each friend of soul sincere
The Gleaner's happy Cot endear!

And, Mavor, thou, a frequent guest,
Mayst thou, in turn, like me, be press'd;
A sunny chamber shine on me,
A shady parlour smile on thee!
And, whether roof'd with tile or thatch,
O mayst thou often pluck the latch!
Friendship's a God! A key is thine;
A master-key—by right divine.

[_]

[Although the following Lines have appeared; yet, as they are alluded to in the Address which immediately succeeds, they are here reprinted.]

A few copies of this Poem have been distributed among the Author's friends, many of whom contributed towards accomplishing the object described.

The reader will observe, in course of the present Volume, that this change is likely to take place.

VERSES TO MR. JOHN MAVOR, OF WADHAM COLLEGE, OXFORD; WITH A PRESENT OF SOME VIDONIA.

To you, whose frolic spirit on the wing
Of glowing youth spontaneously can fly,
To youth and nature's never-failing spring,
Where all the stores of youth and nature lie;

To you, my friend, who, blest in classic lore,
—An early moralist and youthful sage—
Who, from a rich and variegated store,
Can draw life's nectar, mellowed many an age;

What is the envied Cape, the proud Tokay,
Th'o'erflowing goblet, or the mantling bowl,
That makes the dull so wise, the fool so gay?
What can they give to such a buoyant soul?

Nor wit, nor wisdom, can they all impart,
Nor native passion, nor ingenuous truth;
These—the rich vintage of a fervid heart—
Gush in full tides of nature and of youth.

Yet still accept the humble gift I send:
Friendship's “the wine of life” when sound and true
—As sings the awful bard to whom I bend,—
And such the friendship that I feel for you.

Dr. Young.

TO THE SAME, WITH A REGULATION SASH, ON HIS ENTERING THE LOYAL WOODSTOCK VOLUNTEERS, AS LIEUTENANT.

And now, my Academic Friend,
A different verse the Muse must send;
A different wreath in haste must twine
Around fair Oxford's classic shrine;
With bolder hand must sweep the lyre
To mark the Student-Hero's fire.
Vidonia's juice must cheer no more
The peaceful hours of learned lore;
For, ah! to days like these belong
Less pleasing gifts, and harsher song.

Lo! crimson War usurps the throne
Where Science us'd to reign alone;
The thund'ring drum assails her bowers,
Her holy fanes, her lofty towers;
And loud within her cloisters pale
The sights and sounds of strife prevail;
And Wisdom's self resigns awhile
Her sables with a Patriot's smile;
While every son of Science glows
To meet Britannia's threat'ning foes.

Go then, my Friend, where Honour calls,
And quit awhile thy Sacred Walls;
Go join the glory-breathing train
On yonder consecrated plain:

E'en on the spot which Britain gave
To grace her Warrior great and brave,
Illustrious Churchill! “Albion's pride,”
Let him thy virtuous ardour guide.
Behold the Column, where he stands
Superior o'er the spacious lands;
Ah! think his awful Figure moves,
And each heroic act approves!
Mark what his trophied Pillar shows,
And “sink like him thy Country's foes;”
By deeds like his embalm thy name;
By worth like his deserve thy fame;
Be, all his Trump sublime has rung,
And all thy Father's Muse has sung!

But soon as kinder Fates shall yield
Less iron harvests of the field,
When the proud Menacer has known
Her Sons can guard true Freedom's Throne;
When, ev'ry sterner duty o'er,
Fair Peace to Science shall restore
Her Heroes to the studious shade,
Where all but Wisdom's laurels fade,
—Save that the Goddess deigns to twine
Her sapient bay round Valour's shrine—
When War's dread fires no more shall burn,
O mayst thou safe, dear Youth, return,
A classic Victor to the scene
Where Wadham waves her sacred green!
May Learning then resume her Isle,
And crown thy labours with a smile!

And when, in fuller time, thy heart
Shall fonder images impart,
Shall sigh for Wisdom's brightest meed,
Mayst thou in love as war succeed!
May the young Soldier's early fame
Assist the Scholar's awful claim,
To charm some virtuous Maiden's eyes,
And Worth and Beauty be the prize!

Blenheim Park.

TO MR. HENRY MAVOR, ON THE AUTHOR'S WITNESSING THE SIGNATURE OF HIS INDENTURES NOVEMBER 19, 1803.

Thrice, Henry, has the rolling year
Warm'd in my breast the wish sincere,
To tell thee—and in Verse to tell,—
What Verse, methinks, can best reveal;
For oft the Muse can truths impart,
And fix them deepest in the Heart—
To tell thee, how Affection's eye
Has watch'd thee, as the hour drew nigh
When all that Nature gave of rare
Shot up like May-blooms sweet and fair;
To tell thee, how, as they began
To open and unfold the Man,

I breath'd to Heav'n fond Friendship's pray'r,
That Heav'n would make those blooms its care;
And, as the growing fragrance spread,
Celestial sun and dew be shed,
Till the blest fruits shall blight defy,
Not idly ripen, fade and die.

But in Life's paths, so wild and wide,
Thus oft has Friendship softly sigh'd:
The trial of his youth to make,
Which shall my cherish'd Henry take?
Shall that fair brow, those azure eyes,
That promise of the Hero size,
That spirit lofty yet serene,
That ardent and yet gentle mien,
Earn the proud trophies of the Field,
Or to the milder triumphs yield?
Shall Music trance his melting soul,
The sterner passions to controul?
For sure in that young breast there dwells
The Spirit of melodious spells.
Or shall the Pencil's magic art,
Or the sweet Lyre, subdue his heart?
For sure in that young breast there lies
What heav'n-born Poesy supplies.
Or, to a different track consign'd,
Must other labours claim his mind?

Oh! to which path soe'er he bend,
May partial Providence befriend,
Still watch and help him on his way,
His guard by night, his guide by day!

For, wheresoe'er that youth shall go,
A Spirit of the skies will glow.

But lo! th'eventful day appears,
And stamps the fate of future years.
Dear youth, thy pledge this night is given,
And witness'd in the face of Heaven!
Nor Painting's tints, nor Music's sound,
Nor martial notes, though peal'd around
Responsive to a Nation's Voice,—
Nor Arts nor Arms are made thy choice;
A Power more awful and severe,
Who sees the Muse, with brow austere,
In whose unsunn'd yet golden lands
No air-built fairy castle stands;
Nor flowers of Fancy dare to blow,
Nor fabled streams presume to flow;
Law, on his adamantine throne,
Has mark'd and seal'd thee for his own.

And must those charming talents fade
In legal Iteration's shade?
And all those vivid colours fly,
Whose brightness sham'd the Tyrian dye,
In one dull round of words and deeds,
Where Nature fails, and Art succeeds;
And Wit and Fancy, Sense and Taste,
Like noxious weeds all run to waste;
And harsh debate and puzzling phrase
Entangling Truth a thousand ways,
While Wisdom's self is heard to groan
In an eternal monotone;

And pert presuming Impotence
Assumes the tone of Eloquence; . . . .
Oh! must my Henry's happy powers
Yield all their fragrance, all their flowers,
And to Law's thorny maze, resign'd,
Devote his yet unsullied mind?

Oh, no! Avaunt, aspersions vile,
And vulgar errors which beguile!
The cant of Prejudice confounds
With proverbs false and empty sounds!
Tho' oft-times foul and dark chicane
Forms an inextricable chain,
And snares by many a covert deed
Of dire delay, or cruel speed;
Law, my lov'd Henry, boasts a claim
Superior in the ranks of Fame,
And, when sustain'd with zeal sincere,
Is Virtue's buckler, shield, and spear:
Clad in such armour mayst thou go,
Fair Virtue's friend, and Vice's foe!

Resolv'd by honest ends to rise,
The Law, my friend, the means supplies;
Unnumber'd objects round it wait,
To make its votaries good as great.
With awful power and generous pride,
Henry shall take fair Honour's side;
To him the griev'd, the wrong'd, shall fly
For justice and humanity;
To him th'oppress'd shall suppliant kneel,
And sordid hearts be taught to feel;

His generous bosom shall disdain
The low-born arts of length'ning pain;
His eloquence shall aid the Laws,
And plead with fervour Pity's cause;
Shall at the sick man's pillow stand,
And guide his weak reluctant hand,
Nor let the dying parent leave
A plunder'd family to grieve.
A champion for the orphan's right,
The neighbour's due, the widow's mite;
A friend to every virtuous woe,
And only to the base a foe.

Thus, in Law's briery path, a flower
May often spring of mighty power.
The cottage rose, which Pride would rend
From some poor maid, those Laws defend;
The acres which a father gave
To some poor swain, the Laws may save;
That little field, the virgin's dower,
Which Fraud rapacious would devour,
The salutary Laws shall guard,
For Virtue's and for Love's reward.

Thus then shall Henry's tender heart
Its native bounty still impart,
Be armed with more congenial sway,
And take a broader scope to play:
The fairest talents of his youth
Shall gain a nobler grace from Truth.
To guard the real cot from harm,
Exceeds the Pencil's mimic charm,

And Fancy's loveliest landscapes yield
To the glad peasant's rescu'd field ;
And Wisdom's smile and Mercy's tear
Shall my lov'd Henry's choice endear:
For, whatsoe'er the art we name,
Virtue and Vice are still the same;
And whatsoe'er the ribald jest,
The upright man shall still be blest.

This has been recently illustrated in a very singular and interesting manner. A poor widow, who received relief from Birmingham workhouse, came to the house of Mr. U., a professional gentleman, whom she had never seen before, and told him she had dreamt that he could recover an estate for her poor children, which a person unjustly detained from them; and that, although this person knew he possessed the estate unlawfully, he said he would never give it up, and that it was impossible for her to get it, as she could not afford to pay for law, and no lawyer would undertake her cause without money. Mr. U., no less concerned for the interests of the poor woman and her family than for the honour of his profession, after he had inquired into the truth of her statement, entered with becoming spirit into the business, dispossessed the man who detained the estate from her, and made him refund the arrears, and pay the costs of the suit. The poor widow and her children are now in complete enjoyment of the property thus rescued from the hands of a villain, which amounts to upwards of forty pounds a year; and thus her dream is happily accomplished.

TO MR. GEORGE MAVOR.

And what to you, dear blithsome boy,
Compos'd of ease and health and joy,
Fair round and sound, as hawkers cry
Their early cherries,—“Buy, come buy?”
What shall the Muse to you address
That may the Poet's love express?
For sure they both, as fondly true,
My playful George, appreciate you.

What tho' too young for War's alarms,
For Learning's or for Glory's charms;
A dearer debt to you I owe
Than Camp or College can bestow.

O when dark storms, on Winter's wing,
Forbade the cheerless Bard to sing;
When scarcely strung the chilling lyre,
Ere the verse froze upon the wire;
When Fancy's stream refus'd to flow,
And the dull thought congeal'd to snow;
When, sharper than the cutting wind,
A winter gather'd o'er the mind;
When mental vapours, storm and cloud,
Life's changeful atmosphere enshroud,
And, folded in Misfortune's gloom,
Silent I woo'd th'oblivious tomb:—

Or, still more dire, when pangs obtrude,
From cherish'd friend's ingratitude:
The eye that us'd with grief to flow,
The cheek that us'd with joy to glow,
Ic'd to their source; the faithless heart, . . . .
When these the hydra sting impart,
The air of that good-humoured face,
The artless jest, the mazy race,
The gleeful leap, the frolic bound,
As gay we took the garden's round;
Escaping now, now archly caught,
Beguiling thus a moment's thought—
And what for this to you I owe,
Ah! never, never mayst thou know!

And yet, dear George, immense the gain
Of one short moment stol'n from pain!
Stol'n from the gloom that wraps the mind
When trusted Friend has prov'd unkind;
More welcome than the dawning day
To the heath-wanderer on his way;
More precious than celestial light
To eyes but just restor'd to sight:
O 'tis the hope-beam, heavenly fair,
To cheer the darkness of despair.

And what, gay laughter-loving boy,
Your rising talents shall employ,
When you shall reach maturer time,
And claim my heart-felt wish in rhime?
Believe me, George, the happy now
Is smoother than your polished brow;

The minutes and the months more sleek
Than the young down upon your cheek;
And, save that here and there a page
Of Roman Bard or Grecian Sage
Puzzles your wit, and mars the fun
Which makes you wish the task were done,
The present are the days of glee,
And your whole life a jubilee;
And, trust me, never shalt thou share
A time, dear Youth, more void of care.

What then is left to Friendship's Muse,
But that, whatever path you choose,
Whether in Trade's tumultuous road
You toil to gain a golden load,
Or in soft solitudes you stray
Where Nature strews with flowers the way;
Whether devoted to the crowd,
Or cottager, where blossoms shroud;
Or merchant, who, to fill the sails
And waft his freight, invokes the gales;
Or holy man, on some fair green
Where you may lead a life serene
In rectory snug, your patron near,
Amidst good neighbours and good cheer,
Where fat and fair, my buxom lad,
You may be happy as your pad;
And both together take the air
As easy as your elbow chair;
And if you wive, may she, like you,
Be fat and fair, and buxom too!
Or if to sea your Fates should bend,
May day and night, as now, befriend!

May Thetis' self her god implore
To waft your vessel to the shore,
And gently rock you on the deep
In coral cradle as you sleep!—
In short, dear Youth, whate'er the plan
The Fates ordain for you as man,
May all the bliss you now enjoy,
With all the pains you feel as boy,
Permit you still to sport and caper,
In spite of cloud, and storm, and vapour,
Till you another George shall find
As blithe, good-humoured, and as kind,
Your frolic playfellow to be,
And give the pastime you give me!
Then son and sire like us shall race
O'er hill and dale to hiding-place.
Grant this till fourscore years are o'er,—
Affection's Muse can ask no more.

VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PICTURES IN THE EARL OF WARWICK'S COLLECTION, WHILE ON A VISIT AT THE CASTLE.

Hail, Painting! hail thy wondrous lore
That thus can ages past restore,
Bid the triumphant canvass brave
The ravage of th'insatiate Grave,
And antient Time's dread wrecks repair;
Nor leave a crutch or wrinkle there!

Here, as I take a pleas'd survey
Of all that Genius can display
In Titian's hues, and Guido's air,
Or Rembrandt's colours, rich and fair;
Arrang'd in order due, appears
The Glory of a Thousand Years.

Enraptur'd at the glowing view,
I see, in tinting bright and true,
Illustrious Heroes, Dames, and Kings,
And all that Power or Beauty brings
The Painter's kindling touch to fire,
And all his ardent soul inspire.

The Warrior-chiefs and Patriot-band
Seem breathing still in arms to stand:
Awful they rise upon the sight,
And frown, as eager for the fight:

They seem to know Britannia's wound;
And list' to hear her Trumpet's sound;
Burn in her righteous cause to start,
And feel her mighty wrongs at heart.
See how the Martial Figures glow,
To rush indignant on the Foe;
In dauntless England's hours sublime,
To triumph over Death and Time;
Show the proud Menacer his boast,
And pant to shame his daring host;
While conquering Beauty, standing near,
Blends Glory's smile with Pity's tear.

And yet to all these rooms of State,
To arts which rescue us from Fate;
That bid the pride of life rebloom,
And gain a victory o'er the Tomb . . . .
Yes—to all these, though dear to Fame,
Yon' private Scenes more homage claim:
The Castle's habitable part
Gives fairer pictures to the heart;
There Truth and Genius hold their reign,
And Beauty charms without her train:
There Virtue keeps her milder sway,
While painted Shadows melt away.

Whate'er was shown of good and great,
Conspicuous in those rooms of State,
In real life here bloom in shade,
What Painting's Magic never made:
The living hand there plies its art,
The living voice there moves the heart.

The noble Matron there we find
Yields all the treasures of her mind;
Calls forth the mental bud and flower,
Herself the animating Power:
Now see her every grace impart
That aids the form or decks the heart:
The pencil now, and now the lyre,
By turns the youthful breast inspire;
Now teach the energies of Soul
To shed their lustre o'er the whole,
While every beauteous Charge receives
The awful lessons which she gives,
Yet scarce forbear to mourn the wealth
Thus purchas'd by a Mother's health.

Not Raphael's hues, nor Titian's dye,
Can touching forms like these supply:
Corregio, Rosa, Veronese,
With all their art ne'er tint like these.
Such groupes by Nature's God are giv'n,
And all the colours are from Heav'n;
They boast a soft retiring ray,
That yields through shades a lovelier day;
They seek the sweet domestic dome
Where the Mind feels itself at home;
The mild retreat which Virtue loves,
And modest Wisdom best approves.
Obvious to every honour'd guest,
The beauteous figures stand confess'd;
And generous Sons and Daughters fair
The Matron-Painter's power declare.

Here, her illustrious groupe around,
The graceful Artist will be found:

Fair Warwick here her Wreath shall claim,
The Garland of Maternal Fame;
While filial hands shall deck the parent-shrine,
And for a Mother's heart the tender chaplet twine.

TO A LADY , WHO CONVERTED A STRAW COTTAGE INTO A CARD-BOX.

Your Cot—so elegantly neat—
Might be Felicity's retreat;
And Lovers, such as we are told
Dwelt in the Cottages of old,
Where Shepherd-Swain and Shepherdess
Liv'd only to be bless'd and bless,
Might, just on such a spot, secure
A Paradise in Miniature.

There, little Man and little Wife
Might lead the true Arcadian life;
And could we, two of Elfin race
Establish in this charming place,
A tiny couple of that kind
Might there a fairy palace find.
And say, what prouder domes could match
Their small abode, tho' roof'd with thatch?
There's something in it so complete,
The blest Utopia smiles so sweet,

And looks—to Fancy's eye—so fair,
Would I were one of such a pair!

Such was the wish when first I saw
This beauteous Paradise of Straw;
But when the Furniture appear'd,
For which this Paradise was rear'd,
—A Magazine for Cards and Fishes,—
Swift as a thought I chid my wishes.

And, oh! I sigh'd,—and made wry faces,—
That I could pack off those four Aces;
That I might change those Knaves and Deuces
To things more fit for Cottage uses!
Then should the pompous Kings and Queens
Be all dismiss'd to prouder scenes;
Their Sceptres turn to Cupid's Darts,
And yet I'd hold the honest—Hearts.
But if a Diamond I should keep,
'T would only be to purchase Sheep.
Perhaps I might the Spades retain,
As emblems of the happy Swain:
But if the Club staid in the Cot,
'T would be as Guardian of the Spot,
Lest an Invader dar'd to come
And violate the Peasant's Home.

A Cottage full of cards is strange!
In truth, fair Builder, you must change
—Which you can do with equal ease—
To sweet simplicities like these:
Your ready and creative hand
Will be obedient to command,

Will bid each rural charm appear,
Till all that Fancy loves seems near;
The goodly China, in a row,
Shall on the Corner-cupboard glow;
The nut-brown Table shall be there,
The willow Couch and wicker Chair,
The Cuckoo Clock, and Bird-Cage small,
And Sampler gay, above them all;
A Picture meet for Parent's eye,
In token of fair industry.

But still, to crown the blest retreat,
A happy Pair must seem to sit—
A Strephon fit for Cottage Bride;
A Chloe smiling by his side;
The Chimney Corner these must grace,
Meet Furniture for that snug place;
And, while the social Faggots burn,
Each Comfort seems to take its turn;
And, that they may not pastime lack,
You may allow of Cards a pack,
Folded in paper three times double,
Just to consult in Joy or Trouble;
To see what Fortune has in store,
And when she means to frown no more;
And, when she smiles upon the past,
To find how long those smiles shall last:
Or, now and then, in stormy weather,
To play a harmless game together:
And blithesome thus, while rolls the year,
Their very Sorrows to endear.

Now when you thus have dress'd the spot,
The Muse shall call it Anna's Cot,

Where every Youth and Maid may see
What Cottage Furniture should be.
And though 'tis only Fancy gay,
That loves with Forms like these to play;
Which every Maid and every Youth
May, if they please, convert to Truth;
And, if they study Nature's Laws,
May realize what Anna draws:
And though it seems a shining vapour,
Compos'd of pasteboard, straw, or paper,
Fit only for a Baby-house,
And Folks no bigger than a Mouse;
Yet may the Virtuous and the Wise,
Of any age, or sex, or size,
Who 've learn'd true happiness to scan,
A Cottage build on Anna's plan.
Though hers is an Epitome,
They may improve on what they see.
'Tis but enlarging such a spot,
To blend a Palace with a Cot.

Life is, indeed, a House of Cards,
But the best Trumps are such Rewards.
O then, since you that House have rear'd,
And Virtue has your taste endear'd,
That you those best rewards may share,
Shall henceforth be the Poet's prayer;
Till every Cottage joy be known,
Form'd on a model of your own.

Miss A. Thomason.

THE WOUNDED MIND.

TO A FRIEND.

To all the Ills of varying Life,
To public and to private Strife;
To loss of Pleasure, Comfort, Wealth,
And e'en that Loss of Losses—Health:
To these, the Suff'rer Man's resign'd,
To all things, but—a wounded Mind.

But foul Detraction's felon breath
Is sharper than the sting of Death,
And serpent Envy's aspic tongue,
Whose venom in the dark is flung:
What Suff'rer is to these resign'd?
For these produce—a wounded Mind.

Oh! for such Poisons, slow and sure,
Say what can minister a Cure?
What potent herb, or mental balm,
'Midst these, the Suff'rer Man can calm?
What healing Med'cine can he find
To anodyne—a wounded Mind?

Yes,—there's a Cure, and one alone,
And that, my injur'd Friend, 's your own:
The God, the God within the breast,
Shall charm the Suff'rer Man to rest:
This was by Heav'n itself assign'd,
A Triumph for—the wounded Mind.

THE COUNSELS OF AFFECTION.

TO THE AUTHOR'S GRANDSON.

Into my room whene'er you pop,
You think it is some workman's shop,
A Poet's shop—where scraps and scratches,
Made like a motley quilt of patches;
A sonnet here, and there a song,
Impromptu short, or epic long;
The fragment of an essay here,
The remnant of a drama there;
Here, to the Muse, a single line,
There, an address to all the Nine:
A queer mixt medley, old and new,
Just as you make an Irish stew;
The Poet thus crams things together,
And stirs them with a Goose's feather.

Rhyming, dear youth, is often said
To be a megrim of the head,
Caught chiefly in our early days
From novels, magazines, and plays:
With some, alas! 'tis in the blood,
'Tis then as natural as food:
When its first symptom is a sigh,
'Tis darted from a lady's eye:

But when to master giv'n by miss,
'Twixt jest and earnest in a kiss,
The smitten youth, in melting lays,
Shows he is struck a thousand ways,
And straight acrostics by the score,
Charades and rebuses galore,
Seize his poor pate, and off he goes,
Till the poor bard's brain-fever glows;
Then hot and cold his fit by turns,
And now he freezes, now he burns,
Till bound in strong poetic chains
A rhymester he for life remains.

Yet the gay links his ear so tingle,
He loves to hear the fetters jingle—
Hugs them with fondness to his heart,
And would not with one rivet part.
'Tis a sweet madness, which appears,
When truly touch'd, to grow with years.
Nay some, dear Turner, as you see,
Become incurables like me,
And feel the rhyming power so strong,
They seem to live and die in song;
E'en like the swan, who, in a ditty,
Expires so pastoral and pretty.

Yet most things have their worth, dear youth!
E'en Fable is the friend of Truth;
And from this rhiming trick of mine,
Ere I the cherish'd lyre resign,
And quit the Muses, I would fain
Pour forth the salutary strain;

For you invoke the tuneful band,
And strike the chords with friendly hand.
My verse to other friends you view,
And wish some lines address'd to you.
Strange and unnatural the Muse,
Could she her tend'rest aid refuse,
Where Love and Nature both conspire
To harmonize the kindred lyre.

Lines to my Grandson! word of fears
To those who would conceal their years;
For Grandpapa, dear boy, you know,
Speaks crippled hands, and head of snow,
And feeble voice, and tott'ring pace,
And shaking head, and wrinkled face;
To Grand-mammas, indeed, this truth
Seems harsh, when bent on second youth;
But antient Gentlemen reveal
The symptoms that they can't conceal,
And when the silver hair is shown,
The years that brought it they will own;
Yet, lest you should them older guess,
Are somewhat vain, while they confess.
But, Turner, were I older still,
Old as your Hoath's far famous hill,
In rhime I'd tell, and glory too,
In verse or prose, to profit you.
O thou lov'd object of my care,
In whom kind Nature opens fair
Her embryo stores, which fostering Time
Shall sweetly ripen into prime,
Shall bid each virtue spring to birth,
The bloom and fruit of heav'n on earth!

Hail to that air of bounding joy,
The blest delirium of a boy!
I love that leap, so gay and wild!
The ecstasy of Nature's child.
I glory in that hasty kiss;
'Tis unsophisticated bliss.
I dote upon that arch grimace,
That plays the wag in Turner's face:
And for that hero's strut and stride,
Apeing the prince or warrior's pride—
That tragic stilt, or comic glee,—
They have a thousand charms for me.
While yet the down is on your chin,
They note a paradise within;
They note, or I'm no poet true,
What mellowing time shall bring to view.

Poets were prophets in old time,
Why not in days of modern rhime?
Their aim, their end, their means the same,
Why not assert an equal claim?
As one of the prophetic train,
Our sacred charter I maintain;
And now oracular foretell,
O mark the blest prediction well!—
That, when your boyish days are o'er,
Ere you have measur'd years a score,
Those spirits, which, in nature's play,
Run with your little self away,
Scarce wanting wings in air to fly,
Like some young eaglet of the sky;
And in your warm pursuit of fun,
Would dare, like him, the beamy sun;

Sport in his strongest blaze, and soon
Out-travel Herschel in the moon;
As if a star had giv'n you birth,
And you came down to visit earth. . . . .
Yet, midst all this, the Muse can see
So far into the Fates' decree,
That, as you reach fair manhood's day,
You, too, shall give a steady ray;
Shall animate, yet not affright
With momentary meteor light;
But genial warmth around impart,
The sun-shine of a gen'rous heart.

Yet still, dear ardent boy, beware,
O be the Muse your guiding star!
And while she seems, like you, to play,
Much may she stead you on the way!
For many a gust, in summer seas,
May to a tempest work the breeze;
And though like Zephyr now you move,
As if your sails were fann'd by Love,
And budding life looks gay around,
As if lost Paradise were found;
Another Eden, fair and new,
On purpose made, dear lad, for you: . . . .
Yet, if you stray where Fancy leads,
Or Passion, which no counsel heeds,
Too stubborn grown for Wisdom's school,
You still may live and die a fool;
Yea, though a hundred years were told,
'Twould only be a fool grown old.

Thrice envied is your present date,
The happiest in the round of Fate!
From sorrow and from sickness free,
Believe me, 'tis life's jubilee.

Of Vice, you scarcely know the name,
As far from blaming as from blame;
And so immaculate your breast,
That Virtue is its native guest.
How blissful, could such innocence
For ever be its own defence!
How blest, to glide from boyish time,
To life's decay, in moral prime;
The child of Love, and Joy, and Truth,
To latest age, from earliest youth:
Oh! were such gracious bounty giv'n,
'Twou'd be indeed on earth a heav'n.

But Virtue's self, alas! demands
That her allies should know the bands,
The numerous bands that ambush'd lie
To snare her truest votary.
And, O thou dear unconscious boy!
What hordes stand eager to annoy,
What foes in diff'rent forms array'd
Are all preparing to invade!
Not He who now with dæmon ire
Is vast enough the Globe to fire;
Not e'en the fateful Corsican
Could, on his universal plan,
So desolate, destroy, molest,
As one base Passion in the breast,

That puts to rout its guardians fair,
And acts the ruthless tyrant there.
For one such bosom-foe in arms
More than the Despot's host alarms!

Ah! be it then the Poet's care
To point at ev'ry covert snare
That serpent Vice shall guileful lay,
To make your tender youth its prey;
To note false Pleasure's specious claims,
And show you all her arts and aims;
That, should she meet you face to face,
And woo you to a fond embrace,
Whate'er her beauty, spells, or charms,
You may be found in equal arms,
Spread Virtue's shield before your heart,
And save from Vice's poison'd dart.

And first 'gainst Anger's raging power,
Which ev'ry virtue would devour,
Arm the first temper of your soul,
That furious Giant to controul;
For, Oh! unless you can subdue,
He, by degrees, will vanquish you,
Impose a Vassal's servile pains,
And drag you in his galling chains.

Anger's a monster, fierce and strong,
And always most inflam'd when wrong;
Will advocate, and rave, and fight,
Nay bleed, to prove that wrong is right.

The sea, when vext, can less deform,
And change less suddenly to storm,
And far less wild or mad appear,
Causing, in gentle minds, less fear
Than this fell Tiger of the breast,
When by his adversary prest;
And all he deems his foes, who stand
Against his proud and dread command;
And while red Phrensy fires his cheek,
And Passion swells—too vast to speak,
Or, if it finds a voice, is loud
As thunder from the bursting cloud;
Then, what is Parent, Friend, or Wife,
Or all the Charities of Life?
Where are the tender ties that bind
The kindred Heart, the filial Mind?
All 'whelm'd beneath foul Anger's wave,
Where Reason's wreck'd and finds a grave.

I know you oft will hear it said,
Tho' Anger is thus fierce and dread,
He dwells in many a generous mind,
And that the passionate are kind;
That, like the fury of a Lover,
The hot and raging fit's soon over.
Allow'd; but thus 'tis with the gun,
Whose mischief in a moment's done:
A single flash, and there's an end. . . .
But that one flash may wound a friend.
Thus Anger, by a single spark,
May carry Murder to its mark.

And yet Good-humour, when 'tis even,
Is a peculiar boon of Heav'n:
In Son, in Father, Husband, Wife,
Oh! 'tis the very charm of Life;
It can a thousand ways prevail,
When ev'ry other grace shall fail;
Nay, it shall give the plainest face
A conquest oft denied a Grace,
To man and woman shall impart
The pow'r to win and keep a heart.

Is a Friend injur'd? 'twill be found
Pouring a balm upon the wound:
Does Anger rave? it has the skill
To bid the storm of life be still;
It calms, by accents sweet and kind,
The mad tornado of the Mind:
Do Sickness, Sorrow, Want, betide,
And spread their random mischief wide?
Good-humour has for these a charm;
That, if it cannot quite disarm
Misfortune, Poverty, and Grief,
To all of these it brings relief;
And, where the ill admits not cure,
That ill can help us to endure;
Smiling, will half our burthens bear,
And even quarrel for its share:
But that alone the generous strife,
That darkens true Good-humour's life.

But he who wants this gentle guide,
E'en if he has no ill beside,
If Health and Wealth can give no more,
And Beauty smiles upon his store,

Is yet a most unhappy elf,
A scourge to others and himself:
And, in one line his fate to tell,
He carries in his breast—a Hell.

Blest be the Powers! that gift divine,
Good-humour, my dear Turner, 's thine:
I see it with a grateful eye,
And bend in homage to the sky
From whence it comes, and feel my heart
A kindred influence impart;
For, by experience, well I know
What comforts from this source will flow:
'Tis a felicity of Fate,
Which, from my soul, I gratulate.
Happier the Beggar born to this,
Than to a Throne without its bliss;
If Nature, less than Fortune kind,
Denies this Sceptre of the Mind;
A Sceptre which, with sov'reign sway,
The subject World doth pleas'd obey.
How have I seen it, like the morn
When dew-drops glisten on the thorn,
Shine on the peasant's homely shed,
And bless the meanest board and bed!
How have I seen it too prevail,
Where Fortune blew a fairer gale,
With gentle rule guide private life,
And govern Beings form'd for strife;
By soothing art, the fierce subdue,
Yet prove to Nature fondly true!

Yes, thank the Powers, Heav'n-favour'd Boy!
This bosom-comfort you enjoy:

And though I sometimes see a start
That strikes upon my kindred heart;
And hear a question or reply
That wakes the momentary sigh;
And more than once have felt a tear,
At once the proof of Love and Fear,
When the voice thunder'd harsh and high,
And Passion's lightning arm'd the eye;
Your tender youth, and quick return
From all that made my fond heart mourn,
To filial duty, soft caress,
And all that can a Parent bless,
Made me repent those doubts of love,
Which your own Virtue will remove.

But why to you her deeds rehearse,
And with her crimes pollute my verse?
You, who will forge no fraudful art,
Nor hurl conceal'd the poison'd dart:
You, who will ne'er the weak oppress,
But seek the injur'd to redress:
You, who will Merit try to shield,
And in its cause the weapon wield.

May all that lur'd my youth away
Ne'er lead your sober steps astray;
Nor Love's, nor e'en the Muses' fire,
A zeal too warm, too fond, inspire;
Nor e'en Benevolence, though bless'd,
A beam from Heav'n itself confess'd
To light the traveller on his way,
And cheer Misfortune with its ray;
To soothe the Woe too vast to speak,
And dry the tear on Virtue's cheek;

Tempt you to deviate from the line
Which every Virtue should confine!

Promiscuous Bounty gives the food
Appropriate to the Wise and Good,
To Fraud, to Folly, and to Art,
Which ill repay the generous heart.
These on the lib'ral breast obtrude,
And pierce it with Ingratitude;
Like the vile Snake, inflict a wound
On him who rais'd it from the ground.

Dear kindred Youth!—oh! when too late
I've found such hard return my fate,
How have I shrunk from human kind,
And sought a solace for the mind
In the recesses of the shade!
And woo'd Imagination's aid,
Some fair creation of her own
To place upon my bosom's throne,
Some vision'd Friend, who ne'er in thought
A tender Benefit forgot;—
And thus have found a sweet relief
In fancied good from real grief:
For, sure, the sharpest ill we know
Is Friendship when it buys a Foe:
Buys it by deeds that should insure
The Mind, whose wounds it sought to cure.

Yet never let Suspicion's eye
Prompt you to pass the Wretched by;
Or raise a rash ungenerous fear,
That all you see is insincere.

The marks of Sickness ne'er deceive;
The signs of Death you must believe;
The wasted form, and pallid cheek,
And catching breath, to Pity speak;
And when the mangled Wretch you meet,
Dragging his remnants through the street,
E'en tho' the boastive wound he shows,
And tells the story of his blows,
His naval feats, or martial scars,
And all the trophies of his wars;
Ah! think not these a borrow'd tale—
The marks of Truth can never fail;
And if th'assisting limbs are gone,
The reliques are Compassion's own:
When half the active man is dead,
Unfit to dig, he begs for bread.

And, oh! unnumber'd ills behind
Have claims upon the generous mind;
Full many are the wants reveal'd,
But more and deeper are conceal'd:
These never meet the general eye;
Unseen the Tear, unheard the Sigh:
Like waters mighty and profound,
Oft out of sight, alas! and sound:
Oh, let thy feet their haunts explore!
Oh, let thy hand their hopes restore!
Oh, let thy bounty here impart
A solace to the breaking heart!

Still many a varying theme, dear Youth,
Of import great to wholesome Truth,

The Muse of Friendship has to sing,
When hast'ning Time shall on his wing
The Years of riper Thought produce,
And make the Verse of greater Use.

'Twere but a waste of mental power
To antedate Reflection's hour;
Ambition, Vengeance, Love of Gain,
And Passion's mad and fateful Train,
And phrensied Jealousy, and Pride,
And many a foe to Man beside,
And Love itself, the child of Care,
To bid you now of these beware;—
To tell you, though like Heav'n they smile,
Not Hell itself can more beguile;
Would be to crowd the present time
With Forms of yet unthought-of crime.—
As life proceeds, Affection's eye
Shall watch the Seasons as they fly;
Th'attendant Muse shall still be near,
And like some Guardian Sylph appear;
Note all a generous heart should know,
To aid your progress here below.

Till then, dear Youth, be blithe as May,
Nor cloud with care Youth's holiday;
Nor let a presage intervene
To disemparadise the scene:
Be still good-humour'd, gay, and kind,
And build a Heav'n within your Mind.

LINES PRESENTED TO THE SAME, WITH THE “BRITISH NEPOS .”

Enough of Greece and Rome, and every Name
Sacred at once to Virtue and to Fame;
Whate'er the World's imperial Mistress taught,
Her Warriors conquer'd, or her Students thought,
In Latian Realms,—the Brave, the Good, the Wise,
The Schools will place before your wond'ring eyes.
Solon the Good, and Plato the Divine,
And the proud Chieftains of the Cæsar line;
Tully the Learn'd, and Seneca the Sage,
Are all emblazon'd in the classic page;
Of these already you have read the praise—
Their fame—the lesson of your boyish days.

But, ah! the fervors of my patriot heart
Would now a pleasure nearer home impart;
Sanction'd by Truth, and touch'd with fond delight,
Would Albion's Heroes set before your sight:
Her Native Rights, with heart enraptur'd, show,
And teach your bosom, like my own, to glow;
All that is Briton in your soul would fire,
And many a god-like energy inspire.

In this rich volume, dearest Youth, survey
The awful claims our Albion may display:
Oh! take the Gift, and sacred be its place;
'Tis a rare Jewel in a beauteous case.

Fix it on faithful Mem'ry's Tablet fair,
And guard it with a more than filial care:
The story of your Birth-right there behold,
Where generous Thoughts, and Deeds sublime, are told.

See, and admire, array'd in order due,
As the Historian moves his pencil true;
The Worthies of the Isle,—a chosen Band!
As in “their days of nature” seem to stand;
Breathing of Virtue pure, and Sense refin'd,
The boast of Man,—the Lords of human kind!
Vivid and warm, lo Bards and Heroes shine,
Proud Rome and Athens! bright and brave as thine;
Or thine, immortal Greece! though Homer strung
His deathless harp till all thy mountains rung.

Praise to the Heathen Lyre! wherever found
Talent, or Worth, let Glory's Trumpet sound;
Wherever awful Genius may reside,
The Muse shall hail it with a patriot pride:
Light of the Earth! it is the spark of Heav'n!
Not to one Clime, but to all Nature giv'n:
Shine where it may, with homage will I bend,
Not to a Foe, but to Creation's Friend.
Thus Sol's blest beams, though in the East they rise,
Spread more and more till they illume the skies;
To Nature's utmost bounds diffuse the day,
And countless worlds partake the genial ray.

Yet let us to our own fair fame be true;
Ourselves to reverence, is no maxim new;
The Christian Lyre, and Laurel, sure, commands
The Wreath of Honours wove by Christian hands;

Our Alfreds, Sydneys, Newtons, Hampdens, claim;
Bacon of wise, and Drake of glorious fame;
Milton, the British Muses' darling boast;
And Avon's matchless Bard—himself a Host!

These, and unnumber'd more like these, appear,
And the fair Volume, which I send, endear:
As in a pictur'd Gallery, here you find
The form and figure of Britannia's mind,
Tints of her heart, and touches of her soul,
Wrought by the Painter to a beauteous whole.
Here you observe her shine divinely fair,
Her Friends' just Glory, and her Foes' Despair.

An excellent class-book for the emulation of youth, by Dr. Mavor,

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO Dr. BREE, OF BIRMINGHAM,

FROM THE AUTHOR AT BATH; CONTAINING A PARALLEL BETWEEN THOSE TOWNS.

I thank you, Doctor, for your prose,
Wherein your wonted Friendship glows;
Wherein, as usual, you condense,
Well mixed good counsel and good sense.
For most disorders that attach
To feeble mortals you 're a match,
And for each great or little ill,
Within the reach of draught or pill,
However sharp the pain or grief,
I should, from you, expect relief.

But one there is—distemper strange!
A sort of irritating mange;
That the Materia Medica,
Clubbing the art, could ne'er allay.
The Rhyming Itch is a disease
Which only rhyming can appease;
And when all pow'rs of med'cine fail,
Sometimes a stanza may prevail;

But when the inflammation's strong,
The remedy, of course, is long.

Yet, not confin'd to Spring and Fall,
With me 't is constitutional;
I'm subject to it all the year,
And several sits since I've been here
Have my poor Fancy much annoy'd,
And kept me constantly employed.
And truly, in a town like this,
The malady I scarce could miss;
There's something in the air that's catching,
And half my time I have been scratching:
A kind of intermittent case,
Caught in this verse-creating place;
Where causes of the Bard's disease
Spring up with almost ev'ry breeze,
Sudden, a thousand symptoms strong
Break out, and then go off in song.
It seizes at a ball or play,
At parties grave, and parties gay;
Frolic or Folly, Fun or Spite,
Brings on the fit, and makes him write.

And though I here was struck before,
I find the mischief is not o'er;
The Muse is a Tarantula,
Whose bite we sing, not dance away.
Indeed, I've thought—but may be out—
The Poets feel a sort of gout
Peculiar to their own poor heads;
And though not chaining them to beds,

Like martyrs of the smarting toe,
It often comes and goes, I know.

On my poor nerves th'effect is plain,
I feel it swell in ev'ry vein;
Behold, already, how it rages!
But yet, I hope, a few more pages,
As earnest I apply in time
The soothing anodyne of rhyme—
If you have patience to endure,
—Will work a temporary cure.

Methinks I see in this great town
A strong resemblance to your own;
A strange comparison, you'll say,
'Twixt one so dull and one so gay!
True, Birmingham's to trade confin'd:
Yet Commerce of a different kind,
And somewhat in a different way,
More showy, popular, and gay,
The Manufacture sometimes pretty,
Is carried on in this fam'd city.

Upon an old establish'd planning,
We still deal here in Bath japanning:
Not wrought in paper, or on tin,
But a soft varnish for the skin,
Prepar'd with such surprising grace,
It re-creates an antient face,
Fills up each wrinkle, plait and chink,
And so veneers, that you would think

The polish'd mirror had more specks
Than the new creature it reflects;
The young old Lady then appears
In all the bloom of fourscore years!

And I should notice, as we pass,
That sometimes here we work in brass:
This branch of trade we show by night,
Like auction goods by candle-light;
Expos'd in Exhibition-rooms,
Where Beauty everlasting blooms;
Or, if it fades, we can renew,
And bring it fairer to the view;
Bid Cupids, Venuses and Graces,
Long after they've resign'd their places
To Crowfeet, Furrows, Pits and Pimples,
Revive, with all the Smiles and Dimples:
Simply by using the Bath Varnish,
Which neither Time nor Chance can tarnish.

Here, too, both Art and Nature bend
Mutual, their damag'd wares to mend;
And often, where the latter fails,
The former in the work prevails;
For in her toil the Belles unite,
And show their articles each night;
Their undress'd Figures, Statues, Blocks,
Enough to melt, or harden rocks;
Enough to make e'en Lovers freeze,
To see them brave the midnight breeze,
To see them breast the wint'ry sky,
In noble scorn of drapery!

And courting, prodigal of treats,
The “Wind, that kisses all it meets.”

Were I to run the Parallel
'Twixt the dark town, wherein you dwell,
And this, all rear'd of free-stone white,
Comparisons would still be right!
In point of Trade, you see we vie
With yours in Manufactory;
And sure our Mistresses of Arts
Discover as good natural parts,
To polish and to mend a toy,
As any Artist you employ.

But, for a fascinating cram,
What are your mobs at Birmingham
To those which Fashion here displays
In her inextricable maze?
Here, 'tis a Herculean bout
To elbow through a well-pack'd rout:
'Tis easier to thread your mazes,
'Midst all your burnishings and blazes.
And here the furnaces polite,
Kindled by day to flame at night,
Make all the Belles and pretty Fellows
Fume, fuss and blow, like Bolton's Bellows;
And nothing, at your fam'd Soho,
Such crucibles and forges show.
Your world of Buttons and of Rings
Must yield, my Friend, to Bladud's Springs;
And Birminghamians, to a man,
Will see we beat them at Japan.

Nor yet in other dext'rous ways
May you do more than share the bays.
Doctor, although I know full well
Your townfolk in an art excell,
With help of Gentile, and of Jew,
To make the false appear the true;
To turn a Blank into a prize,
That shall deceive all honest eyes;
Transmuting metals with such skill,
You seem to have a Money-Mill,
Which goes so magically round,
It grinds a Shilling to a Pound;
And with surprising Alchemy
You give it such a currency,
The King—God save the mark—your crown
Might take—Heav'n bless him!—for his own.
And a Brum Guinea from your mint,
Although it scarce had sixpence in't,
Might so the sacred Image bear,
'Twas George's honest stamp you'd swear.

Great are the claims of Birmingham,
I own, for this majestic sham;
And Maia's Son, the God of Cheats,
Could ne'er surpass your Counterfeits:
In truth, that Forger in the skies
Your Money-Mills with help supplies;
Bidding each Farthing base inherit
Some of his own Mercurial spirit.

But in the coining art, my Friend,
All Birmingham to Bath must bend;

Indeed, no part of Britain's nation
Can beat us at this Fabrication:
Here, in such wondrous vogue the trade is,
The Firm can boast of Lords and Ladies;
Believe, our polish'd hordes of Skippers
Surpass, in slight of hand, your Clippers.
You've none so well can forge a face,
Or cheat you with so good a grace;
Or neighbour's goods so quick purloin,
Or put off base for sterling coin;
Make copper look like silver pure,
And Bristol stones like gems allure;
And tinsel gaudier powers unfold,
To charm the eye, than virgin gold:
All this is here so understood
To be intrinsically good,
Th'ingenious processes so neat,
The operation so complete,
The nice machinery so true,
To bring a perfect whole to view,
That, in this commerce most refin'd,
We leave, I think, the world behind.

Another article is ours,
Proud Gunnery! with all its pow'rs;
And, sooth to say, in that great trade
Bath has such vast improvements made,
That Birmingham, though three times bigger,
Cannot presume to pull the trigger:
Our Ladies here profess the art
Of musketry, to pierce the heart,

So many fascinating ways,
That their light troops must wear the bays;
Like Patent Pistols, they require
No hacking Flints to rouse the fire;
But Flint itself can teach to feel,
And soon subdue a breast of steel.

At Bath, in beautiful array,
I see them exercise each day;
And, at least nine times out of ten,
Manœuvring better than the men:
And such good gen'ralship appears,
When they beat up for Volunteers;
Or when a raw recruit they find,
With so much care they drill his mind;—
Or when he dares their power to brave,
Scorning to be e'en Beauty's slave.
The proud corps male, though here a band
Arm for the glory of the land,
And feel the military heat,
Must seek for safety in retreat,
Or else must be content to sigh
In Cupid's soft captivity;
Or bound in rosy chains for life,
Unless they snap them in the strife.

Your Artisans, poor devils! tire on
The sounding brass, or stubborn iron;
Labour 'midst sulphur, fire, and smoke,
And pour their souls at ev'ry stroke;
And, after all their work is done,
But thump and hammer out a gun,

A sword, a bayonet, or pike:
Our Artists, in a moment strike:
You drive a dull and tedious trade,
Our armoury is ready made;
All beauteous from a mould of Nature,
Dress'd cap-a-pie, is each fair creature;
Form'd of materials that catch,
Prim'd, cock'd, and ready for a match;
And, braver than Leonidas,
Nobly defend or make a pass:
No dilatory plans they know,
But, like a rocket, off they go.
And, ere your Founderies produce
A single cannon fit for use;
Which, after all your pains and wit,
May, in the proving, burst or split;
Our lovely Bath artillery
Kill in the twinkle of an eye;
Nay, tho' they take their aim so sure,
Soon after killing they can cure—
Order their dead to live again,
And more than “thrice can slay the slain.”

Then, for Sharp-Shooters—O ye powers!
What Female Troops can rank with ours?
Doctor, our Rifle-Women fair
May strike an army with despair:
Dear Son of fam'd Machaon, say,
Who can like these in ambush lay?
So top the hedge, or in a ditch
Await, or batter in the breach?

Do so much mischief with a shot,
And die, or conquer, on the spot?

And then for Miners!—mighty Stars!
O Venus! Queen of Scarfs and Scars,
Say, who can boast such charming wiles,
As those you arm with Loves and Smiles?
In ev'ry well-directed sigh,
A Zephyr shakes a Battery;
And who can scale Ambition's walls?
When one soft tear from Woman falls,
A Trench in each sweet Dimple lies,
And Victory sparkles in her Eyes.

'Tis true our Female Warriors fight,
And frequently attack, by night;
And choose to throw th'unerring dart,
As if in ambush, at the Heart;
And, ere to arm the Trumpet sound,
Thus, imperceptibly, gain ground:—
The Mine is sprung, the Ball has sped,
The Victor crown'd, the Vanquish'd dead:
The Battle bravely fought and won,
Ere the foe thought it had begun,
By Fair Field-Marshals of the plain,
Triumphant in a coup-de-main.
These Warriors act on double plans;
As Instruments and Artisans;
They are, themselves, as you must know,
At once the Quiver and the Bow;
The Sword, the Spear, the Lance, or Pike,
And vanquish with what arms they like.

Nor only Youthful Heroes yield,
But practis'd Vet'rans quit the field;
E'en hoary Age their prowess feels,
Dragg'd at the Victor's chariot-wheels.

Another point that prompts my rhyme,
Is our grand Quarrel here with Time:
With you he labours hard his powers,
Yet you 're contented with his hours;
Or, if you think his pace might mend,
Upon the whole you call him Friend.
At Bath he never can succeed,
Although himself an Invalid;
Whether on Crutches or on Wings
He creeps or flies to these gay Springs.
He's ever in an awkward strait,
His day too soon, or else too late.
Or if, perchance, he nicks the minute
For Belles or Beaux to saint or sin it;
So quick the wish'd-for moment's past,
Or else so long the visits last,
Charybdis here, and Scylla there,
Th'insulted God is in despair.

A town of pastime you suppose
This Bath, where Time himself might doze;
O strange mistake! in half a year
You ne'er can catch him napping here:—
A tann'd and trowser'd cabin-boy
In packet-boat has less employ,
When the sick passengers demand
Assistance from his busy hand—

Than has this hard-work'd Deity,
And all his slaving Family.
Doctor, by both Time's wings I swear,
He's not a second here to spare;
From night to day, from day to night,
He seems to run as in a fright;
Now would it be an idle notion
To call him the Perpetual Motion.
Whether on horseback, or on foot,
In shoe, in slipper, or in boot,
In sandals, gaiters, or in spurs,
In satins, velvets, or in furs;
Or in the high-ton'd nakedness,
Which Fashion calls her Ev'ning Dress;
Whether he moves on wheels, or legs,
The Veteran here for quarter begs.

Instead of hours but twenty-four,
Were each compos'd of twenty more—
Ladies who love to correspond,
The kind, the busy, or the fond,
Their letters, whether prose or rhyme,
From Bath, would still complain of Time:
“Dear Ann! I'm fagg'd thro' day and night,
“I've not a moment left to write;
“I really now, my sweetest Friend,
“Purloin from sleep the words I send;
“My card-racks with invites are broke,
“For thirty ev'nings I'm bespoke:
“This very day—'tis striking three—
“I've promis'd half the world to see.

“Dear Ann, I steal the time for you,
“To say—I can no more—Adieu!”

Time here, at Bath, is like a horse
That ever runs the self same course;
A horse, my Friend, that in his mill
Never gets on, yet ne'er stands still;
Whirling eternally his round,
Till jaded without gaining ground.
This proves him the Perpetual Motion,
And on this proof I make a motion—
That—for this grand discovery,
My claim is good on Ministry:
As truth is not the worse for rhyme,
For my reward I'll trust to Time.

Thus far in sport the Muse of glee,
Shading her aims in pleasantry,
Has struck the frolic lyre; but now,
With sober air, and serious brow,
Ere to a close her subject draws,
She pours the note of just applause.
Tho' Bath is Pleasure's wide domain,
And vast and numerous her train;
Tho' all her Vot'ries here disport,
And here, in truth, she holds her court;
Tho' Fashion here has fix'd her throne,
And proudly mark'd it for her own;
Tho' they stroll here who 've nought to do,
Tir'd of themselves and others too;—
A desp'rate but a true Bath case—
Tho' 'tis a d---d good lounging-place;

Tho' Nonchalance, with careless air,
Comes down to saunter and to stare,
And drags his listless length along,
The weakest thing that e'er was strong;
Of nods profuse, of words so spare,
There was a tax on tongues you'd swear;—
And truly, Premier Addington,
'Mongst your new schemes this might be one:—
Indeed these dummy kind of Beaux
Might speech reduce to Ayes and Noes.—
But then the Belles,—I'll leave off joking,
The subject here grows too provoking:—
Tho' Bath is sought by Want and Wealth,
The general Hospital of Health;
Tho' such as Fortune long has troubled,
And such as long Hope's Cape have doubled;
Adventurers of either sex,
Whom Fancies or whom Feelings vex;
Who with their disappointments come,
Here to obliviate their home;
Thinking the Pump, like Lethe's Spring,
The wish'd Forgetfulness may bring,
Or that the renovating Stream
May grant their wishes in a dream,
When the mind wakes and body dozes,
As the warm dip each care composes;
When Fortune, after all her thumps,
May, unexpected, turn up trumps.
Yes, though here throng these motley trains,
To this resort of Joys and Pains,
Not unattended do they roam,
For with them oft the Virtues come.

Favour'd of Heav'n, Humanity,
And her first-born, sweet Charity;
Soft Pity, offspring of the skies,
And Genius with the sun-bright eyes;
And active, warm Benevolence,
Without parade, without pretence;
And Piety, who, tho' sincere,
Still for the faulty has a tear;
And Beauty too, a gift divine,
Unsullied, as from Nature's shrine;
And cloudless Truth, an angel guest,
And Peace, the cherub of the breast;—
These, and full many a Grace beside,
At Bath, or visit, or reside.

In spite of Pleasure's varied scene,
Her melting voice, alluring mien;
In spite of Pain's despotic sway,
That oft encumbers Bounty's way;
In spite of harden'd Apathy,
That turns to rock the rising sigh;
In spite of Folly's idle crew,
Of narrow thought, and sordid view;
And Envy by a serpent fed,
Seizing the Living and the Dead;—
In spite of these, fair Bath shall long
Be laurell'd in the Poet's song;
To Virtue and the Muses dear,
And, mid' the Nations, blest appear.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE.

TO ELIZA BREE.

Philosophers, dear girl, have toil'd
Two thousand years, and still been foil'd,
To find that far-fam'd precious Stone
They arrogantly call their own;
And they yet rack their sapient brains,
And get but Labour for their Pains.

Alas! they all agree, at length,
To make it out is past their strength;
And so conclude, with reason sound,
This Stone is no where to be found:
But still they talk and write about it,
And wonder how they live without it.

Some place the precious Stone in Gold,
Beyond what Crœsus ever told;
Some give it to corporeal Health;
And some will have it mental Wealth:
Others determine it to mix
In Fashion and a Coach-and-Six;
And some have labour'd hard to prove
It is a Cottage bless'd by Love:
This thinks 'tis Shade, that swears 't is Sun,
And finish just where they begun.

The grand discovery then is mine;—
Since I can prove, sweet Maid! 'tis thine.
If in true Happiness it lies,
It revels in Eliza's eyes:

And if it blooms in Health's fair rose,
In dear Eliza's face it glows;
Like morning-beams we see it break,
And sport upon Eliza's cheek.
And when she takes her playful round,
In every step it seems to bound.

Or if, as Sages oft have told,
The charm consists in making gold
Pure as if stamp'd in mint divine,—
Eliza, still that mint is thine;
And your sweet Alchemy shall claim,
Beyond the Sage, superior fame.
From that rich mine—a merry heart—
You draw, with more than chemic art,
Of happy thoughts a copious store,
And radiant Gold without the Ore,
And the gay vein of sportive Sense
Enrich'd by sterling Innocence;
Th'undrossy treasures of the Mind,
Good-humour'd, graceful, and refin'd;
And, rivalling the Seers of old,
Whate'er you touch transmutes to Gold.
The Brass of Life, and e'en the Lead,
Turn to this envied Stone instead,
And, by the power of Transmutation,
Grow better by their alteration.
And hence 'tis plain this envied Stone
Belongs to Innocence alone;
And those who are as good as you,
May, if they please, possess it too;
For to be good, and gay, and free,
Is still the best Philosophy.

TO THE SAME, WITH A NEEDLE-CASE, SENT FROM BATH.

In Friendship's estimate, 'tis said,
Small gifts are great, if kindly made,
And great ones small, if they impart
No token of a willing heart:—
Hence you, who know me for a Friend,
Will prize the trifling gift I send.

Yet think not lightly of the Case,
Presented from this idle place;
For, when the Furniture you buy,
Which Birmingham can best supply,
To solid use you can employ,
And wisely too, this paper Toy;
When stor'd with that same Furniture,
Some faults 'twill mend, and others cure.

The Muse of Hist'ry could unfold
What Miracles were wrought of old,
What mighty Wonders have been done,
What Trophies and what Triumphs won,
By that mysterious Instrument
For which a Cover I have sent—
E'en from the days of charming Folly;
Blest Days of Infancy and Dolly.
Dear to the heart of Babyhood
The Nurseling—altho' made of wood—

It shines the mark of Women sage,
From earliest Youth to latest Age.
This may Eliza's Sampler tell,
This may her daily tasks reveal;
Whate'er she wears may this explain,
From Ball-night Frock to Bed-gown plain.
The Needle! a long-honour'd name,
Stands proudly in the Ranks of Fame;
Its magic powers of Industry
Can all but conqu'ring Time defy.

In every venerable Dome,
Where'er the Traveller can roam,
Some token of the Needle's art
Doth fair Œconomy impart:
It gives a rich and goodly grace,
Where'er our Ancestors we trace:
It decks the chambers of the Great,
And adds a pomp to rooms of State:
In tap'stried Parlour, trophied Hall,
In Palace vast, in Cottage small,
In back-stitch, tent-stitch, netting, knitting,
In all that's seemly, fair, and fitting,
We view it in each fold and pucker,
E'en from the shoe-string to the tucker;
We view it in each darn and plait
Of matron thrift and maiden neat;
Things poor and rich it holds together,
In spite of wearing, wind, and weather;
And still preserves when Beauty's fled,
And matters hang but by a Thread:
In short, 't is obvious, more or less,
In every thing but Idleness.

But why to You the Needle's praise,
Who prove its worth a thousand ways?
Have I not seen you mend and make,
And tear, as if for mending's sake;
And then again your work undo,
Mending the rent, to rend anew?
And when too happy to reflect
On what, when grave, you ne'er neglect,
Have I not seen—when play has ended—
When thrice you've rent what twice you mended.
How hard you work'd?—no doubt to show
You are both Romp and Housewife too.

And looking hence to after-time,
Your Bard shall prophesy in rhyme;
He sees that all which Art can give,
And Nature from such aid receive,
And all which springs from work or play,
From all that's grave and all that's gay,
Your Worth and Talents will unfold,
Richer than Needlework of Gold;
The native treasures of the soul,
True—as the Needle to the Pole.

QUESTIONS TO CUPID, RESPECTING HENRY HORRIBOW .

Ruler of all the Powers above,
And all below! say, God of Love,
Why did you so much skill employ
To form this Cupid-looking Boy?
Tell me, and pr'ythee tell me true,
Why did you make his Eyes so blue?
They mock the tender Violet's dyes,
And match the azure of the Skies.

Next tell me, if, in youth's gay course,
You mean them to increase their force,
Till their sweet beams, that now, so mild,
Charm like the spirit of a child,
No more shall innocently play,
But take a more destructive ray?
If so,—instead of Eyes so blue—
I would the Boy were blind as you!

Next pr'ythee tell, and tell me true,
Wherefore, to suit those Eyes so blue,
Gave you the Boy such beauteous hair,
Soft as your own, of flaxen fair?

Now if his Heart be not as true
And tender as his Eyes are blue,
Those tresses may to Serpents turn,
And like some fatal Meteors burn!
If so—instead of locks so fair—
Would that his head like mine were bare!

Then for that Voice—that Voice of Love,
Form'd, like your own, to melt and move,
And tun'd with all your Mother's arts,
To charm and captivate all Hearts,—
Why in the Boy's melodious throat
Did you infuse so sweet a note?
If, like a Syren's, 't is design'd
In fatal spells those hearts to bind,
May Discord seize on every sound,
And be the Spells by Truth unbound!

Last for his Lips—Now, Traitor! tell,
Why you made those Lips so well,
Aurora with a Blush might rise,
Spite of the tint of orient skies?
For May's first Rose-buds moist with dew
Are less attractive to the view:—
If for Deceit those Lips are made,
Sooner than Rose-buds may they fade!

And Thou, Minerva, pr'ythee say,
Why with so bright a mental ray,
And all that marks the blue-ey'd Maid,
Hast thou this favour'd Boy array'd?
With ready Thought, Expression fit,
And sterling Sense, and playful Wit!
If these rare Pow'rs are giv'n the Youth
But to disguise immortal Truth,

And Falsehood thus belie the God,
Would he were duller than a Clod!

Yet if—oh, if those Eyes of blue
Prove, like Britannia's colour, true;—
If those sweet Lips, and silken Hair,
And silver Voice, and frolic Air,
Are giv'n this Cupid-looking Boy,
To form some virtuous Maiden's Joy—
May Lips and Eyes still glow and shine,
And Love for each a garland twine,
Till Life be one unclouded Day,
As fair, and young, and fresh as May!

This interesting Child performed the part of Julio, in ‘The Hunter of the Alps,’ at six years of age.

While this sheet is going to press, a friend informs the Author that the only duplicate copy of these verses has been given to a Morning Paper. But, as Mr. Sheridan observes, “Things of this kind always circulate best in manuscript.”

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPANIEL,

WHO CAME AND PASSED A SOCIAL HOUR WITH THE AUTHOR, WHOM HE HAD NEVER SEEN BUT ONCE BEFORE.

Dash! thank you for this morning visit,
—I'm serious, and don't mean to quiz it—
A call of Love, from Man or Beast,
Is always for my heart a Feast:
Again then, thank you, honest Creature:
For sweet the Friendship form'd by Nature.
I know by that ingenuous face,
Thou feel'st I love thy generous Race:
Full many a Puppy, plain or pretty,
From various parts of this fam'd city.
Not half so faithful, kind, or true,
Had been less welcome, Dash, than You.

March 30, 1804.

MUM'S COT:

WRITTEN WHILE ON A VISIT TO MR. AND MRS. BRIMGARD AT WOODLANDS, IN THE NEW FOREST, ON THE AUTHOR'S BEGINNING TO RECOVER FROM A SEVERE INDISPOSITION.

A couple, tir'd of public life,
Withdrew at length from all its strife;
And, blest with fair and well-earn'd gain,
Resolv'd to settle on the plain;
So built an unpresuming cot
On fertile Hampshire's happiest spot:—
They boasted many a loftier dome,
But here they felt themselves at home.

A rhyming Friend of theirs had long
Built many a pretty Cot in Song;
But, too poetical in purse,
Could only run them up in verse;
And though they cut a dash on paper,
Are unsubstantial as a vapour;
Frail as a house of cards, which boys
Erect, and which a puff destroys.

This Man of Rhyme, from various care,
At length fell sick, and wanted air;
For thought he could not sleep a wink,
So 'twas prescrib'd he must not think;

The doctors bid him only play,
And give his Muse a holiday :
On this our Couple, good and kind,
Begg'd he would leave his Muse behind.

“Dear Bard,” said they, “quick leave the town,
The Pool mail-coach will set you down
Near to our garden's rustic gate,
Come then and share our tranquil state;
But first, my tuneful Friend, be sure
You can such solitude endure.

“To you, who love a calm retreat,
Our Forest-Hut will seem most sweet;
For there, in undisturb'd repose,
You may in dormouse-fashion doze;
And shelter'd 'mongst our forest trees,—
Just freshen'd by the ocean breeze,
That visits Southton now and then,
Comes with the tide, then goes again;—
You, with a rustic and his wife,
Like them may taste a cotter's life.
Yet still we must repeat—Be sure
You can such solitude endure.”

“World-weary souls are we, who fly
To forests from society;
Our household is one little maid,
Fit for a couple in the shade:

We likewise boast a little man,
But still upon the simple plan,
Just knows his left hand from his right,
And when 'tis day and when t'is night.
A little dog who loves to sleep,
Which doth our Cot more silent keep;
And if he barks he barks so sweet,
The echo thinks it quite a treat;
We also keep a pair of cats,
Black as a pair of new-made hats;
Yet both so still about the house,
That each you might suppose a mouse;
And for the rest, our bucks and does,
That silent trot along in rows,
Are scarcely than ourselves more dumb;
Which makes us call our Cottage Mum.
Yet if, dear Bard, you'll dare to dwell
In such a hermit kind of cell,
Where all around you are at rest,
We pr'ythee haste to be our guest:
But still we say once more—Be sure
You can such solitude endure.”

Enamour'd of the sylvan scene,
And Nature's charming ray serene,
Where, in soft shade and green retreat,
Health and Contentment fix their seat,
Detesting all the noisy jars
Of private or of public wars;
Detesting too the miser's care,
The vain man's pomp, the coxcomb's glare,

100

And all the pageantry of life,
Which keep the world in constant strife;
Enamour'd too of those pure hours,
Whose white wings are perfum'd by flowers;
Our Bard, with a desiring sigh,
Pray'd for those wings more swift to fly;
But, wanting those, fair Fancy brought,
Which serv'd as well, the Wings of Thought;
These bore him instant to a Cot,
Yet far as ever from the spot;
And so to reach the place indeed,
By the best mode of mortal speed,
Than Fancy's Pinions scarcely less,
He took the Mail for the Recess.

But how to leave the Muse behind,—
For she, a part of Poet's Mind,
—A fact unknown to men of prose,—
Attends the Bard where'er he goes;
In her, as the warm wheel turn'd round,
A fellow-traveller he found,
And so he begg'd her for a song,
To charm him as he rode along.
“Something,” said he, “in praise of flowers,
And woods profound, and waving bowers,
A quiet cot and leafy cell,
Where like a hermit I shall dwell;
While sacred Silence takes her round,
A forester, to guard the bound.

“O aid, dear Muse, when I get there!”
—'Twas thus he ended with a prayer,—

101

“Assist me with thy warmest lay,
The debt of gratitude to pay,
To Quietude an ode inspire,
Yet scarcely seem to touch the lyre;
Let airs Æolian round me move,
Sweet as the voice of whisper'd love;
And oh! another note to thee,
Joy of my life, Tranquillity;
Tranquillity, for which I roam,
In hopes to find one peaceful home.”

Approaching near, he saw the wood ,
Which many a century has stood;
The pride of many a Baron bold,
Bower within bower a thousand fold!
And now the deer before him bound,
“I'm here,” he cried, “on holy ground;
Ah sacred shades, my soul invest,
And sick of crowds, O let me rest!”
The Muse so rag'd in every vein,
Scarce could the coach our Bard contain;
In ev'ry branch of every tree
He thought he saw Tranquillity.

At length the hospitable Pair
Receiv'd him with Affection's care:—
“Since then you tell us, you are sure
You can our solitude endure,
Welcome, thrice welcome, Man of Rhyme!
Mayst thou serenely pass thy time!
Yes, welcome to a woodland life,
With a plain cotter and his wife;

102

Through the wide forest mayst thou roam
For rides and walks, but this thy home,
A still and calm, though dull recess,—
But Quiet sure is Happiness.”

He scarce was seated, when there came
To dine a neighbour and his dame;
And, later in the self-same day,
Popp'd in a traveller on his way;
And yet a fourth till twilight staid
With man and wife and cottage maid.
Next morning brought some faces new,
Then more to chat an hour or two;
And yet another that way bends,
And then a chariot full of friends,
Begirt with cherub children fair,
Who came to breathe the forest air.
Last came a lady in a gig,
And all were merry as a grig,
And kept it up from morn to night,—
In truth it was a bustling sight:
“Zooks!” quoth our Bard, “we here have got
A thronging city in a cot;
I might have left the Muse behind,
For deuce a moment do I find,
Either without doors or within,
She could a single verse begin;
And, 'faith, the Goddess I must tell,
I like the forest life so well,
Unless she comes to laugh and play,
It were as well she stay'd away;
All things are better order'd here,
For health, for pleasure, and good cheer.

103

“Now, as to Helicon's proud Mount,
Of which the Poets make account,
And their far-fam'd Castalian stream,
They're both skim-milk to Forest cream;
Yet glassy brook and purling rill
I wish of my acquaintance still;
And, when well mix'd with malt and hop,
My Verse shall celebrate each drop;
And for their gay Parnassian Steed,
Give me a pad of Forest breed,
Just such a nag as here I stride;
When for an appetite I ride,
Aye and the thing I ride for get,
For both of us return sharp set;
And as he nimbly trots along,
Shows me the theme and aids the song,
Where yellow furze and purple heath,
And many a flow'ret peeps beneath,
Or takes me to the bower or cot,
And lets me draw them on the spot.

“So, in few words, my Lady Muse,
If to assist me you refuse,
Or think'st to keep me poor and pale,
Henceforth my Nectar shall be Ale;
My Inspiration shall be Wine,
One Forest Brimmer's worth the Nine!
And if I needs must run the course,
It shall be on—my Hobby Horse!”

The beneficial effects of this excursion to the New Forest have been already mentioned by the Author in plain honest prose, confirmatory of those poetic effusions, no less honest and faithful as to the fact.

New Forest.

104

VERSES, OCCASIONED BY THE LIBERAL OFFER OF A GENTLEMAN AFTER READING “THE POET'S COTTAGE .”

“Accept,” a generous Stranger said,—
Touch'd by the pages he had read,—
“Accept, since you at length have found
Joy-giving Health on Hampshire ground;
Hampshire, where Health delights to reign,
The Goddess of the Wood and Plain:
Accept a little sylvan spot,
Where you may build your Poet's Cot:
Nay where, already cut and dried,
A river running close beside,
With valley low and mountain high,
And many a capability,
A Cot you'll find, which little care
And no great cost may soon repair:
That Cot is yours, and garden ground;
But first survey the Scene around.”

Our grateful Poet bow'd the head
To all the generous Stranger said;
And Fancy, with her usual charm,
Resolv'd to keep the Subject warm;
Pursu'd in sleep the tempting theme,
And sketch'd her Cottage in a Dream;

105

And they who know her power can tell
Her style of Architecture well;
Nor wonder, if, in labour light,
Her work was finish'd in a night.

Auspicious to the Poet's prayer,
The morning came, and it was fair;
For never did Aurora shine
Or tint more exquisitely fine:
And though the gale of Autumn blew,
And her rich clouding swiftly flew;
Now dark and menacing a storm,
Striding the Sun in giant form;
And now, more beauteous to behold,
The colours dipp'd in heavenly gold.
'Twas a Bard's Morn, when earth and sky
The richest scenery supply.
Oh, Man! like thy much-chequer'd day,
Now with heart-cheering prospect gay;
Envelop'd now in awful gloom,
Pointing the prospect to the tomb;
Thence bursting forth again to light,
Making the prospect doubly bright.

Yet more, it was the day decreed,
With chosen Friend on Forest Steed,
To view the generous Stranger's Cot,
And Land of Promise on the spot.
Forth then they went o'er hill and dale,
And stubborn heath and ductile vale.
With hope elate, and weather fair,
A few hours' riding took them there.

106

And now our Poet view'd his ground,
Enter'd the premises, and found
The terra firma fair and good;
Enough of garden, orchard, wood;
Enough of water, were it freed
From straggling sedge and wanton weed:
And for the Cot, 'twas strong and stout,
And snug within, and warm without;
And the blest southern Sun his ray
Shot in aslant at early day:
A rural church, a parsonage near,
And baronry of grander air;
And, what the Poet thought most sweet,
The scenery around complete;
And, what was still to him more dear,
A nest of little dwellings near,
Where the small neighbourhood, at ease,
Did seem to prosper like their trees;
While ruddy cheek, and sparkling eye,
Bespoke a healthy peasantry,
With whom the Bard his hours might share,
And in hard times relieve their care;
For, from a morsel split in twain,
Enough for nature may remain.

Thus, at a glance, did all things seem
To realize our Poet's Dream.
“A few additions to all this,”
Observ'd the Friend, “were not amiss;”
And those to give—the same kind Friend,
Who help'd to make, now help'd to mend;
She who so well had wrought before,
Now, zealous, form'd one fabric more,—

107

Without a shovel or a spade,
Or other instrument of trade,
Mortar or lime, or brick or straw,
Cement or trowel, axe or saw,
Fancy did all things fit command,
With the slight waving of her wand;
And, without digging, sowing, planting,
To house and ground sent all was wanting;
Dress'd Bard in Fortunatus' cap,
And lull'd Dame Reason with a nap;
And while the spell was stronger making,
Kept only Muse and Poet waking;
And what they did, in one half-hour,
Exceeds a dozen draymen's power,
Counting a day against a minute,
Yet smil'd as there was nothing in it;
Play'd with their work, and did such things,
Time lagg'd behind with weary wings.

Fancy, her wand light waving thrice,
Settled impovements in a trice;
A room was added to the end,
With a spare chamber for a Friend;
Both smiling on the mountain's brow,
And vale and meadow grounds below:
The furniture was simply neat,
Just fit for Poet's lov'd retreat:
A dingey wall, that fronts the door,
With evergreens she cover'd o'er;
The crazy hovel, near the well,
At Fancy's touch obedient fell;

108

The swampy land she dried and drain'd;
The good old apple-trees remain'd:
She, in a moment, made a Mead,
For happy Poet's Cow and Steed.
A Horse like that the Poet rode,
A better sure ne'er Bard bestrode;
For, though he once did make a slip,—
Heav'n help us all!—who does not trip?
Then for the Garden, swift she brought
Green sward and gravel with a thought;
Topp'd the rude hedge, enwove a bower,
And bade her new creation flower;
In short, commanded all things meet,
Till Cot and Garden were complete;
And Brown and Repton needs must own,
To Fancy they should yield the throne.

While thus she work'd, our Bard survey'd
What Friendship gave, and Fancy made;
He heav'd involuntary sighs,
And tears unbidden bath'd his eyes.
“And shall I then yet call my own,”
He cried, “when half my years are flown—
Though flown, alas! my heart, too slow,
Swift though they were for swifter woe!—
And shall I then no longer roam
The varied World, in search of Home?
From, foul Ingratitude, thy strife,
Hyæna false of social life!
And, Slander, from thy venom'd tongue,
And, Flattery, from thy syren song,

109

And from Deceit in Friendship's shape,—
Oh! from all these shall I escape?
Shall I from snakes and snares retire,
To Summer bow'r and Winter fire;
My Friend receive, forget my Foe;
And only those who love me know:
While all the rest shall keep aloof,
Nor dare profane my humble roof?
Oh joys! of every joy supreme!
What pity still 'tis half a dream!”

With this soliloquy he clos'd;
But Reason now no longer doz'd;
And Fancy vanish'd into air.
“Oh, Bard!” stern Reason cried, “beware!
Half of thy wish before thee lies;
Let Reason teach thee to be wise:
For t'other half with patience wait,
The happier turns of future fate;
The premises contented take
E'en as they are, nor dare to make,
Except by gentle, due gradations,
Any of Fancy's alterations.
She may, I own, thy heart allure;
But I, though slow, work far more sure,
And those who treat me with respect
Find me a better architect:
In honest truth, I'm better skill'd
A Cottage to repair or build;
For, though the thing's complete in verse,
I never build without a purse;
Know what my Fund can safely bear,
While Fancy's Bank is form'd of Air.”

110

The Poet bow'd, and, sighing, said,
Reason should surely be obey'd;
He only hop'd the sacred Dame
Would not the Bard or Fancy blame,
If, till that distant, golden time,
They were to help him out in rhyme;
For, sure, in Rhyme itself there's Reason,
Till things more solid are in season.
“If Reason frowns at this,” said he,
“Her Majesty's no Queen for me:
How can I keep her lines and rules,
Till Fortune helps me to her tools?
But, while they both my suit refuse,
Welcome, dear Fancy and the Muse!
For, till I dwell in Reason's Cot,
These best can beautify the spot:
Alternately they work and play;
And Hope works with them, ever gay.
And, though they all are fond of Verse,
What's Reason, pray, without her Purse?

“But, mighty Dame, when that is fill'd,
O come, and help thy Bard to build!
Then Fancy, and the tuneful throng,
Shall yield to thee in all but song;
Invite thee to the Poet's bower,
And offer incense to thy power:
Nay, thou shalt be our constant guest,
By Fancy and the Muse caress'd.”

This Poem appears in page 30 of the present Volume.

111

TO MRS. ROBERSON, OF OXFORD.

What is that trembling, tender Thing,
Whose Love is ever on the wing,
Attended by a thousand Cares,
A thousand Hopes, a thousand Fears?

Say, what is that, whose wakeful eye
In the smooth calm can storms espy?
Whose quick and ever-wakeful ear,
When all is safe, thinks peril near?
Can raise a tempest from a breeze,
And swell a pimple to disease?
Can, while the sun is clear and bright,
Anticipate the dead of night?
And, while an infant smiles in sleep,
Keeps guard lest it should wail and weep?
On tip-toe glides along the floor,
In dread to ope or close the door?

And what is that,—in tranquil hour,
When Love exerts its softest power,—
That o'er the fondling, at the breast,
Attentive bends to guard its rest;
Protects it from the night's alarms,
And saves it through the day from harms;

112

Foregoes with joy all balms of sleep;
A joy so true it needs must weep?
Not always do the eyes o'erflow,
To soothe the agonies of woe;
For Nature gave the tender tear,
To mark her woe or bliss sincere.

And what is that,—as Woman weak,
And doth our pity oft bespeak,—
Who, if some lion, fierce and wild,
Should fasten on a sucking-child,
Would braver prove than bravest men,
And track that lion to his den;
Would mock the horrors of the wood,
And buffet the more savage flood?

O what is that, fair Lucy, tell,
That feels so quick, that acts so well;
That is so strange, and yet so common?
It is that wondrous compound—Woman!
It is—you'll know I tell you true;
'Tis a fond Mother-it is You!

113

TO MRS. BILLINGTON:

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER HEARING HER SING AT MR. RAUZZINI'S CONCERT, APRIL 4, 1804.

What can be said of Voice, or Face,
Of Richness, Elegance, and Grace,
In magic Sounds that may be new
To your Admirers or to You?

A thousand times you must have heard,
Enchantment hung on ev'ry word;
The chime of praises has been rung,
The Harp of Panegyric strung
On ev'ry accent, ev'ry note,
That warbles in that tuneful throat;
Till all, that now could be express'd,
Would prove tautology at best.

Yet, not to praise you when we hear
What charms and captivates the ear;
Not to admire the wondrous art
That so can thrill th'enraptur'd heart;
Not when sweet Music wins the Cause,
To join the Chorus of Applause,
Doth cold Indifference imply,
Or Envy base, or Apathy.

For though Attention, mute as Death,
May strive to check the vital breath;
And, while the rich vibrations roll,
May every Sense, but one, control;

114

Yielding to Harmony, her ear
Entranc'd, and only live to hear;

When the melodious periods close,
And warm and deep th'impression glows;
With fervid hand, and voice, and lay,
She owns Cecilia's boundless sway:
And list'ning Silence joins the train,
The throne of Music to sustain.

Take then, Enthusiast! your due;
Resistless Praise belongs to You:
Transcendent Talents will excuse
The Repetitions of the Muse.

April 4, 1804.

TO MISS SHARP, ON THE SAME OCCASION.

Though Billington, in Music's pride,
Sat like Apollo's radiant Bride,
—Apollo—God of Harmony,
Of Light, and Sacred Poesy—
Like him, unrivall'd in his rays,
Though She her sov'reignty displays,
And lesser Planets, in their sphere,
Shorn of their wonted beams appear:

115

Yet, 'mid the blaze, thy milder shine,
Sweet Maid! proclaims thy gift divine.
Still in thy orbit art thou seen
“A gem of purest ray serene,”
Like some New Stranger of the Skies,
That doth in modest lustre rise;
A beauteous Star, just travell'd into sight,
Which in its lucid course shall gain upon the light.

TO A FRIEND, ON RECEIVING A PAIR OF SPECTACLES.

By various stress of time and weather,
For half a century together,
Some joy-drops and deep show'rs of weeping,
Spite of the balmy dew of sleeping,
My Eyes were all the worse for wear,
And were in search of some repair:

When you, my Friend, in lucky hour,
Bestow'd the sight-relieving power;
A boon as useful as 'tis kind—
Yet had no Eye but of the mind—
Had I been deaf, and blind, and dumb,
For half a century to come,
That Eye, in vision bright and clear,
Would view your worth, and hold it dear.

116

But now, assisted by your gift,
Which gives the Optic Nerves a lift—
I see to tell you, till they sever,
Or close in death—I'm yours for ever!

ADDRESS TO A SPACIOUS HOLLY TREE BELONGING TO MRS. INGRAM, AT WOOLFORD HOUSE, WARWICKSHIRE.

Hail! happy, hardy Evergreen,
Who fresh and fair art always seen;
And through each long revolving year
Dost still immutable appear;
Unlike the evanescent flowers,
Which only bloom in sunny bowers,
Or those frail shrubs and stinted trees,
That flourish in the warming breeze,
Then, in precipitate decay,
Pass, like the Lady-bird, away;
No more to sport, till May's best sky
Revives the vernal Butterfly!

Apt Prototype of those who bask
In Fortune's shine, then drop the mask;
And those who Friendship, weak and poor,
Profess, and then are heard no more!
Too feeble for the world's harsh strife,
Too fragile for the storms of life.

117

But, hail thou hardy Evergreen,
That still unchangeable art seen;
Fair Emblem of a faithful Friend,
Who can both shelter and defend;
By Nature strong and potent made,
To guard the Dome thy branches shade!
And never since that Dome was rear'd,
And thy first pointed leaves appear'd—
Oh! never since thy parent Earth
Nurs'd those unfading leaves to birth,
E'en to the present hour sublime,
That shows thee still in glossy prime,
Tho' many a century be past,
Triumphant o'er each wintry blast;—
No, never didst thou shade impart
To a more kind or generous heart
Than hers who owns thy soft retreat,
Wisdom and Worth's establish'd seat;
For she, like thee, her succour lends,
To shelter and protect her Friends;
In antient hospitable pride,
To spread her bounties far and wide;
In storms and calms, like thee serene,
Like thee, A FRIENDLY EVERGREEN.

But when at length even thou shalt fade,
And Time shall branch and root invade,
When not a leaf of thine shall live,
Her Worth shall Time itself survive,
And bloom a fair and goodly Tree,
When not a trace remains of thee.

118

EXTEMPORE, ON HEARING MONSIEUR VON ESCHE'S MARCHE RELIGIEUSE.

Decent, pious, pensive, slow,
To the House of God they go;
Sacred Sisters, bending there,
Pour the suppliant soul in prayer;
Soar sublime, 'bove sordid earth,
And feel themselves of Angel birth;
Till hallow'd tears, and holy sighs,
Lift their spirits to the skies!

Sweet Musician! in thy notes,
Where another spirit floats
On airy wings of solemn sound,
We see those Sisters pacing round;
Seem their plaintive voice to hear,
Feel their sigh, and catch their tear.

SONG. SUNG BY NINE SISTERS ABOUT TO SEPARATE.

Ah Sisters, sweet Sisters, although we must roam,
Far, far from our Parent, our Friends, and our Home,
How soothing to think that no space can divide
The bonds which Affection and Nature have tied;—
Have tied round your hearts—and tho' scatter'd they lie,
All space they elude, and all parting defy:

119

North and south, east and west, tho' we diversely go,
Those bonds of Affection and Nature shall glow:
Tho' form'd of young roses, they're stronger than steel,
And brighter than gems all the mines can reveal;
In our bosoms the rivets are fix'd to remain,
For, though distance extends, it ne'er weakens the chain;
Each Sister's a link, wheresoe'er her retreat,
And our Parent the centre at which we all meet.

THE TWO SOPHIAS;

OR, THE INNOCENT ELOPERS.

Both Mother and Daughter gone off with a man!
And boarding and bedding a part of the plan!
But as Father and Husband approve of the fray,
The Scandalous World can have nothing to say.
Your time has no doubt pass'd both merry and hearty,
Since Cupid and Hymen were both of the party;
And when such brisk travellers journey together,
They may keep themselves warm in despite of cold weather.
White Favors, Cockades, flaming Torches and Darts,
And Mortals and Gods fed with bride-cake—in Hearts:

'Twas enough to make all the beholders regret,
As the carriage pass'd by, they were not of your set.
For myself I must own, altho' trips of that sort
When time has knoll'd fifty they're not a man's forte,
I wish it had been my good fortune to ride,
Pack'd up in a corner, near Bridegroom and Bride:

120

Yet not for the world to take other folks' places,
But purely to look at two happy young faces;
And if there's a feast for the heart of Bard Pratt
More rich than another, I'll swear it is that;
And Critics and Snarlers may say what they will,
I know better than they the delights that I feel.

Now, though I'm too late in your Jaunt to take part,
I still may pour forth the soft pray'r of my heart—
That the Gods who went with you may greet your returning,
Cupid's Quiver be full, Hymen's Torch be still burning;
And when you and their Godships shall no longer roam,
Like yourselves may they find in your dwelling a Home!

ON ACCIDENTALLY SEEING A FATHER TAKE LEAVE OF AN ONLY SON.

TO MR. WHATELEY

O thou of few but smiling years,
Who fill'st a parent's eyes with tears;
Tears of sweet hope and tender joy,
And trembling love for thee his Boy!
O it is fitting thou shouldst know
For thee alone those heart-drops flow;

121

And as they bathe a Father's eyes,
'Tis Heav'n itself the stream supplies.

Think then, ah think that Fathers feel
More than the fondest tears reveal;
Think that Affection bids them start,
And that their Fountain is the Heart;
Think that they fall, lest thou shouldst stray
From filial Virtue's path away:
Who greatly love must greatly fear,
And both united form the Tear;
It agitates, yet gives relief,
At once the cause and cure of grief.

A parting treasure thou, dear youth,
Of thy poor Mother's love and truth;
Who perish'd as she gave thee breath,—
A legacy, alas! in death;
One precious gem brought safe to shore,
When life's rude storms would spare no more;
And, should that precious gem be tost
By those rude storms till it be lost,
Think how complete a wreck were there,
And think how vast thy Sire's despair!

Ah then how deep the source of tears,
How justified a father's fears!
Yet all those fears shall groundless prove
In a dear Son's observant love.
Thy blooming health, ingenuous child,
Thy pleasures pure, affections mild;
Sense which derives from mirth a charm,
And truth conducting fancy warm,

122

Shall give to that now trembling Sire
All that a Parent can desire!
And all these duties thou shalt twine
Around thy Angel Mother's shrine;
And make her, in her seraph state,
Enraptur'd view her Husband's fate
As oft from Heav'n she sees her Boy
Deserving all a Father's joy!
And if that joy, too great to bear,
Should still demand a tender tear,
O meet it with a holy kiss,
For 't is the sweet excess of bliss.

Of Grafton-street, no less distinguished for professional skill than for the gentleness with which he exercises an art that demands the union of firmness and humanity.

WRITTEN IN THE EMPTY HOUSE OF A FRIEND, ON THE FAMILY QUITTING TOWN.

While gleams the moon-light on the naked walls,
Pale Fancy in her shroud seems flitting by,
And mourning Mem'ry many a scene recalls,
And all the passing shadows seem to sigh.

As from their graves, and this their spot belov'd,
The Ghosts of buried Happiness appear;
Spectres of Joys entomb'd, or far remov'd,
While Friendship views them with a tender tear.

Yet Hope still rises to disperse the gloom,
And gently bids her new-born sunbeams play;
Whispers that fond Affection still shall bloom,
And the Heart follows where she leads the way.

123

IVY COTTAGE.

WRITTEN IN THE DEPTH OF WINTER, WHILE ON A VISIT TO MR. AND MRS. MACGEORGE.

In yonder modest Cot, with Ivy bound,
Full many a pleasing theme has Friendship found.
Around the pictur'd rooms the eye regales
On mimic mountains, and on painted vales:
On these the barren suns appear to glow;
On those to ripen fruitful fields below.
Kings, queens, and princes, deck the storied walls;
Here floats a wreck, and there a ruin falls.
And, though stern Winter chills the earth, we see
Frost hangs his spangled pictures on each tree;—
Fantastic forms—amusing to the view,
Chaste to the chisel, to the pencil true:
Some airy frolic, or some quaint device,
Lovers in frost-work, buxom dames in ice;
Hoar monks congealing on the bending bough,
And hooded nuns all freezing in their vow;
And damsels petrified, as frail as fair,
Their virgin whiteness form'd, alas! of air—
Of fleeting air—for Sol's first amorous ray
Full soon shall melt the yielding maids away:
A second beam, more warm, shall instant draw
The crystal convent to a general thaw.
These charms without:—within each guest can tell
That Love and Friendship in this Cottage dwell;

124

That Hospitality in smiles is there,
The Friend to welcome, and the Feast prepare.

And, would you see what rarely Cots bestow,
And Palaces more rare,—this Cot can show;
Three objects yet the attentive Guest invite,
To give the friendly heart more full delight:
Three happy Portraits drawn from real Life,
And two of these—O strange!—a Man and Wife;
The third a Child—of both the darling bliss,
And their sole strife is for an Infant's kiss:
And whosoe'er dispute their happy lot,
Have but to make a visit to the Cot;
But, would the Cottagers these Portraits see,
Their faithful Mirror will reflect the Three.

TO MR. AND MRS. DROUGHT.

Six years, my Friends, you tell me, you've been wed;
And yet, so smoothly those six years have fled,
That this fair morn seems but your bridal day!
On Love's own wings must they have pass'd away.

Thrice happy Pair! to those who live in strife,
Six years would seem a long and luckless life!
Cupid and Hymen seldom keep together
But just in pairing-time, while full in feather;

125

The first a bird of passage, like the swallow;
To spend a summer month the last will follow;
Then leaves poor Hy. to winter and grow old;
His torch blown out with sighs, himself quite cold.
But both the gods—Ah, bliss bestow'd on few!—
Agree to take up their abode with you;
By their own almanack—oh, happy fate!—
Have taught you both the time to calculate;
Count days but minutes—minutes, that appear
Too swift to roll away the blithesome year.

O blest Arithmetic! and be it yours,
While all that sweetens time below endures!
Such be your happy Reck'ning, till you prove
Bliss beyond measure in the realms above!

Claines, near Worcester, March 5, 1802.

APOLOGY TO A FRIEND,

FOR ADDRESSING HIM SOME TIME AFTER A MELANCHOLY EVENT.

Amongst the first to share your sacred grief,
The first, alas! its cause severe to mourn,—
Ah, blame not, though the last to bring relief,
Or weave the cypress round the sainted urn!

126

For, O how feeble is Affection's lyre
To soothe the anguish of a woe profound!
How vain is all that Genius could inspire!
And Pity's tear but aggravates the wound.

In Nature's pangs 'tis Nature bids us feel,
Beyond or Friendship's or the Muse's power:
Th'Almighty hand that bruis'd, alone can heal,
And pour a balm upon that bitter hour.

He, only He, a solace can impart;
Teach us to think the blow was kindly giv'n;
Can waft a comfort to the Widower's heart,
Breath'd in soft whispers full of Hope and Heav'n.

INVOCATION TO FORTUNE.

PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A SHARE IN A LOTTERY-TICKET.

Why, Fortune, art thou painted blind,
Partial, deceptive, and unkind;
A false coquette, a fickle dame,
A jilt, and each opprobrious name?
It is because mankind agree,
Those are most blind who will not see.

Hence thy deluded votaries shower
Indignant curses on thy power:

127

Hence fools are creatures of thy smile;
Thy favourites oft the base and vile:
And oft thy prostituted wheel
Turns to enrich a heart of steel;
Or some unsocial, sordid elf,
Who has no idol but himself;
Or points the prize to some State knave,
Or Fashion's fool, or Passion's slave:
Yet when the Good thy help invoke,
That cruel wheel receives a spoke;
Or whirls from Virtue far away,
And leaves soft Beauty to decay.
Yes, Goddess! hence it is we shower
Indignant curses on thy power!

But if that curse thou wouldst remove,
And change it to a generous love,—
Make sweet Sophia now thy care,
And it shall soften to a prayer:
O henceforth be the Friend of Truth,
Of Beauty, Innocence, and Youth:
Then Bards shall pray that thou mayst see,
And twine their choicest bays for Thee.

128

TO *******, ESQ.

WAITING THE EVENT OF A CHANCERY SUIT.

If a good Cause were always Law,
In yours there could be found no flaw;
If Sense and Worth could rule the Knave,
You might a whole Banditti brave.
But Lawyers, e'en when honest Men,—
A case that happens now and then,
And I could name you not a few,—
Cannot do much, my Friend, for you:
Reasons for this, alas! there's plenty;
This moment I could mention twenty:
Yet one or two may well suffice
Why to the Rogues you've been a prize.

Imprimis, you were rich and young,
And hence, in part, the mischief's sprung;
And, secondly, the Rogues were poor,
And old;—'twere needless to say more—
Old men in vice, if not in age.—
My Friend, when Striplings dare engage
With such as these, 'tis ten to one
The Good are by the Bad undone;
And Law and Lawyers long outwitted,
Ere with a halter Knaves are fitted.
And if the Clients freely bleed,
And Sense and Worth at length succeed,

129

Though Truth be your Attorney's guide,
If Falsehood takes the other side;
The first preserving the straight line,
The latter moving serpentine—
A Cause may be exceeding good,
Yet what, alas!—in a wild wood,
Where thorns and brambles, and no sun,—
Has Honesty to do, but run
From the fast-following, dext'rous Thief,
Till to be caught is a relief?
Or, if the Law should hang the Elves,
Or they at length should noose themselves,
The gallows and the rope, when near,
Are so preposterously dear;
So much the Rogues have made their prey;
Clients still paying, still to pay;
That when the true Man views the Case,
They almost wish the false Man's place,
And seem at last in balance whether
It were not best to swing together.

Oh! had I but the Woolsack's power
For half a day—nay, half an hour,
Ye Gods, such rare Decrees I'd make,
That Rogues, and Lawyers too, should quake!
Instead of making endless strife,
And Chancery suits a suit for life,
As now a dire estate in fee,
Or a tremendous legacy;
Or an hereditary jail,
Left by our ancestors, in tail,

130

To our Assigns and Heirs for ever:—
My Laws should be more short and clever;
The “Law's delay” I would reverse,
And institute a Code so terse,
To catch, convict, and prove, the Thief;
Or let him go on Trial brief;
Whether a trinket he espy'd,
And, furtive, twitch'd it from my side;
Or, yet more daring, bade me stand,
Or plunder'd me of house and land;
Or whether, viler still, he stole
And sold the secret of my soul;
Made of my faith a felon's prize,
With Friendship's vizor o'er his eyes,
That made him look so just and true,
The bosom open'd at his view,
And gave him every Treasure there,—
His Throne of Honour, Trust, and Care.

All this, methinks, I would comprise
Within a reasonable size,
So different from the present track,
Each of my Clients to his back,
Instead of one suit, might have twenty,
And yet for Lawyers trimmings plenty:—
Suits for the backs and pockets too—
That, Quick as Law—a System new!
Should be the Proverb.—What a change!
And he who could this Code arrange
Would surely merit—say, ye train
Who Hope and Fear have 'plied in vain—

131

Hope, that, like Zanga's in the play,
Has “told you Lies from day to day,”
And Fear, more honest, which your mind
Prepar'd for what of course you'd find—
Ye who have plough'd the rocky steep
Of Law, and sow'd what others reap;
Ye who could Metaphors exhaust,
To tell what Law and Justice cost,
Say what to Him your hands would give?
I hear you chorus—“He should live
In our hearts' core—should flourish there;
Our blest Preserver from Despair!”

And as for You, ye Men of Law,
What from your Bounty should I draw,
For making out each knotty Case
Plain as the nose upon the face;
Make your long Labours brief and terse;
Lighten your Cares, but not your Purse:
The Verbal Army put to rout,
Whereases—a far-fam'd Redoubt!—
Your Forasmuches and Likewises,
Your standing army of Devises;
Phalanx of Alsos and To-Wits,
And So-forths, which your force completes:
Except your Army of Reserve,
A troop of Aides-de-Camp which serve;
And your Sharp-Shooters, who succeed
In desperate Case of Act and Deed.

And then your Miners and Enfolders,
Who take the Foe by head and shoulders;

132

Your Hangers-on, who, though they follow,
Will often beat a General hollow,
In their manœuvreing and planning,
Or boldly seizing, or trepanning:
Then in strong-holds their Prisoners lock,
—Stronger than fam'd Gibraltar's rock—
And keep them there for Actions civil,
Close as the Damn'd are by the Devil!
What would ye give?—Methinks, you cry;
“O rather ask—what we'd deny?
—Albeit, provided he makes good,
(For that must be well understood,)
We'd give him all our Inns of Court,
Thus to cut matters smooth and short;
We'd give the Parchments on our shelves:
We'd give you all things—but Ourselves.”

But lo a Tribe less known to Fame,
And her fair Courts, than those of Shame!
The Pettifoggers of the Law,
Who are, in Nature's Code, a Flaw;
At once the horror and the scorn
Of those whom Bar and Bench adorn;
Whom every Honest Man must hate,
Although too numerous and great
For Law itself, with all its force,
To stop them in their felon course:
A Scouting Party, stout and strong,
To whom the Spy's worst arts belong:
An Host! who though, in order due,
They march to Battle two by two;

133

Th'insidious Sons of Roe and Doe,
—As oft, alack! the Poets know!—
With a slight touch upon the shoulder,
Can conquer better, and are bolder,
Than all your Troops of Volunteers,
Horsemen, and Foot, and Grenadiers;
Nay, more than all New France conceals,
With Buonaparte at their heels.
What would these Wolves to him assign
Who could their dæmon power confine,
And keep them all within the fence
Of Virtue, Brevity, and Sense?
Who lopp'd away Tautologies,
And all the sacred Law's disease?
The Understrappers, to a Man,
Would scout a simplifying Plan;
Deem it with Office making free,
And call the scheme—a Nullity,
Poetic folly, quiz, and trope,
And for th'Inventor vote a Rope.

Then since, alas! 'tis plain, my Friend,
Nothing the course of Law can mend,
And Revolutions make it worse,
Or aggravate the legal Curse,—
All that remains is, as you see,
To pray for your delivery;
Pray that you bravely may endure,
And your Release, though slow, be sure.

134

TO A FRIEND, WITH A SPRIG OF BALM.

[_]

Written in Winter.

Alas! no morning Incense blooms!
Sweet Children of a Summer's day
Are wither'd in their earthy tombs,
Save Balm, that blossoms in decay.

Yet in my breast one Flow'ret blows;
One heav'n-blest Flower of fadeless blue!
Friendship! more fair than Sharon's Rose;
And that, my Friend, shall bloom for You.

TO LADY MOSTYN,

ON HER PROPOSED JOURNEY TO CLIFTON.

If aught which on Earth's surface grows,
Or which in beauteous Water flows;
If Clifton's air, or Bristol's spring,
The wish'd-for Health to Mostyn bring,—
Each wholesome Breeze and salient Stream
(For, in her health, the Rich, the Poor,
The Young, the Aged, ye restore!)
Shall be the Muse's grateful Theme:
Oh! make her then your guardian Care,
Ye Gales, ye Springs,—and win my Prayer!

March 31, 1804.

135

SOPHIA'S ADDRESS TO SORROW.

Source of the Stream, that from the gushing heart
Flows to the eye, and down the polish'd cheek
Of Youth and Beauty, as of furrow'd Age,
Takes its perturbed course! ah, cease to pour
Thy bitter waters on the gentle breast
Of sweet Sophia: dear, unhappy Maid!
Who, the grief-rounded Year, alas! thrice told,
Has steep'd her Birth-day pillow in her tears;
Oh, think that 'twas for Virtue's sake they flow'd!
A Daughter's duty, and a Sister's love.
With these, perchance, another potent cause
Mixed its soft drops! To love, and to resign
Love's fondest hope, that Virtue too is thine;
A bleeding Laurel of a Virgin heart!
The Conquerors of the World have rarely won!

Choose then, afflictive Power, some fitter mark
Of wholesome discipline; thy arrowy store
Point at the guilty breast; at his, who mocks
At sacred Chastisement, though sent from Heaven!
Or Gold's vile Slave, who, from his vacant heap,
Or thrift usurious, can from Famine's lip
Withhold the vital morsel; or false Friend;
Or those who laugh at others' miseries,
And weep their own.—These, and unnumber'd more,

136

Deserve, demand, thy vengeance—Then be these
Thy future Victims! But let milder Guests
Enter Sophia's dwelling; soft Content
And modest Happiness, and Love approved,
And the high conscious Sense of acting well,
And Honour tried—A smiling Family!
Lovelier when sent by Sorrow to the spot
Where, Heav'n-commission'd, she has prov'd the Soul.
Accord this boon!—So shall the latest tears
That fall from her bright eyes, be tears of joy!

THE POET's PETITION.

TO AN INFANT.

Although of such—as Fancy and as Faith
Pourtray to Man—are Heav'n's Inhabitants—so shap'd,
So featur'd; and, if fair as Thee,
Sweet one, scarce wanting Angel wings
To bear thee to thy Cherub Sisterhood—

Ah! in soft pity, aid with thy pure breath
Thy Poet's prayer! O fold thy seraph hands,
And to the Firmament lift thy mild eye
Of kindred blue, and raise thy tender voice
Of kindred harmony, to supplicate
The Power who made and owns Thee, yet to lend,
Ev'n as a Beam of his own Blessed Self,

137

Thy Graces to the Earth! Ah loveliest Babe!
Spirits there are too thrift in this bad world,
Spirits of Darkness! sprung from the foul Fiend,
Who fills them with the poisons of their Sire:
And oft assuming, infant Innocence!
Thy lilied robe and thy unspotted look,
They stain Life's fairest path, and from the Rose
Of Friendship, and of Love, and sacred Truth,
Tear ev'ry fragrant Leaf, wither the Branch,
And rend the holy Roots! and in their place
Set Slander's deadly Nightshade, Fraud and Strife,
The Mind's dire Hellebore.—But thou, sweet Bud!
No secret worm, no canker nourishest
In thy pure folds; nor dare even Slander's self
Sully thy whiteness, or thy perfume blast
With her empoison'd breath. Tarry then,
Ah tarry, with thy fair ethereal Powers,
To cheer us and to bless. Petition Heaven;
And how can Heaven refuse an Angel's Pray'r?

138

THE TRIBUTE:

WRITTEN MARCH TWENTY-FIFTH, 1804, AT THE TOMB OF LADY CALDWELL, Who was buried at Weston, near Bath, March 18th, 1796.

Partner of Him, who, from my early youth,
My soul had mark'd for Honour and for Truth;
Whose generous Sorrows, and whose tender Sighs,
Heav'd from a Heart where still thy Image lies;
Who, as he views thee in thy Daughters fair,
Still feels a Husband's love, a Father's care;
And, while more strongly swell'd the tide of grief,
Brought on the wish'd-for show'r of kind relief;
And 'midst the storm they caus'd, more fondly press'd
Thy beauteous Pledges to his aching breast;
Saw all their Mother in their forms survive,
And scarce, alas! could think them not alive.

True to thy Worth, tho' eight sad years have pass'd
Since near this sacred spot he look'd his last;
And many a dire event and distant scene,
With all that Chance or Change could intervene;
His faithful Spirit to thy Tomb has flown,
And mark'd thy sacred Ashes for his own.
His faithful Spirit leaps the space between,
And summons thine to Caldwell's once-lov'd scene.

139

There Fancy sees thee still amidst thy flow'rs,
Along thy walks, or in thy fav'rite bowers;
And tho' beneath this stone thy relics lie,
Fresh—as when summon'd to th'expecting sky,
Thy graceful Manners, Form, and beauteous Mind,
Still seem to bless the Spot thou hast resign'd.

Take, then, dear Shade, while awful thus I bend,
O take the Tribute of thy Husband's Friend;
A Friend who knows his love, devoid of art,
The richest offspring of the noblest Heart !

Castle Caldwell, the beautiful seat of the family, near Ballyshannon in Ireland: a scene of the highest picturesque beauty.

The following is the Inscription to the Memory of this estimable Lady:

“In Memory of LADY CALDWELL, Daughter of Godfrey Meynel, of Bradley, in the County of Derby, Esq. Wife of Sir John Caldwell, of Castle Caldwell, Bart. In the Kingdom of Ireland. Obiit Anno Ætatis suæ 39, Mar. 18, 1795.

To the Best of Wives, to the Best of Parents,
To a Beloved and Fond Companion,
To the Sweetest and Dearest of Friends;
To such an Exalted Character,
Which in dignifying her Sex honoured Human Nature;
Whose Excellence must live as long as
Virtue and Goodness shall be respected among Men,
This unadorned Stone is placed here;
As the humble Record, and affectionate Tribute,
Of an Affectionate and Disconsolate
Husband.”

140

AN ODE, FOR THE CENTENARY OF THE CHARITY-SCHOOL OF ST. JOHN, WAPPING.

O Thou! to suffering mortals giv'n,
Whom the Almighty Father calls his own,
And plac'd Thee near his everlasting Throne,
Amongst the best belov'd of Heav'n!

Sister of Pity and of Love,
O Charity! supremely fair,
Now, in thy native realms above,
Receive, receive our tributary prayer!

For now the blessed hour appears,
After the Sun his hundred years
Hath on thy temple shone with light divine;
And now thy chosen Bands,
With ready and obedient hands,
Would pour their incense o'er thy hallow'd shrine;
Their free-will offering now would pay,
More bright and beauteous than the ray
That Sun in His centenary could dart—
The sacred Incense of a grateful Heart!

Say, can the beam of orient Morn
So gem, with lucid light, the Thorn

141

On whose fresh bud the dew-drops shine,—
Can these with the rich crystal vie
That glows in cherub Pity's eye,
Or, gentle Gratitude! with thine?
Say, can that orient Morn itself display
So pure a tribute, or so soft a ray?

To that the noon-tide Orb is pale;
And faint, Arabia's boasted gale
To the sweet sigh the widow'd Mother heaves,
Or smile of orphan'd Babe, whom Charity relieves.
Zephyrs of Paradise were rude
To thy soft breath, O Gratitude!

And, hark! responsive to the mingled sound,
While Music spreads the breathing charm around,
With folded hands and flowing eyes,
What suppliant, tender Forms arise!
What bosoms taught by Thee to know
Of Gratitude th'enraptur'd glow!
In every voice we hear it speak,
We see it bloom on every cheek;
We see it in each smile and tear,
That hails, O Charity! thy votive Year:

And while thy tender Mercies we proclaim,
Catch a bright portion of thy heav'nly flame;
Fill'd with thy Spirit, feel the spark divine,
And learn to make our Treasures blest as thine.

143

THE MODERN HERCULES.

TO JOHN VANCOUVER, ESQ., ON HIS PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH A GOLDEN PEN.

Except that muzzy Quiz, an Owl,
A Goose seems Nature's silliest Fowl;
But this Lavat'ring judgment makes
A thousand rude and rash mistakes.
An Owl, 'tis said, is Wisdom's bird:
Wisdom in this appears absurd;
For with my might I do aver,
The Goddess should a Goose prefer.

What can an Owl but sit and blink,
And slumber while she seems to think?
Mope through the day in barn or house,
Then wake to hunt a starveling Mouse?
A Fool, that dares to look profound
With Folly's visage fair and round?
Just as the Parrot, Custom's slave,
Is call'd an arch and witty knave,
Because, without or sense or thought,
She apes and slanders as she's taught.
But if the Owl steals forth ere night,
She finds she was not born for flight:

144

Is spurn'd by all that wing the plains,
Till she her hiding-place regains.
And thus this favourite of the Wise
In drowsy darkness lives and dies.

But for the Goose—Ye Periods, roll,
To vindicate that injured Fowl!
'Tis true, when Geese have got together,
—Like other Gossips of a feather—
They'll graze and gabble half a day,
And neither sense nor wit display:
But then in this you know they find
Their counterparts in Humankind.
And grave Historians relate
A Roman Goose once sav'd the State;
And though I own an Idiot-look
Hath ne'er the Goose's head forsook,
Which seems extremely dull and stupid;
Yet Pallas, Venus, Mars and Cupid,
And all the votaries of Apollo,
Are still oblig'd to steal or borrow,
Whene'er they try to soar or sing,
A feather from the Goose's wing.

And how could absent Lovers woo,
And carry on their bill and coo,
Without their guardian Goose's quill
To mark a page of coo and bill;
To spread from east to west a sigh
Responsive of the tender lie—
Pardon—I mean the tender Truth?
For every Boaz boasts a Ruth!

145

Not Palmer's wheels could cheer the Maid,
Without a Goose or Gander's aid!
And if, as sometimes is the case,
The Swain or Maiden's in disgrace,
What like the Goose-quill can impart
A lesson to the roving Heart?
Or what to bleeding Constancy
Such balmy comfort can apply?

And, ah! how poor the Warrior's fame,
Did not the Pen assert his claim!
And as for frolic, fun, and spirit,
And all that Belles and Beaux inherit,
A Goose can keep them all in awe,
By teaching justice, sense, and law.
In short, though Birds of prouder note,
More gaudy plume, more tuneful throat,
With loftier lays the Bard inspire,
Should claim more homage from his lyre,
A single feather from the Goose
Shall prove of more intrinsic use;
A truer friend to Virtue's cause,
And those submissive to her laws,
Than all the Owls that wing the air,
Although Minerva's partial care.

But how, my Friend, shall I receive
The splendid instrument you give?
A Poet with a golden Pen
Preposterous seems to prosing men;
Who with the Goose their stomachs fill,
And leave poor Poets but the Quill.

146

Yet since you thus indulge the Muse,
She would be churlish to refuse.
But what must be her theme sublime,
Her thoughts august, and lofty rhyme?
Oh! what should be the soaring lay
To suit a gift so rich and gay?
Shall she some Warrior's fame rehearse?
Or shall the Lover's grace her verse?
Shall Friendship mark the glowing line?
Or, Pity, shall the strain be thine?
Direct me, ever-honour'd Muse,
The subject of the Song to choose.

I paus'd. Methought as if inspir'd,
As if by some emotion fir'd,
The Pen of Gold, upon its stand
Self-mov'd, began to seek my hand;
And thus to Fancy's ear replied,
By Fancy's self personified,

“O Bard! be mine the first essay,
And let Vancouver be my lay:
To him by grateful right belong
The Golden Present's virgin song;
And well his powers of head and heart
Congenial numbers will impart.

“But how shall I the theme begin?
Shall Slander , with her tongue malign,
First pour her venom o'er the page
With more than dæmon's deadly rage?

147

Shall she the marks of Heaven deface,
The characters of Hell to trace?
Shall she pervert each glowing thought,
And swear that Head with mischief fraught?
Shall she pronounce that generous Heart
A store-room vile of selfish Art?
Shall she, in Envy's colours, show,
That e'en the Balms the Good bestow,—
Balms which those smiling Cots adorn ,
Where late prevail'd the wounding thorn,
Where beat the rain, and blew the wind,—
But prove some latent fraud behind?
Though ev'ry fair and household Guest,
Day's honest labour, evening's rest;
The Parents' blissful smile and tear
Exchang'd for meagre looks severe;
And Village Virtue, that before,
Indignant, shunn'd the Peasant's door,
Leading to ev'ry deed obscene
And vice of the polluted Green:
The Cot now yield to kinder Powers,
That round it twine Life's moral flowers;
The buds and blossoms of the Soul,
And Nature's charms to deck the whole;
The Jess'mine fair, the Woodbine gay,
And Children blooming sweet as they:—
Oh, shall the Muse all these pass by,
And all the good they bring deny?
Shall she, with frantic Party Hate,
From Tachbrook to the Castle Gate ;

148

Thence far diffused by many a maze,
Where Malice, with Satanic gaze,
Eyes the fair Eden with disdain,
Where Virtue, Truth, and Beauty reign;
Shall she pronounce all these a snare,
Some mighty ruin to prepare?

“Or should she paint the Worth within,
That decorates the private scene;
Distinguish, in the ranks of men,
The Donor of the Golden Pen;
Paint Brother, Sister, Friend, and Wife,—
Their comforts anchoring on his life;
Show him intrepidly pursue,
Though Envy's Snakes were full in view;
Undaunted by the brow austere;
His honest arms uncheck'd by fear;
Show him, at Midnight's darkest hour,
Defying the Assassin's power;
Seek his lov'd home, though perils wait,
Superior to the wiles of Hate?
And, with magnificent disdain,
Scorning to falter, or complain;
But keep the tenor of his way,
And ne'er to Vice or Vengeance stray?”

Here ceas'd the Pen, and Fancy fled,
Whilst Truth confirm'd what both had said:
For Truth, with Reason on her side,
Had been Imagination's guide,
And every trace of every line
From Truth receiv'd a stamp divine.

149

Go, then, my Friend, in Honour's cause,
Nor heed the obloquy it draws:
Accoutred thus, fair Truth thy guide,
On shalt thou march with generous pride;
A modern Hercules shalt move,
More arduous Toils and Perils prove.
The glorious Parallel shall run
Till thou surpass Alcmena's son;
For nobler labours claim thy might,
And greater Monsters urge thy fight.

Was the proud Chief of awful Jove
Arm'd by the fav'ring powers above?
Did Ocean's God a shield afford?
Pallas and Hermes helm and sword?
Vulcan a brazen club bestow?
Phœbus his arrows and his bow?
Did thus the daring Hercules
The victims of his prowess seize?
The hundred-headed Savage slay?
And the fierce Centaurs make his prey?
The foul Augean Stables clean
Of their enormous filth obscene?
Tam'd he the Mares of Diomede,
Wont like the Cannibal to feed?—
By these was his proud might confess'd,
Whilst Men and Gods his altars bless'd?

But, oh, my friend! 'tis left for you
A task more glorious to pursue;
More than Nemean beasts to tame:
To bid vile Avarice taste of shame;

150

The Hydra Prejudice destroy,
And Giants yet more dire annoy:
Compel that foulest child of Hell,
Ingratitude, thy arm to feel:
Drag her fell Snakes to public view,
More fierce than those Alcides slew;
Bid them no longer sting the Breast,
Fit only for an Angel Guest;
No longer cling, with fatal twine,
Round spotless Virtue's native shrine;
Nor, with insidious serpent Art,
Wind round the noble Warwick's heart.
These from that Paradise expel,
As erst from Heav'n the Spirits fell,
Degraded, from th'indignant skies,
With Lucifer, no more to rise;
And ne'er, till Penitence restore
Their honours, be their exile o'er.
Then Pity, where she long has shone,
In Greville's breast, her proper throne,
In recompense of Grief sincere,
Shall seal their pardon with a tear.
But till that work of genuine Grace
In their dark bosoms seek a place,
Confessing whence the darkness rose,
Oh, may they prove Vancouver's foes!
And only Courage be his friend,
Till Virtue's means gain Virtue's end.

Then what shall recompense the Deed?
Say, what shall be thy glorious meed?

151

If the first Hercules could claim
Homage as great, as great his Fame;
If Fanes magnificent were rear'd,
And he the Deity rever'd;
If worship, human and divine,
Was heap'd upon his Pagan shrine;
If Statues crown'd th'imperial Dome;
And the Farnese of sacred Rome
Has been with pomp for ages shown,
A Work superior and alone;
If, when his vast exploits were o'er,
The Earth consented to adore;
If on his medals shone the Lyre;
If still his great achievements fire
To mighty deeds, and deathless lays;
The theme of universal praise:—
If to a Hero, stain'd with crime,
Are paid these homages sublime,—
Say, when thy virtuous labours end,
What honours shall thy life attend?
When thou hast taught the Base to know
The worth of salutary woe;
When thou hast made the Good thy care,
And the Poor bless thee in a prayer:
Oh, say what temples shall arise
To point thy Labours to the skies!
What statues shall thy form express?
What medals shall thy power impress?
Shall the enormous shoulders spread?
A Giant's frame, a Giant's head?
Shall we transfer the club and bow,
And near thy figure bid them glow?

152

Shall the huge arms, and ample chest,
Denote a Hercules confest?
Shall limbs colossal, from the mould
Of sculptur'd marble, brass, or gold,
Seem starting into life, to prove
Thou wert another Son of Jove;
And, tho' thy tasks of toil were o'er,
Thou couldst have borne twelve labours more?

Ah no! Far other Wreaths shall twine
Around Vancouver's purer shrine.
In the rich temple of the Mind,
Sacred to love of humankind,
A nobler altar shall be rais'd
Than e'er in heathen temples blaz'd:
The triumph of a generous Heart,
Accus'd of every selfish Art;
The glory of the Good and Wise,
Without one sordid sacrifice;
Th'ordeal of true Friendship past,
And every Virtue prov'd at last.

“And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.” Pope.

Alluding to some unmerited calumnies.

Alluding to some improvements recently made for the comfort of the poor.

Tachbrook-House.

Warwick-Castle.

TO MRS. VANCOUVER.

To you the Golden Pen should bend;
To you its grateful verse extend;
For who, like You, from earliest youth
Can testify each glowing Truth?

153

You, who for thrice ten years have known
The faithful heart you made your own;
Have watch'd it with a careful eye,
And bless'd it with a virgin sigh:
Have seen it every virtue prove,
Of Honour, Constancy, and Love.
You thro' all changes best can tell
What Bosom Friends alone can feel.

Yes,—you in ev'ry trying part
Have seen th'ordeal of his Heart;
Have witness'd it, in Sorrow's hour
When Hymen frown'd on Cupid's pow'r;
And when the God with alter'd mien
Mark'd with glad smile the nuptial scene,
That Heart have seen in wedded life,
Your bliss as Maiden and as Wife.

'Twas yours to share his cloudless day;
And when Affliction quench'd the ray,
When shifting Fortune frown'd austere,
And started in your eyes the tear,
You saw the manly Virtues rise,
The temper firm, the judgment wise;
And weeping, you with joy survey'd
In spite of Grief, each duty paid,
As Brother, Neighbour, Friend, or Man,
Awful enlarged the social plan.
You then beheld th'expanding Soul
Give strength and beauty to the whole.

154

Such Truths the Muse receiv'd from You,
The object ever in your view:
Oh, sacred proofs! by Heav'n bestow'd
Alone upon the truly Good.
And never has his Soul known fear,
Save when for you he shed a tear;
Save when for Brother, Sister, Wife,
He mourn'd the ills of varying life;
Save when from, Sickness, thy fell pow'r,
He saw fair Nature's loveliest flow'r
Forsake the cheek of her he lov'd,
When it “was Virtue to be mov'd.”
But e'en in that severest Ill,
'Tis yours to speak his Virtue still;
Yours still to mark his Heart the same,
A Lover alter'd but in name:
A tender Husband, proud to own
You reign unrivall'd and alone;
And though, alas! Disease severe
Has prey'd on many a bloomy year,
Alike your soft and gentle sway,
As in Hygeia's proudest May.

O then, since you so true, so well,
The history of his Heart can tell;
Can all its sterling powers unfold,
More worth than Pens or Mines of Gold;
You who, in every trial, found
The Heart he gave to you was sound;
You, who can summon long-past Time
To aid the Prophecy sublime

155

The Muse has dar'd, in mirror bright,
To press upon the admiring sight,—
That his proud Triumph on the View
Shall start till Foes confess it too,—
Confess it with ingenuous shame,
Own their mistake, and join his fame:
To You the Golden Pen should bend;
To You its grateful verse extend!

And ah! may Heav'n allow the prayer,
That you that Triumph proud may share!
Then, though some wayward shafts of Woe—
The common Lot of all below—
May reach, as now, thy tender heart,
The balms of Love shall soothe the smart.

TO MISS VANCOUVER, ON RECEIVING FROM HER A BOUQUET OF WINTER FLOWERS.

The fragrant Present you have made
Bloom'd in December's deepest shade,
And cheer'd the desolated view;
Emblem of Friendship fair and true.
For thus it is Affection's flow'r
In stormy Life exerts its pow'r;
Beneath Misfortune's chilling skies,
A beauteous Sun-flow'r see it rise:

156

And when stern Winter, like a thief,
Robs the vast wood of ev'ry leaf,
This shall the felon blast survive,
And amidst Nature's ruins thrive:
This Blossom of the Soul shall glow
Unchang'd, and no corruption know:
While other blooms shall droop and die,
And in promiscuous ruin lie,
Perish'd as if they ne'er had been,
True Friendship proves an Evergreen.

TO A LADY,

WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR, WHAT SHE SHOULD DO TO DESERVE THE CHARACTER OF AN INDUSTRIOUS WOMAN?

If, while ten thousand eye-lids close,
And half the world are in a doze,
You, more industrious than the Sun,
Half of your morning's work have done;
If, while pale Indolence, in bed,
Complains of nerves and aching head,
An early blessing you impart,
And soothe Misfortune's aching heart;
Patron alike of Want and Grief,
If you have sent the day's relief;
If, while the puny Dames of Fashion
Shiver in furs, yet talk of passion;

157

Or, close embox'd in curtain'd chair,
Are terrified at evening air;
You, fearless, court the wint'ry sky,
And wind and rain alike defy:
If your warm heart, ne'er chill'd by snow,
With Bounty's genial heat can glow;
The Rich with social rays inspire,
And give the Poor a social fire;
If thus you aid the Griev'd and Poor,
Ere to the Rich you ope the door;
If, at an age when most who live
To such a date, themselves survive;
Feel mind and body both decay,
While you are merry, wise, and gay;
Preserve Good-humour, sterling Sense,
And Wit that scorns to give offence;
If, on so fair and good a plan,
You lengthen thus the mortal Span;
Nor lengthen only, but improve,
While all the minutes cheerly move:—
If thus—by Wisdom's reck'nings clear—
Your day is worth the Idler's year,
Tell me, while you this course pursue,
Who so Industrious as You ?

The lady to whom the above lines are addressed is Mrs. Jeffrys, of Bath, sister to the late celebrated John Wilkes, whose wit, spirit, politeness and affability she inherits. She displays to an innumerable circle of friends all those splendid natural gifts and acquirements, at a very advanced period of life, in a degree almost beyond belief: to which she superadds the effusions of a generous heart, that beats unceasingly to the comfort or accommodation of all who truly know her. Her hour of rising is four in the morning, winter and summer; and without disturbing the repose of the family, she employs herself in a thousand occupations, amusive to her own mind, or useful to a long train of her daily pensioners. She constantly sits and even sleeps with the windows open; and when the rain blows, or the snow drifts into her apartment, she has it removed in the morning. In a word, it is known to innumerable persons, that, whatever be the defect of the verses inscribed to her, they faithfully record a simple fact in every line.

158

STANZAS TO THE NEW MOON.

Emblem too just of all that's Beauteous here!
Thou spell-crown'd Regent of the varying Earth!
Fairest of things in thy sublimer sphere,
Though changing ev'ry moment with thy birth!
Lovely Inconstant! hear the Muse's pray'r,
Nor let thy Albion's sighs be lost in air!

What though thy wasted rays were quench'd in show'rs,
And wint'ry torrents swell thy summer stream;
If softness grace thy renovating pow'rs,
Still shall thy bounty be Britannia's theme:
On thy new birth let cloudless azure shine,
And Nature's self shall bow before thy shrine.

For not her delug'd flowers alone decay,
Her Garlands these, and these unwept might die;
But, ah! her fostering food if swept away,
In one vast ruin Man's chief hope must lie:
Oh, then, let Plenty fill thy rising horn,
So still shall genial beams thy Harvest-moon adorn!

159

STANZAS, ON FAVOURABLE WEATHER HAPPENING AFTER THE AUTHOR'S FIRST ADDRESS TO THE NEW MOON.

Auspicious Planet! thou hast heard my pray'r:
Unshrouded now thy crescent beams prevail;
Thy drooping sister is at length thy care;
Already Ceres feels the ripening gale:
Her sickled swains behold thy genial ray;
Blithsome prepare for toil, and watch the day.

Without one spot, now glows to Fancy's eye
Thy bounteous throne of heav'n's cœrulean clear,
And all the hills and valleys we descry,
In thy fair visage crown'd with sheaves appear;
The Lunar harvests shining there we see,
And kindred Earth repays each sheaf to thee.

But not to transient scenes like these confin'd,
'Tis said, O magic Orb! thy power extends
To the wild movements of the wand'ring Mind,
When from her shaken seat smote Reason bends:
Ah, then, this Moon-struck rage of War controul:
Loose the dire spell of blood from Man's distemper'd soul!

160

TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION, WITH “THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.”

Receive a beauteous Casket, which enfolds
A Gem more rare than all Peruvia holds.
This little Book a wondrous charm contains
For the vast catalogue of human pains:
There's virtue in the Leaves, which you must bind,
With gentlest pressure, on your wounded mind;
And soon o'er every aching sense will creep
A mental slumber, sweet as infant sleep;
A trance will follow, stealing o'er the past;
Then a soft dream, and wak'd by Hope at last:
The Book of Magic, then, dear Suff'rer, take;
Let the Spell work, nor fear that it will break.

Ah me! how oft, in deep Misfortune's hour,
When Fortune broke her charm, I've tried its power!
Tried it when Falsehood ill repaid my Truth,
And bore full hard on my disaster'd Youth;
Tried it in life mature, when many a year
My eyes had fill'd with Sorrow's various tear;
When foul Ingratitude,—the crime of Hell,
By which from Heav'n itself the Angels fell;
The poisonous tooth, like some envenomed dart,
Tore, without pity, my believing heart;
E'en then I found Hope's life-restoring beam,
Like soothing visions in a sick man's dream;

161

The pale cheek tinting with Hope's genial ray,
Begun, once more, like morning-light to play;
Gradual expell'd the darkness of despair,
And the half-doubting Soul subdu'd to pray'r.

Oh, Gift of God! blest Hope! e'en now thy smile
May still my latent grief, though sharp, beguile.
I woo thy aid, fair Daughter of the Sky!
To check th'embitter'd drop, and soothe the sigh;
Or bid them both alternate heave and flow
More fast, and give the Lenitives of Woe:
Till, o'er the mist which now thy power enshrouds,
Thy Beams shall rise, as from a World of Clouds;
E'en like the Rainbow Promise to the Soul,
Shall the dread Tide of 'whelming Fate controul.

TO MR. AND MRS. FONBLANQUE; ON THE DEATH OF ONE OF THEIR CHILDREN.

From Death's sharp pang, which Stoics ill can bear,
Yet by your Suckling borne—'tis yours to spare
Resign'd the tender Suff'rer,—who was giv'n
To smile on Earth, then seek its native Heav'n!
There, near its God—the spotless Infant's place—
Haply the Guardian Angel of your race,
It sits enthron'd, with Cherubims sublime:
Superior o'er the powers of Death and Time!

162

THE ELLISTON;

OR, BATH QUESTIONS.

When new-imported Faces inset
Faces less recent in the street,
In Union-Passage, or Cock-Lane,
Where crowd the fashionable Train,
A kind of morning Jostling-bout,
Rehearsing for the Evening Rout;
Or settling the next day's devices,
At Morland's, over Soups and Ices:
Thus runs the chit-chat of the Springs,
Amongst a thousand other things;
The Rooms, the Play-house, and the Papers;
The Riders, Walkers, Scribblers, Scrapers;
Rauzzini,—Prince of Badon's Stringers,—
With all his Concerts and his Singers;
The Volunteers and Sailors hearty;
Pichegru, Moreau, and Buonaparte;
The Loungers, Dashers, Drinkers, Eaters;
The M. P. Lists of lovely Creatures;
The Fairies at Miss Fleming's Ball;
The Christie who out-fairy'd all;
The Elfin-Train of Elliston,
And which her dancing Laurel won:
The popular Divine for Sunday;
The extra-Bath-Gazettes for Monday;

163

The latest Fashion that came down,
Hat, Cap, and Shoe, Pelisse, and Gown;
The hopes, and how-do-you's polite;
The visit paid, and new invite;
The little Slander of the Day,
With many an et-cetera.

QUESTION I.

“Pray, Madam, since you rattled down
To this dear, fascinating Town,
Have you yet seen that child of Fun,
The modern Proteus—Elliston?
So arch, so odd, so droll, so sly—
He's sure the Soul of Comedy!”

QUESTION II.

An Invalid, beside the Pump,
Thus question'd, leaning on his stump,—
“Pray, have you seen that Child of Sorrow,
Who makes us all dispos'd to borrow
Niobe's tears for our relief,
When he insists upon our grief?
Yet sweet the tear, and soft the sigh—
He's sure the Soul of Tragedy!”

QUESTION III.

The next, a late-invited Guest,
The transport of the heart express'd—
“Since the Bath course you have begun,
Pray have you met with Elliston?
Could you but get to hear him read,
You'd have a charming treat indeed:

164

Such Taste and Feeling! all agree—
He's sure the Soul of Company!”

QUESTION IV.

“Pray,” ask'd a fourth, at Phillot's stand,—
The tumbler smoking in her hand,—
“When all his Spirits are on wing,
Have you heard Elliston yet sing
His Song of Frolic, or of Gloom?—
I'm speaking of him in a room—
By turns such pathos, humour, glee—
He's sure the Soul of Pleasantry!”

If dear Variety be sweet,
He needs must prove a constant treat,
Who can so variously excel;—
Does all things, and yet does them well.

EXTEMPORE LINES, PRESENTED ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND: INCLUDING THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY FOR APPEARING IN BLACK.

How's this?—in mourning-garments, and the night
When Undertakers would array in white,
Were they a pair just married to attend?
When e'en the jetty Raven would assume
The Swan's fair colours, could she change her plume,—
And comes in black the Poet and the Friend?

165

I own the charge:—but Bride-nights have been sung
Since Love's first Couple, when the World was young;
A pair most fond, though rather near akin:
Both seem'd by Nature—Love's Mamma—design'd
To form but One in body and in mind;
In troth, they were as near as bone and skin.

To hail this Marriage came the tuneful Nine,
And their first Song was laid at Wedlock's shrine;
To them the Hymeneal harp was giv'n:
And ever since that Union, every Pair,
On bridal days, have been the Muses' care;
And some have thought each Match was made in Heav'n.

In very truth, there's not a simile,
A trope, a figure left, alas! for me;
Stripp'd are the Trees of Fancy and of Love;
And, just like Shakspeare's Mulberry,
Fiction has cut a Forest from a Tree;
And Hymen, who loves shade, has not one Grove.

At least a hundred thousand songs, thrice told,
—'Tis lucky that these Muses ne'er grow old—
Have hail'd as many Weddings; and, I fear,
Successive Poets have so hard been prest,
And each oblig'd to borrow from the rest,
There's nothing left for Matches made this year.

Nothing, I mean, that's new:—bride-pinks and roses
Have long been us'd in Matrimonial Posies,
That scarce a bud remains for Beauty's pillow;

166

Bards have to true-love-knots turn'd all the bowers,
And made so many chaplets of the flowers,
That I have nought to offer but the Willow.

And hence it is I am in sables drest,
While bloomy vestments grace each other guest:
Yet still my heart-warm Wishes are as true,
Though breath'd in an undecorated lay,
As if all Eden's fragrance strew'd the way,
And Love's first Paradise around me grew.

Then since the flowers Parnassian are o'er,—
May all the Garlands Bards have twin'd before,
And all that Fancy ever imag'd true,
Of fair and good, of tender and of kind,
In this day's happy Nuptials be COMBIN'D,
To form a fadeless Wreath, my Friend, for You!

TO AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE;

ON THE AUTHOR'S BEING PRESENT AT THEIR MEETING AFTER A SHORT SEPARATION.

When to the happy Time you've pass'd
You both have measur'd ten years more,
May those be happy as the last!
Then add another happy score.

May ev'ry parting lose a tear,
And ev'ry meeting win a kiss!

167

Or, should you weep though both are near,
Oh, may it be a tear of bliss!

And if the Fates so friendly prove
To add another six or seven,
May these, too, bless you as they move,
Then both go lovingly to Heav'n!

Nay—now a wishing-cap the Bard
Has put upon the Muse's head—
When you have gain'd Love's last reward,
And Thomas reigneth in your stead,—

When wedded, may that gifted Boy
Live as a Bridegroom with his Bride;
Like you, a Heav'n on Earth enjoy,
And share your Heav'n of Heav'ns beside!

TO THE MEMORY OF *******.

Though in her cheek soft Beauty's flow'r maintain'd
Its loveliest bloom when Youth no longer reign'd;
Sweeter than Beauty or than Youth, the art
Which plucks the thorn from Sorrow's aching heart;
Which pours the balm of Pity on the wound,
A healing balm in Pity only found:
Such art, oh dear lamented Shade! was thine:
But, the balm lost, the cureless wound is mine.

168

EXTEMPORE.

TO A LADY IN FEEBLE HEALTH.

Why do the Fates so oft decree,
To frames of steel, and lungs of leather,
To shallow brains from thinking free,
And tongues that prate for years together,

A privilege all day to laugh;
Without a care through life to roll;
All night the cup of Joy to quaff,
Till empty as the Drinker's soul?

While, miser-like, those Fates dispense
The trembling nerve and slender form
To such as You—to Wit and Sense,
And leave a Reed to brave the Storm!

'Tis strange, and yet there's reason in it;
For Sense or Wit more blest appears,
And lives more life in one short minute
Than Dullness in a hundred years.

169

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

The same the air, the same the scene,
The whispering trees, the varied green,
The fields still rich with golden store,
The copse and root-house as before;
The same the ivy, moss, and reeds,
The tangled paths, and waving weeds,
The thick shade closing up the view,
The curious sun still peeping through;
The same the hospitable shed,
The board as plentifully spread,
The drooping ash, th'aspiring oak;
The damsel's blush, the rustic's joke.
What,—these the same,—dear Corde, say
Has chang'd them all since yesterday?
What want they now, less good or kind,
The crown of all?—A Kindred Mind.

ON MARGARET PICKARD'S ENTERING HER SIXTH YEAR, JANUARY 1, 1802.

Of Birth-day lines to Girls and Boys,
Though, like themselves, so smooth and pretty,
I think them worse than children's toys,
Or than the Bellman's Christmas ditty.

170

Such fuss is made of forms and features,
Of Daddy's virtues, Mammy's graces,—
They're just like pills to the sweet Creatures,
Who take 'em, not without wry faces.

Yet when a thousand things combine
And mix, dear Margaret! as in you,
One should not wonder if the Nine
In an old theme found something new.

In you, sweet non-descript, each Muse,
Were there, instead of nine, a score,
Her darling attribute might choose
Till the Mythology was o'er:

For in that little head and mind,
And in those little lips and eyes,
A young Euphrosyne we find,
Minerva speaks, and Venus lies!

Your fun, your frolic, and sweet folly,
Roguish caprices and conceits,
Your moments of soft melancholy,
Frisks, bounds, and gay fantastic feats,

Are quite enough upon this day
To make Olympus tune its lyres,
And every year descend to play
Whatever Margaret inspires!

Daughter of Capt. Pickard, of the 36th Regiment.

171

THE FATE OF THE BARDS.

The Poets are a gentle race,
And Nature form'd their souls for love;
Yet Love and Nature have decreed,
The woes they pity they should prove.

The Rose, their favourite flower, they bring,
And paint it in the tints of morn,
The offering lay at Beauty's feet,
The incense hers, but theirs the thorn.

And many a mansion fair they raise—
Temples and towers that pierce the sky—
Make beds of state for Queens to rest,
While they on humble pallets lie!

172

TO MRS. POTTER, ON CASTING THE AUTHOR'S NATIVITY.

You tell me that the Stars intend
To be henceforth the Poet's friend;
And that the Planets, stern before,
Resolve at length to frown no more;
That the High Powers who rule the birth
Of us poor dwellers upon earth,
Determine me a happier lot
Upon this sublunary spot,
Than hitherto they have inclin'd
To give my person or my mind.

Oh, if your Prophecy come true,
What will the Poet owe to you?
How shall he speak a grateful heart,
Or pay due tribute to your art?—

173

Art more than magic, which reveals
What Fate from Ignorance conceals.

Thus let it be—If demonstration
Shall crown this blissful calculation;
If Sickness shall to Health give way,
And Fortune lend a fav'ring ray;
The Poet shall an offering give—
For You, as Prophet, shall receive
More than the Oracles of old,
More than Peruvia's splendid gold;
For the first day of every year
He'll pay you—Gratitude sincere!
That precious Jewel sent from Heav'n,
That brighter Star than all the seven .

Alluding to the Seven Stars.

TO GEORGIANA BYRON,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY, FEB. 9, 1799.

Verses on Birth-days have been sent,
In way of yearly compliment,
E'er since—in truth, so long ago
Their origin I do not know;
Most likely from the birth of Rhime,
Which follow'd fast the birth of Time:

They certainly were of a feather,
And, tho' not twins, were young together.
And, haply, as Time's pinions grew,
The first gay Bard a feather drew,

174

A fair Pen-feather from his wing,
Time's anniversary to sing.

Now, tho' no sage traditions say
That Adam on his natal day,
From Angel-Friend, or Mother Earth,
Had Verses sent upon his Birth,
Yet, as he was a well-bred man,
And Gallantry with him began,
It is but just we should believe
He sung the Birth-day of his Eve!
Thrice bless'd the She whom Heav'n did crib
So charmingly from off his rib:
At any rate, as Love was born
Upon that memorable morn,
The Muses hail'd the nuptial hour,
And tun'd a lyre in Adam's bower;
Spontaneous harps all ready strung
Connubial gratulations rung;
Soft airs on every flow'r and bough
Embalm'd a Song, or breath'd a Vow;
And each revolving year, I ween,
Those airs were heard, those flow'rets seen.

Since then you know, my charming Maid,
An annual Verse is always paid,
Once every year, each being woos,
Or buys, or hires a Natal Muse;
A little tiny Godling She,
A sort of store-room Deity,
Who upon small occasions strings
Her household harp, and softly sings,

175

Mingling with every line a kiss—
The Birth of Master or of Miss—
So sweetly gentle, that I trow,
Scarce hear we if she sings or no,
Blown like her kisses—yet from Love
They both proceed, and we approve.

Amidst the joys, then, that environ
The natal Morn of lovely Byron,
Oh, shall the faithful Friend refuse
To court for thee, dear Maid, a Muse?
Methinks he sees, in fair array
The Virtues dress thee for the day;
Dress thee in robes of modest bloom,
All wrought in a celestial loom;
Sky-dipt the colours, wove in heav'n,
A mantle by its cherubs giv'n
Just eighteen spotless years ago,
To grace their Sister here below.
Oh, may the pure materials last
Till eighteen years thrice told are past:
Unchang'd the hues of innocence,
The blameless thought, th'unsullied sense!
And, to complete the Muse's prayer,
The heavenly present mayst thou wear
Uninjured to its latest thread,
And mark the place where thou art laid:
Then thy pure Spirit, yet more white,
Shall be array'd in—robes of light!

This interesting Being, alas! did not live to reach her second Birthday from the penning of this prayer.

176

TO SOPHIA, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Hail to the morn that gave Sophia birth!
Than morn more fair when Spring revisits earth!
Sweet child! since first thy beauties bless'd the day,
Three years have flown on downy wings away:
Three years of sunshine bath'd sometimes with showers,
But showers of April when they fall on flowers.

Say, dearest, what can friendship wish thee more,
Than that such suns and dews may ne'er be o'er?
May sports as innocent, as easy joys,
As airy spirits, and as harmless toys,
Sorrows as gentle, happiness as gay,
Remain to greet thy sixtieth natal day!

Had I that wondrous cap so famed of yore,
Which on the head such mighty magic bore;
Would Fortunatus his vast treasure send,
And I to thee, dear maid, that treasure lend,—
Or as a birth-day present bid thee take
The envied gift, and wear it for my sake;
That ev'ry wish thy little heart could form,
In life's mixt element of calm and storm,
With wishing might be had,—a purer bliss
That cap could never give, sweet babe, than this!

177

TO A LADY, WITH COWPER'S POEMS ELEGANTLY BOUND.

Lovely without—still lovelier within,
Rich hues of Heart, that to the polish'd skin
Lend the soft tints of Beauty and of Grace,
And Feeling's rose and lily to the face;
High-pictur'd Thoughts that from bright Fancy roll,
And radiant Genius beaming o'er the whole:—
Such is the fair, congenial Gift I send,
And such the Mind and Genius of my Friend.

EXTEMPORE. TO MRS. SHEPHERD, IN PAYMENT OF A SHEET OF PAPER.

Though Poets deal in black and white,
And often draw a Bill at sight,
And mark their Drafts on paper;
And though they're drawn upon a God,
What may to money'd Men seem odd,
They 're little more than vapour.

178

Nay, should Apollo undersign,
And the Bill,—back'd by all the Nine,—
Gain credit in Parnass,
Good Men would spurn it at the Bank;
And Newland, thinking it but blank,
Protest it must not pass.

Yet currency it sure may gain,
Not only where the Muses reign,
But on a richer spot;
When thus to Worth it would impart
The warmest wishes of the Heart
In the good Shepherd's cot.

IMPROMPTU, ON MR. PHILLIPS'S LENDING HIS TOWN-HOUSE TO THE AUTHOR.

This is indeed, my Friend, an age of changes!
And who can say that miracles have ceas'd?
When at his Publisher's the Poet ranges
O'er a fair mansion—surely they've increas'd!

A mansion too, so goodly and so fine,
And large enough, though there were poets twenty;
And then so bravely furnished, all the Nine,
And Graces Three, to boot, would find room plenty!

179

I'faith, my Friend, so well am I appointed,
Cook, Cellar, Kitchen, Parlour—all my own!
My Brother Bards will think me your anointed:
A vain Usurper of King Philip's Throne.

Yet is your house less spacious than your heart;
And if you'll give me a warm corner there,
With your whole mansion freely will I part,
And quit my envied throne for one more fair.

ADDRESS TO THE LYRE.

WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF VAUCLUSE.

Yes, friendly Bow'r, that dost my anguish hide
In the soft Vale where Petrarch us'd to stray,
Wailing the Fair the cruel Fates denied,
Midst haunts ne'er gladden'd by the sunny ray;

To thy dark Glooms like him do I repair,
Breathing to thee my deep embosom'd sigh;
To thee and to this Harp, and yonder Air
That nightly hear my wish to sleep and die!

Come then, grief-subduing string,
All thy world of Magic bring,
To lull the sense of agonizing pain:
Try, ye chords, such lenient lays
As when twilight Zephyr plays
A soft and sweet Æolian strain.

180

Like that heav'n-descended Breeze,
Rising, falling, by degrees;
Now like blissful Lovers sighing,
Now like hopeless Lovers dying;
Vary thus th'enchanting Lay,
And steal—O steal me from myself away.

LINES WRITTEN AT A FRIEND'S VILLA AFTER A LONG ABSENCE.

Sweet Scenes! since last thy charms I view'd,
Thy Winter's gone, thy Sping renew'd,
And ev'ry Shrub and ev'ry Flower
Confess'd the ever-changeful Power;
Or to the stormy Winds a prey,
Or Autumn's bright but deep decay.

Yet One Flow'ret still I find,
Beyond the reach of wave or wind!
And though, full oft, that flow'ret fades,
Or in dark Misfortune's shades;
Or, sad Willow! like to Thee—
Weeping plant of Sympathy,
That fragrant Flow'ret, still sublime,
Survives the wreck of Chance or Time!

And though oft, alas! prevail
Sorrow's shocks, and Envy's gale,

181

Here the plant, of heav'nly birth,
Its power asserts o'er feeble Earth:—
Immortal Friendship can impart
The Balm that soothes and glads the heart;
That's the flower whose sweets afar
Scatter Perfume through the Air,
The Gilead that, which through all Seasons glows,
Nor scorch'd by Summer's Suns, nor chill'd by Winter Snows.

SONGS.

THE CAPTIVE.

The Bird within his cage, 'tis true,
May sing as on his native tree;
But he forgets, or never knew,
The Sweets of lovely Liberty.

Yet Man, alas! attempts in vain
With songs his prison hours to cheer;
Still, still he feels the galling chain,
And drops upon his wounds—a tear.

182

THE WEAVERS.

Whether clear or entangled the Threads of Life run,
By the Fates,—rare old Weavers!—those Threads were all spun;
The Work is then past into Dame Nature's Loom,
And woven to suit both the Cradle and Tomb.

Hence Destiny's Doublet for Mortals is made
By these same rare old Weavers, the first of our Trade;
And whether entangled or clear the Threads run,
We must dress in the Jacket their Worships have spun.

'Tis true that the Jerkins, though done in one frame,
Are plaguy uneven, and seldom the same;
'Tis here a rich tissue from ankle to throat,
And there patch'd and piec'd like a Harlequin's coat:

Here thinner than cobweb, there standing in gold;
Here tears in a day, and there never looks old:
With some it wears smoothly, with others more rough;
These find it of silk, and those feel it is stuff.

One swears 'tis too coarse, and another too fine;
But troth, Brother Weaver, 't is vain to repine:
For, whether entangled or clear the Threads run,
We must dress in the Jacket their Worships have spun.

183

LIFE.

Or what have poor mortals, alack! to be proud,
Whose lives are made up thus of Sunshine and Cloud?
Clearing and lowering,
Shining and showering;
Dark Shadows, bright Bubbles!
Short Pleasures, long Troubles;
Much rain, and much wind, and a little fair weather,
And all the odd elements jumbled together.

Take Life as it is then, its joy and its sorrow,
Though to-day's overcast it may clear up to-morrow;
And while the storm pours,
Or hurricane roars;
Lightnings flashing,
Thunders crashing;
Though on straw lies my head,
And yours on down-bed,
If snug we both lie,
Till the Tempest goes by,
Though you're in your palace, and I'm in my cot,
We both may be very well pleas'd with our lot.

184

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

Mankind are all Fish, and I'll lay you a bet
I prove that they all will come into the Net.
The Lawyer's a Shark; and they who in shoals
Run into his jaws must be Flats or poor Soals.

The Lobster's a Turncoat; the Sluggard a Snail;
The Curate a Shrimp, and the Vicar a Whale;
The Soldier's a Sword-fish; the Critic a Carp,
That delights in the mud, and, though wary, bites sharp.

The Heir is a Gold-fish, but turns to a Gull;
True Lovyers are Oysters, both silent and dull;
The Poets are Spawn, but are scarce worth a drag;
Young Misses are Mackarel, caught by red Rag:

Their Swains, though all sly Fish, full frequently feel
That a fair and fresh Mack'rel oft turns to an Eel.
A Rake's a Dorado, persisting and rude;
A Beauty's a Flying-fish, always pursued.—

Thus by hook or by crook they are all to be caught;
Nay, wise ones have said they are all to be bought;
Some at high, some at low, some at fair market price,
Not a farthing per pound, or a guinea a slice!

For Maids that are good, there's no price to be set,
But for those that won't keep, or will jump to the Net,

185

They're not worth the scales on the rump of a Dace,
Though Thousands are offer'd to catch a good Place.
And as for our Herrings, they're Fishes of Gold,
When in this good old Market each night they are sold.

THE FISHERMEN'S FINALE; A CATCH,

FOR A GROUPE OF CHARACTERS.

Friendship, Love, and Liberty!
These at length are ours, my Boy!
Cuckoldom and Slavery!
These are yours—I wish you joy!
Would you taste the bliss of Life,
Ask of bounteous Heaven to send—
Soother sweet of every strife,
Mistress true, and faithful Friend.
Would you taste the plague of Life,
Beg of bounteous Heaven to send—
Charming sources of each strife,—
Mistress false, and faithless Friend!
I that faithful Friend possess:
Still the vagabond may grieve me:
I a Mistress true caress:
Yet the varlet may deceive me!
Davy grieve me?
Kate deceive me?
Never! never!

186

Never! never!
Ever! ever!
Jack e'er grieve me?
Sall deceive me?
Never! never!
Ever! ever!
Davy grieve me?
Pat deceive me?
Never! never!
Ever! ever!
Marriage is a sick'ning dish!
Ne'er was seen so odd a fish!
But I swear,
Though Partlet here
Oft has griev'd me,
And deceiv'd me,
On the Sea and on the Shore,
I do love her more and more!
And though you
Have not been true,
And have griev'd me,
And deceiv'd me,
Here and there, and every where,
By these Boys and Girls I swear,
On the Sea and on the Shore,
I love Trimboat more and more!
Would you taste then bliss of life, &c.
Friendship, Love, and Liberty, &c.

187

ON BEING PRESENT AT THE NAMING OF A BEAUTIFUL CHILD.

The Spirit of the Babe, 'tis said, ascends
More welcome, when the Priest his succour lends;
When hallow'd Drops by sacred hands are spread,
The blessed Cross beams lambent o'er the head.
But surely Thou, sweet Infant, hadst found Grace,—
Cherub already opening in thy Face,—
Had no such mark of the Baptismal Vow
Been gently sprinkled on thy polish'd Brow;
The Sire and Son, upon their starry Throne,
Long ere this Morn had “mark'd thee for their own.”
Yet, ah! may Heav'n awhile its claim forgo,
And spare thee to thy Parents here below!

PRESENTED TO THE CHILDREN OF GEORGE BLACKMAN, ESQ. WITH “PITY'S GIFT,” A SELECTION FOR YOUNGER MINDS.

When Age matures the growing Sense,
And your Hearts feel benevolence;
May every Tale you here shall view
Be fondly realized in you!
To every creature be a Friend,
For Heav'n returns the bliss we end:
The Breast that with compassion flows
Is the best gift that Pity knows.

188

WRITTEN AT THE HERMITAGE, NEAR BATH,

Late in the possession of Philip Thicknesse, Esq., now belonging to Mr. Coward of that City.

In times long past, when Life was young,
And the Muse frolick'd while she sung,
And Nature tun'd the playful lyre,
While Fancy sported with the wire;
And those were in their pride of bloom
Who now are moulder'd in the tomb;
In these hermetic Shades I sought
And fondly nurs'd poetic thought,
And twin'd a wreath with Millar's Bards,
Well pleas'd, O Vase, with thy rewards;
Thy myrtle deeming a renown
Surpassing Cæsar's civic crown.

Here, too, I oft was wont to sit,
And share the feast of Wine and Wit
The Owner of the Scene display'd
Through many a playful theme pourtray'd:
So rich in both was Philip's store,
The flowing cup full oft ran o'er.

What pity—that so warm a heart,
Which so much pleasure could impart,

189

Replete with so much Spirit, Sense,
And genuine Benevolence,
And Hospitality's true fire,
That could a social heart inspire
With Humour, Fancy, Jest, and Glee,
And Wisdom chast'ning Jollity—;
What pity—that, while all was gay,
Vivid and bright as Summer day,
Should, swifter than the Winter storm,
So oft this Hermit's Cell deform;
That, sudden as the phrensied Wind,
Some dread Tornado of the Mind
Should rise to desolate the scene,
Nor leave a trace of what had been;
And where fair Sun-beams play'd before,
Fierce Thunders roll'd, to cease no more,
And, in the madd'ning tempest wild,
Spurn'd was a Neighbour, Friend, or Child;
Sense, Reason, Nature, urg'd in vain,
Crush'd by the fateful Hurricane.

Yet still the Muse delights to tell
Her welcome to the Hermit's Cell,
And warm the tributary lay,
That Gratitude is prompt to pay;
For many a social pleasure known,
And many a mark of kindness shown:
And Mem'ry bids the Bard review,
With Fancy's eye, the Form he knew—
Anna, who perished in her bloom,
Now clos'd in yon fantastic Tomb.

190

And often too, in this fair spot,
Have I the Hermit's faults forgot;
With rapture heard his mirthful tale,
Nor seldom seen the heart prevail,
Seen the kind drop illume his eye
Embalming deeds of Charity.
Ah, then, in sympathy sincere,
Let Charity return the tear.

Peace to the Dead! the Living throng,
To whom these hermit haunts belong,
Afford the Bard full many a bower
Auspicious to the Muses' power.
Here Painting too has fix'd her seat,
Here Mary seeks her green retreat,
Where Nature rears her varied throne,
And Friendship calls the spot her own.

Mary Coward, second daughter of the present proprietor of this beautiful retirement, who with a rich natural talent for the pencil combines a most worthy disposition, and justifies the pride of the fine and numerous family of which she forms a part.

200

LINES, WRITTEN AT A FRIEND'S NEAR THE CELEBRATED NURSERY-GARDENS, IN THE KING'S-ROAD CHELSEA.

Where smiling Chelsea spreads the cultur'd lands,
Sacred to Flora a Pavilion stands,
And yet a second Temple, neighb'ring near,
Nurses the fragrance of the various year;
Of Davy this, of Colville that, the care,
While both the favor of the Goddess share.

But not for her,—the Deity of Flowers,—
Alone the incense breathes, still higher Powers:—
Fair Venus marks each Temple for her own,
And Fashion sits upon a blossom'd Throne.
She, pow'r supreme! bids vanquish'd Flora kneel,
And drags proud Beauty at her chariot-wheel.
The Cyprian Queen admits her loftier sway,
And blushing rivals with a smile obey.

201

At Fashion's shrine unnumber'd suppliants bow,
And to their Idol chaunt the sacred vow.

A thousand Eves, each as their mother fair,
To these gay Edens every hour repair:
And tho' the Wreaths boast but a fleeting Bloom,
And often press at eve a twilight tomb;
Still, as by Magic we behold each morn
A fresh supply the pillag'd scenes adorn;
And tho' the lovely Plunderers bear away
The fairy sweets that open'd with the day;
Tho' one fair Paradise is lost each night,
Another blooms with the returning light.
Thus, strange to tell! near London you behold,
The age of Fashion, Beauty, and of Gold.

Nursery Gardeners.

TO FANNY RUNDLE.

You bid me versify on you,
Which now I shall attempt to do;
But first I wish that you shou'd know,
Why I've not written long ago:—
It is because a hundred times,
You've been already in my rhimes.

Whene'er in Prose or Verse I drew
A Friend, on all occasions true,
Fanny was foremost in the throng,
Of faithful Friends to grace the Song.
Or when Good-nature charm'd the Muse,—
Good-nature that could ne'er refuse

202

The succour it but ill could spare—
I copied Fanny's Likeness there:
And oft as Worth inspir'd my Lay,
The same to-morrow as to day,
And Constancy to Faith allied,
It was but you personified.

Thus then, my Friend, you needs must own,
I often have your picture shown;
In short, whate'er was good and true
Found an Original in you:
And tho' I tell it you again,
'Tis but the Echo of my Strain.

A SOLILOQUY, PENCILLED WHILE ON AN EXCURSION TO HAMPTON-COURT, JUNE 14, 1804.

Whence is the holy kind of dread,
Pleasing yet sad, with which we tread
The tangled maze or pathway green,
Of this, and every antique Scene—
Castle dismantled, broken Tower,
Wild Wood, and desolated Bower?

Why do we pause as these we trace;
As if old Time had giv'n a Grace,
E'en by the ravage of his dart,
To every mutilated part?
Why, anxious, every sculptur'd Stone,
Relique uncouth, or crumbling Bone,

203

Or canker'd Coin that bears the mark
Of Ages half-illum'd, or dark,
Do we their vestiges explore,
When all their Pride and Blooms are o'er;
When nothing but a wreck remains,
To gratify th'inspector's pains?

Can Curiosity—that Toy,
That Magic-lanthorn of the Boy,
Who with life's shadows loves to stray,
And frolic wheresoe'er they play?—
Can Curiosity thus draw
The Man's fix'd gaze, his senses awe;
Alternate bid his bosom glow,
Or mount with joy, or sink with woe?
When from the living World apart,
Why do we commune with the Heart,
And view some vast Dome's alter'd state,
Where all that once was nobly great,
Took it's proud sweep, it's lofty range,—
Say, do we triumph in the change?
Does Envy, when no more annoy'd,
Delight to see the Power destroy'd,
Which seem'd imperiously to rise
Beyond the Mortal's narrow size,
As if the Sun, a second time,
Would stop to keep him in his Prime,
As the huge World were all his own,
At once the Footstool, and the Throne.

Say, whence is this?—It is the Mind,
It is the love of human-kind,

204

A retrospective look to cast,
E'en on the remnants of the past,
Muse on the fate of mortal things,
And nurse the truth Reflection brings;
On the good deed a smile bestow,
Though done a thousand years ago:
And, though in Virtue's cause sincere,
Give to the bad a pitying Tear;
For who, alas! our pity claim
Like those whom Time consigns to shame,
Since every action mean is told
In every fragment we behold?

The Chisel thus, in double trust,
Serves both as monument and bust;
The Canvass thus records disgrace,
'Spite of the flatter'd form or face;
The honest finger-post of Time,
Points to the long-remember'd crime,
E'en where an iron scarce is seen,
To mark where Nature's scourge has been;
The fastnesses each tyrant made,
With generous scorn is still survey'd;
While not a shrub, a flower, or tree,
Sacred, Humanity! to Thee,
Or Thou, lov'd Muse, supremely fair,
But Love shall foster it with care.

Yes—Pair ador'd! the proud may spurn,
But Love shall consecrate your Urn,
Shall guard the ruins of the Lyre,
Whose very ashes can inspire.

205

Bless the sweet banks where you have laid,
And nurse the bower which you have made;
The stream shall cherish which you sung,
And all your haunts seem ever young.
And were the moss'd or ivy'd wall,
Or the vast pyramid to fall,
Still, Virtue, thy unfading deed,
In every fragment we should read.
If but an atom of the Dome
Which Virtue once had call'd her home,
Whether a Palace, or a Cot,
The heart would recognise the spot;
Would to that atom incense give,
Which nought but Virtue could receive;
And more than pilgrim homage pay,
And bear it as a prize away.

Hampton! 'tis thus thy scenes I view,
In Time and Mem'ry's mirror true.
Thy walnut-shade deep thought supplies,
Thy very ruins school the Wise;
And in thy solemn walks is seen,
Tho' cut thro' one unvarying green,
Calm Comtemplation,—Virtue's Friend,—
The Soul at once to move and mend.

I view fast crowding on the sight,
Thy pride, thy pastime, and delight!
Thy Beauty-room I now espy,
Which once with Cupid's Court might vie!

206

But ah! the charms that won the heart,
Bloom now but in the painter's art,
Whose pictur'd Venuses and train,
Now only on thy walls remain.

How different from the mighty Vine
Expanding like some plant divine,
Seeming the tooth of Time to brave,
Triumphant o'er the greedy grave,
Still flourishing in verdure high
While Kings and Queens in ashes lie.
Yet shall th'immortal spirit soar,
When thou, proud Vine, art green no more.

And last come forth on Eagle wing,
The despot o'er a despot King:
A more than eagle flight to try,
In all the pomps of jubilee.
When as the merry cup went round,
He seem'd to hide but to be found.

207

And tho' the humblest at the Feast,
Was proudest when he seem'd the least.

Yes, good Lord Cardinal, for thee,
And not thy King this Pageantry.
Well didst thou play the subject's part,
The monarch swelling at thy heart;
And all thy magic subtlety,
But gaily mask'd thy sov'reignty.
The mystic dance, the garish show,
The guests all rang'd in goodly row;
The rare device, the cost and sport,
Were for the Ruler of the Court:
For him the Cooks wrought day and night,
For him the Banquet rose to sight.
Yet, Wolsey, when thou seem'd in shade,
And most thy Henry seem'd obey'd.—
Then thy ambitious course was run,
The Shadow he, but thou the Sun.

208

Yet ah! full dearly didst thou pay
For all these subtleties so gay;
And every Bard has mark'd the shame,
The dire reverse of Wolsey's fame.
But one fair truth the Muse shall tell,
Thou serv'dst thy master long and well;
And tho' thy Pride no limit knew,
Thy Loyalty was warm and true!

An apartment so called.

In a grape-house on the south side of the palace (70 feet by 14) is a vine of the black Hamburgh kind, which occupies the whole house, and is much celebrated for its size and produce. It was planted in the year 1769. The stem is about thirteen inches in girth, the principal branch having been trained back at the extremity of the house, is 114 feet in length. This vine has been known to produce in one year 2200 bunches of grapes, weighing on an average one pound each.

—Lysons.

From the information of Thomas Haverfield, principal gardener at Hampton-Court.

Cardinal Wolsey's entertainment of the French ambassadors, given at Hampton-Court.—Stowe, in his Annals, has given an account of this magnificent festival. The following may offer some idea of its splendour:—

“Then was there made great preparation of all things for this great assembly at Hampton-Court; the Cardinal called before him his principal officers, as steward, treasurer, controller, and clerk of his kitchen, to whom he declared his mind touching the entertainment of the Frenchmen at Hampton-Court, commanding them neither to spare for any cost, expence, or travayle to make such a triumphant banquet as they might not only wonder at it here, but, also, make a glorious report of it in their country; to the great honour of the King of England and his realm. The cookes wrought both day and night, with suttleties and many crafty devices, where lacked neither gold, silver, nor other costly thing, meet for their purpose: the yeomen and groomes of the wardrobe were busied in hanging of the chambers, and furnishing the same with beds of silk and other furniture in every degree.”

FLORA JEALOUS.

TO DR. THORNTON

The British Empire, observes Dr. Thornton, whilst supporting the destinies of Europe, great, beyond any former example, in the exploits of her Warriors, at the same time that she crowns the brow of the Conqueror with the laurel expressive of victory, respects and cherishes the Liberal Arts, which add no less to the glory of a nation.

Thus, whilst her thunders are hurled in the North, South, and East; the labours of Art are encouraged at home, and under Britannia's auspices, even during a period of more than ten years' warfare, supported with the firmness and dignity of a truly great nation, stupendous Works have been undertaken, which prove the great advancement of the Imitative Arts. Nor have the arts of Painting and Engraving alone reached their pre-eminence, but the English have likewise carried the manufactory of Paper to the utmost pitch of perfection, and our Type has risen superior to that of any other civilized nation of the globe.

With all these combined advantages, the Labours of Genius and of Talent have been brought forward in a way highly creditable to the respective Authors, and honourable to our Nation. Hence have appeared those Galleries of Paintings, illustrative of our immortal Bards, Shakspeare and Milton, whilst the Sacred and Historic Pages are adorned with the useful exertions of a most noble Art, which does far more than language can accomplish.—Whilst the combined powers of such a Nation are thus assembled to illustrate and embellish the fancy of Poets, or Sacred and Historic Truth; the Science of Botany, advanced as it has been by Linnæus and subsequent authors, and by the glowing imaginations of modern Poets, seemed to claim also a right to press the Arts into her service.

Hence have appeared Dr. T.'s Philosophy of Botany, including a New Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnœus, and his Temple of Flora, or Garden of Nature .

The Portrait of Dr. Thornton (by Russell, R. A.) is graced by some elegant Verses, which begin thus:—

Thornton! while polished Darwin tells.
The loves of Flora's gaudy train,
'Tis thine to guard from time's decay
The fading glories of her reign.

Thy garden of perpetual bloom
No change of threatening skies can fear;
Nor dashing rains, nor chilling blasts,
Can reach the lovely fav'rites here.

, ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF SOME BEAUTIFULLY PAINTED PLANTS FROM HIS TEMPLE OF FLORA, TO DECORATE “THE POET'S COTTAGE .”

O for some bow'ry nook, 'midst Nature's scenes
Of purest Blossoms and unsullied Greens!
A still, small Home, that I may call my own,
My joy, my pride, my palace, and my throne:
With yet a morsel, sav'd by frugal care,
A social morsel for a Friend to share!

Thus pray'd the Muse a Poet's wish to crown.—
Upon a Poet's wish what Muse can frown?

209

The prayer was heard; and soon, by Fancy's aid,
A nook was chosen, and a Cot was made:
Streams, groves, and gardens deck'd the smiling bound—
A Paradise of sweets—on Fairy ground.

But Friendship came, with Fortune at his side

[_]

See note (a).

To realize the Song and Poet's pride,
A bow'ry nook was given, midst Nature's scenes
Of purest blossoms and unsullied greens.
Small tho' the spot, it prov'd her happiest power;
She saw 'twas good—she lov'd, and bless'd each flower.

Yet who that loves from Jealousy is free?
Flora now felt it—tho' a Goddess she.
All “out of door” she eyed with fond delight;
For all her fragrant children were in sight:—
Her Pink, her Rose, her Hyacinth were there,
Shedding delicious odours through the air.

Touch'd by the sweet Enchantment of the scene,
She deign'd a visit to the charms within.
The Cot she enter'd;—there beheld her flowers,
Tho' cropt, still breathing all her balmy powers:
Lovely midst thorns her Brier, and Crocus gay,
And many a Woodbine charming in decay.

Yet as around she cast her raptur'd eye,
Bright'ning the walls, she saw a fresh supply:
Her gifts of yesterday began to fade,
But sweets new-pluck'd were blooming in their stead.

210

“All these,” she cried, “are mine; and this fair spot
“Shall henceforth boast the name of Flora's Cot.
“This Renealmia

Some very beautiful Verses addressed to this Plant will be found amongst the Poetical Contributions of the present volume. The plant comes from Surinam. The charming painting in the Doctor's “Exhibition” is by P. Henderson.

, this lov'd Snowdrop

Kindred Affection and impartial Justice unite in urging me to re-publish in this place some Stanzas from one of the sweetest tributes perhaps ever paid to this interesting flower by the Muse of my Sybil, many of whose original effusions will be seen in the course of this volume. The Snow-drop is the 21st of Dr. T.'s Exhibition, by Pether, to whose painting, the verses are affixed. They originally appeared in the “Gleanings,” but have since been transplanted into various Collections.

THE SNOW-DROP.

Poets, still, in graceful numbers,
May the glowing roses choose;
But the Snow-drop's simple beauty
Better suits an humble muse.

Earliest bud that decks the garden,
Fairest of the fragrant race;
First-born child of vernal Flora,
Seeking mild thy lowly place.

Though no warm or murmuring Zephyr
Fan thy leaves with balmy wing,
Pleas'd we hail thee, spotless blossom!
Herald of the infant Spring.

'Tis not thine in flaunting beauty
To attract the roving sight!
Nature from her varied wardrobe
Chose thy vest of purest white.

White, as falls the fleecy shower,
Thy soft form in sweetness grows;
Not more fair the valley's treasure,
Not more sweet her lily blows.

Drooping harbinger of Flora,
Simply are thy blossoms drest;
Artless as the gentle Virtues
Mansion'd in the blameless breast.

too,
“Display my magic Touch and matchless Hue;
“This tender Sensitive

As a defence, the Aloe bids defiance to all intruders. Its leaves are employed as thatch for houses; and, properly managed, they will separate into fibres which, manufactured, can supply the place of hemp, flax, and cotton. The thorns with which it is armed serve for awls, and are made into brass, pins, and needles. Its juice may be converted into wine by fermentation, or by boiling used as soap. Its stem serves the carpenter, or for fuel; and the honey, which copiously distils from it, cures an asthma.

The Aloe, taken from the one in bloom at Smith's Nursery at Dalston, is the 9th in the Exhibition. By Reinagle, Sen. A. R.

, this Aloe

The name of the Sensitive Plant is derived from the curious property, which several sensitive plants possess, of retracting its stem-leaves and branches upon being touched, and closing the leaflets, as also during storms, and at night. This plant is from the mountains of Jamaica, hence the humming-birds of that country. Its natural growth is shown in the back-ground. It is thus exquisitely described by Darwin:—

Weak with nice sense the chaste Mimosa stands,
From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands:
Oft, as light clouds o'erpass the summer glade,
Alarm'd she trembles at the moving shade;
And feels, alive through all her tender form,
The whisper'd murmurs of the gathering storm;
Shuts her sweet eyelids to approaching night,
And hails with freshen'd charms the rising light.
Veil'd with gay decency, and modest pride,
Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride;
There her soft vows unceasing love record,
Queen of the bright seraglio of her Lord.

sweet,
“Cereus

The Night-blowing Cereus is a hot-house plant: begins to blow late in the evening; at twelve at night it is in its perfection; at four in the morning it closes, and is soon after completely withered.

and Cyclamen

The Persian Cyclamen is thus preserved in immortal bloom in the Botanic Garden:—

The gentle Cyclamen, with dewy eye,
Breathes o'er her lifeless babe the parting sigh;
And, bending low to earth, with pious hands
Entombs her dear departed in the sands;
‘Sweet nursling! withering in thy tender hour,
Oh, sleep!’ she cries; ‘and rise a fairer flower.

This beautiful Spring flower is of a delicate white, with a little border of purple about the brim of its pendulous cup; as soon as the seeds become ripe the flower-stalk then twists spirally, and turns more and more towards the earth until it there deposits the seeds.

all Art defeat.
“Yes, mine are all the lovely train I see,—
“Unrivall'd Flora's beauteous Family.”

Self-charm'd she paus'd,—but soon, advancing near,
Another's Magic on the Walls appear;
Another Flora seem'd to breathe and glow,
Lotus

This is the 37th exhibited in Dr. Thornton's Garden, and finely painted both by the pencil of Henderson and the pen of Darwin.

Emblem sublime of that primordial pow'r,
That on the vast abyss of chaos mov'd ;
What pen shall paint thy charms, majestic flow'r!
By mortals honour'd, and by gods belov'd.

From Æthiopia's lofty mountains roll'd,
Where Nile's proud stream through gladden'd Egypt pours;
In raptur'd strains thy praise was hymn'd of old ,
And still resounds on Ganges' faithful shores.

Within thy beauteous corol's full-blown bell
Long since th'Immortals plac'd their fond abode;
There, day's bright source, Osiris lov'd to dwell,
While by his side enamour'd Isisglow'd

Hence, not unconscious to his orient beam,
At dawn's first blush thy radiant petals spread,
Drink deep th'effulgence of the solar stream,
And as he mounts still brighter glories shed:

When at their noontide height, his fervid rays
In a bright deluge burst on Cairo's spires,
With what new lustre then thy beauties blaze,
Full of the god, and radiant with his fires!

To brave the tropic's fiery beam is thine,
Till in the distant west his splendors fade;
Then, too, thy beauty and thy fire decline,
With morn to rise in lovelier charms array'd.

What mystic treasures, in thy form conceal'd,
Perpetual transport to the sage supply,
Where Nature, in her secret plans reveal'd,
Awes wondering man, and charms th'exploring eye.

unfold, and love-sick Kalmia

The narrow-leaved Kalmia, so called from the resemblance its fruit bears to an egg, is a native of Italy, where they are eaten. The flower is the same as the potatoe. The peduncle bearing the eggs appears as if broken, but is not so in reality.

This plant is named in honour of Dr. Mead, and is called Dodecatheon, The Twelve Heathen Gods, from the beauty of its flowers. It is also named The American Cowslip, resembling in some degree our English one. It delights in shade, as the Picture would express. The American colours denote the country. It has five stamina, or males; and the anthers are attached to each other.

This beautiful plant (a native of North America) has ten males, placed in notches of the corolla, whence they proceed to make court to the females in the centre, who, like the Meadia, first bows to one and then the other. The flowers appear early, as the snows are melting from the mountains; and in this country the plant requires to be cultivated in a shady situation.

blow.
The Goddess gaz'd, and, mad'ning with the smart,
Felt the fierce anguish of a Jealous Heart.

“And shall a mortal Pencil thus presume,”
She cried, “to emulate my heavenly Bloom?
“Shall my own offspring thus untimely die,
“And Art's frail progeny thus flourish nigh?
“Shall these erect a Temple of their own,
“And I ascend a poor divided Throne?
“Forbid it Nature!—” Nature rose to view:
To meet whose arms the angry goddess flew;
Then told her tale, then pointed to the flowers
Whereon proud Art had lavish'd all her powers;
Till more indignant, as she more survey'd
The imitation nice of light and shade,
Th'unfolding leaf, the soft bud newly burst,—
A second Flora vieing with the first,—
“Theft!” she exclaim'd, “'tis theft—these must be mine.
“Plunder'd, O Nature! from my holy shrine:

211

“I, only I, could these rich tints bestow,
“I, only I, can give that kindling glow.”

“Soft!” said the Sister-Goddess, with a smile,
“Beauties derived from us, yet not by guile;
“But fond delight, and laudable desire
“To paint the Charms and Graces we inspire,
“Demand our praise—'tis incense at our shrine
“And Art but proves our Empire more divine.
“Art's noblest effort but exalts our Fame;
“Different the Fanes, the Goddess is the same:
“To us e'en heaven-born Genius bends the knee!”
Here Flora smil'd, and all was Harmony.

These works are now publishing, dedicated, by permission, to Her Majesty. The Collection of Paintings in the Doctor's Exhibition was for the embellishment, or illustration, of these works.

See page 29 of this volume.

The Lotus being productive of itself, and vegetating from its own matrix, or seed-vessel, without being fostered in the carth, was naturally adopted as the symbol of the productive power of the waters, upon which the active spirit of the Creator operated in giving life and vegetation to matter.

Paganism at first arose from gratitude; and the adoration of this flower, as will be presently shown, proceeded from this cause.

When Sir William Jones was at dinner, on the borders of the Ganges, some of his people, at his desire, brought him the Lotus, when all his Indian attendants immediately fell on their faces, and paid adoration to this plant.

The flower of the Nymphæa Lotus, or Egyptian Lotus, is bell-shaped, somewhat resembling our Water Lily, and its numerous petals are of a dazzling white; when it expands it emits a most agreeable odour.

The sun and moon, whence so many advantages were derived, were among the first objects of worship throughout the Eastern world; and these were personified under the attributes and names of Osiris and Isis. As they were imaginary beings, fancy gave them all kinds of shapes and sizes; and you will the less wonder at superstition making them sometimes enjoy themselves riding on the waters, blown about by the Zephyrs, in a stately flower, when Anacreon describes Cupid alike diminutive:

As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping,
In one I found the urchin sleeping:
I caught the boy, a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side;
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelm'd him in the racy spring,
Oh! then I drank the poison'd bowl,
And Love now nestles in my soul:
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

Moore.