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Nugae Modernae

Morning thoughts, and midnight musings: consisting of casual reflections, egotisms, &c. In prose and verse. By Thomas Park

Park, Thomas (1759-1834)

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EPITAPH FOR A BABE.

CONTENTMENT VINDICATED, AND SPLEEN REPELLED.

AN APOLOGY FOR MY GARDEN .

ON QUITTING A COTTAGE RESIDENCE.

THE FILBERD-TREE.

TO E. W. AUTHOR OF “THE VILLAGE SUNDAY:”

TO MARIA-HESTER.

THE BROAD AND NARROW WAY CONTRASTED.

A MIDNIGHT MUSING.

WRITTEN IN MY “COMPANION TO THE ALTAR.”

TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE SABBATH,” AND OTHER CONTEMPLATIVE POEMS.

WRITTEN ON THE PIER-HEAD AT DOVER, AFTER A VISIT TO DENTON-COURT, THE SEAT OF SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, BART.

ON READING THE POEMS OF HURDIS, AFTER A PERUSAL OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS'S ACADEMIC DISCOURSE ON GAINSBOROUGH.

LINES WRITTEN WHILE THE SUBJECT OF THEM WAS TAKING AN AFTERNOON NAP IN HER ELBOW-CHAIR.

SOMNIUM JUCUNDISSIMUM.

A WALKING RUMINATION.

TO THE POET LAUREATE, AFTER READING HIS EPIC ENTITLED “MADOC.”

TO THE REV. HAY DRUMMOND,

INSCRIPTION FOR AN IVY BOWER.

TO EDWARD, LORD THURLOW,

TO MARIA-HESTER.

ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF BISHOP THOMAS, WHILE AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS, IN KENT.

OCCASIONED BY THE POEMS OF DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN, First printed in 1616.

TO MRS. G.

TO C.-C. P. WITH BISHOP WILSON'S “SACRA PRIVATA.”

[Such feeling prompts a passing culogy]

ON PUTTING A FAMILY RING UPON MY FINGER, WITH THE MOTTO “MEMENTO MORI.”

OBLOQUY INVITABLE.

SPIRITUAL ASPIRATION.

TO MR. MESSER, ON THE LOSS OF HIS SON ISAAC.

A MIDNIGHT MUSING.

TO MISS P. ON HER REMOVAL FROM HAMPSTEAD.

TO MISS D. ON RETURNING SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES, WHICH EXPRESSED A WISH THAT THE OBJECT OF HER CHOICE MIGHT BE HEAVEN-CHOSEN.

TO MR. B. WHEN HIS WIFE WAS INCAPABLE OF TAKING NOURISHMENT AFTER HAVING RECEIVED THE LORD'S SUPPER.

THE DEATH-SONG OF A CHRISTIAN.

TO A PIOUS YOUNG FRIEND.

ALLODIUM SEPULCHRALE: OR, THE POET'S LANDED PROPERTY.

GLORIA IN EXCELSIS DEO.

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104

TO MRS. G.

WITH A RUBY RING.

Two rings by her we lost were worn,
When her translation came:
One to Love's widow'd cell was borne,
And one may Friendship claim.

But it must be some truth-tried friend
To her, to mine, to me;
And when our thoughts we backward send,
Our hearts all point to thee.

The Rev. Tomkyns Briggs, late Curate of Hampstead, when he heard of the suddenness and serenity of her departure, observed—“It was like translation, and not death.”