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The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq

Hopkinson, Francis (1737-1791)

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VOLUME I.
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VOLUME II.
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VOLUME III.
  
TO THE Rev. Mr. WILLIAM SMITH,
  
ODE ON MUSIC.
  
SONG.
  
To Miss ---,
  
To THE MEMORY OF Mr. WILLIAM WILLCOCKS,
  
HERMITAGE, A POEM,
  
ADVICE TO AMANDA.
  
AN EPIGRAM.
  
L'ALLEGRO.
  
IL PENSEROSO.
  
A MORNING HYMN.
  
AN ELEGY.
  
VERSES
  
SONG.
  
On THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG.
  
A PROLOGUE
  
EPILOGUE FOR TAMERLANE,
  
A PROLOGUE
  
CHARITY, A POEM.
  
DESCRIPTION OF A CHURCH.
  
TO CELIA,
  
A PARAPHRASE.
  
An ELEGY.
  
An EPITAPH.
  
DISAPPOINTED LOVE.
  
An EXERCISE.
  
THE ODE.
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An EXERCISE;
  
An ODE
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SCIENCE; A POEM.
  
A MORNING HYMN.
  
AN EVENING HYMN.
  
TO ROSALINDA,
  
EXTEMPORE VERSES
  
DIRTILLA, A POEM.
  
A SENTIMENT:
  
THE TREATY; A POEM ,
  
AN ELEGY
  
VERSES
  
TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.
  
AN ODE
  
THE HUMBLE PETITION
  
To MYRTILLA.
  
AN EVENING AT SEA.
  
VERSES
  
TO DELIA,
  
SONG.
  
TO MYRTILLA.
  
THE WASP.
  
TO T--- M---, Esq.
  
TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. MARY M'KEAN.
  
POLITICAL BALLADS,
  
The BATTLE OF THE KEGS.
  
A CAMP BALLAD.
  
THE TOAST.
  
The BIRDS, the BEASTS, and the BAT.
  
THE MOST GRACIOUS ADDRESS
  
IN MEMORY OF Mr. JAMES BREMNER.
  
SONG I. Come, fair Rosina, come away
  
SONG II. My love is gone to sea
  
SONG III. Beneath a weeping willow's shade
  
SONG IV. Enraptur'd I gaze when my Delia is by
  
SONG V. See down Maria's blushing cheek
  
SONG VI. O'er the hills far away, at the birth of the morn
  
SONG VII. My gen'rous heart disdains
  
SONG VIII. The traveller benighted and lost
  
AN ORATION,

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155

THE WASP.

Wrapt in Aurelian filth and slime,
An infant wasp neglected lay;
Till having doz'd the destin'd time,
He woke, and struggl'd into day.
Proud of his venom bag and sting,
And big with self-approved worth:
Mankind, he said, and stretch'd his wing,
Should tremble when I sally forth.
In copious streams my spleen shall flow,
And satire all her purses drain;
A critic born, the world shall know
I carry not a sting in vain.
This said, from native cell of clay,
Elate he rose in airy flight;
Thence to the city chang'd his way,
And on a steeple chanc'd to light.
Ye gods, he cry'd, what horrid pile
Presumes to rear its head so high—
156

This clumsy cornice—see how vile:
Can this delight a critic's eye?
With pois'nous sting he strove to wound
The substance firm: but strove in vain;
Surpris'd he sees it stands its ground,
Nor starts thro' fear, nor writhes with pain.
Away th' enraged insect flew;
But soon with aggravated pow'r,
Against the walls his body threw,
And hop'd to shake the lofty tow'r.
Firm fix'd it stands; as stand it must,
Nor heeds the wasp's unpitied fall:
The humbled critic rolls in dust,
So stunn'd, so bruis'd, he scarce can crawl.
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