University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Triumvirate.

Ode on the Witches and Fairies of Shakespear.

Elegy on the Death of a Father.

To Myself.

Written in a melancholy mood on my 18th birthday.

To Miss Allen.

As the pure sentimental platonical friend,
To his Platonist mistress his picture may send,
And not give the most rigid old damsel a handle,
From thence on their friendship to throw any scandal;
Tho' I've well weighed the matter, I cannot as yet see,
Any reason why I should not send mine to Betsy.
Yet think not I mean to a painter to sit,
With my elbows trussed down like a goose for the spit;
Or, in languishing style with my head o'er one shoulder,
Be drawn sweetly smirking at every beholder.
In my own way of painting, in plain black and white,
With my pen for a pencil, my picture I'll write,
And since my face, mien, and in short my whole person,
Is scarce worth the wasting such excellent verse on,
This sketch of myself, to the traits of my mind,
Tho' perhaps scarce more lovely, shall all be confined.
My mind then resembles the month I was born in,
As changeable just as an April fine morning;
One moment with clouds on a sudden o'ercast,
The next 'tis all sunshine, the tempest is past.
In my studies too carrying the very same farce on,
One half a physician and one half a parson.
Each scheme that in prospect so charms for a time,
I give up to jingle the sheep-bells of rhyme:
Then lazily sport in such trifles as these,
And have vanity too to conceive they may please.
To politeness attached, though disqualified quite,
By my freedom of temper, from being polite,
Whatever occurs at the moment I say,
So perhaps contradict myself ten times a day.
With parts so capacious, they render me idle,
In all wanting more of the spur than the bridle.
I have sense some few faults of my own to detect,
Without resolution those faults to correct.
Thus am I this weak, vain, soft fickle creature,
With indolence still the predominant feature.
But lest you should think, in thus reading my picture,
That I've too plainly dealt with myself in this stricture,
E'en touch up the beauties you chance to discover,
Throw in some new lights, and varnish all over.
It may then perhaps serve as a match for your own:
Or stay;—you had best let these touches alone;
Its shades, as they are, will improve to the view,
The lights that must shine thro' each copy of you!

On going to Oxford.

Sonnet,

Addressed to a friend, A. B., and candidate for a fellowship in one of the Universities.

That hood, so late your wish, in monkish beauty
Flows from your shoulders now long, black, and furry.
Were you but Fellow then!—yet why this hurry?
Before you stand, read this, and learn your duty.
Learn, if untufted wit and worth salute you,
To frown impatience while they cap and sir ye:
With titled Vice and Folly favour curry,
Nor blush if ill your awkward flattery suit ye:
Sin you: but tolerate no younger sinner:
Teach them to rise, be sober and grow clever;
Snore you till noon, and every night be mellow:
Pray seldom; then be last; be first at dinner:
Walk, ride, and dress; read sometimes, study never.
This will you swear? Enough: admit him Fellow.

Epigrams from the Greek.

On a Beautiful Bath at Smyrna.

The Graces, bathing on a day,
Love stole their robes and ran away;
So naked here they since have been,
Ashamed in daylight to be seen.

From the Greek of Julian,

PREFECT OF EGYPT

Epigrams from the Greek.

Hymn.

TO HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGEITON.

On the Death of Heliodora.

Translations.

Italian Sonnets of Milton

III.

[As duly, when chill evening darkens round]

As duly, when chill evening darkens round,
O'er the wild uplands the young shepherd fair
Fond hies, some beauteous plant to foster there,
Some stranger plant, that, ill, with blossoms crown'd,
Pines for it's native suns and mother-ground.
So on my tongue fond Love, with fostering care,
Wakes the strange flow'rs of many a Tuscan air,
While thee, O nobly graceful, I resound
In lays of words to British ears unknown,
And change fair Thamis for fair Arno's plain.
Love will'd it so, and well my strains have shewn,
Tun'd to new laws, that Love wills not in vain.
Ah! could this breast be cold, this heart be slow,
To him who plants the joys of heav'n below.

IV.

[Charles, I will tell, though wondering while I speak]

Charles, I will tell, though wondering while I speak,
How I, who Love rebellious wont to scorn,
And mock his bonds as but by cowards worn,
Am caught, where wiser have been caught as weak.
Yet not or tress of gold, or vermeil cheek,
Me dazzled so: less vulgar charms adorn
My wondrous maid, to bless the lover born;
A decent state, a brow whence mildly break
The beams serene of amiable black,
A speech with not one language only grac'd,
A song, whose magic from her airy track
Might sweetly force the labouring moon to haste,
And eyes, whose glances such keen light'ning dart,
In vain our ears we seal to guard the heart.

V.

[A simple youth, a lover little tried]

A simple youth, a lover little tried
In lover's arts, irresolute to fly,
His heart, O Lady, brings thee: nor deny,
As light, the gift. This heart shall still abide,
True, constant, firm, with presence still supplied,
Generous of sentiment, and good: from high
When roars the vast, and lightnings fire the sky,
In adamant self-arm'd on every side:
As safe from envy, and each hope, each fear
Of vulgar souls, and far o'er Fortune plac'd,
So with the muse, and lyre of sacred sound
With genius and with worth superior grac'd;
One part alone there weaker will appear,
Where Love infix'd th'immedicable wound.

The Smile.

The Frown.

Sonnet.

ON THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE.

As some fond mother views her infant race,
With tender love o'erflowing while she sees,
She kisses one, one clasps in her embrace,
Her feet supporting one, and one her knees;
Then, as the winning gesture, speaking face,
Or plaintive cry explain their different pleas,
A look, a word, she deals with various grace,
And smiles, or frowns, as Love alone decrees.
O'er man, frail kind, so Providence Divine
Still watches; hears, sustains, and succours all,
With equal eye beholding each that lives.
If Heaven denies, oh! let not man repine!
Heaven but denies to quicken duty's call,
Or feigning to deny, more largely gives.

The Tenth Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated.

To you, who think St. James's stairs
The way to happiness—not cares,
One, whom retirement pleases better,
Sends his best wishes with this letter.
Like, as two eggs, the one to t'other's,
Our souls would, if not twins, seem brothers:
But that our taste here disagrees;
You love a bustle,—I love ease.
Yes! form'd upon the sober plan,
I'm never so much my own man
As when to rural peace and leisure
I fly from all which you call pleasure.
Be yours your bustle, smoke and noise;
Be mine far simpler, soberer joys:
At morn, at eve, secure to rove,
Or tread at noon the upland grove.
Thence view the verdant vales around,
The hills with waving corn embrown'd,
The streams, that, dancing as they run,
Glitter beneath the chequering sun,
While here and there a bosom'd grange
Completes the beauteous interchange.
If, as they tell us in the Schools,
We ought to live by nature's rules,
Where would you build? What properer ground,
Than the sweet country can be found?
There Pleasure has not learnt the way
With Judas' kisses to betray;
And Health—in town a very prude,
By rule and method to be woo'd—
There runs herself into your arms;
A hoyden, liberal of her charms.
Where is that self-tormentor, Spleen,
In dull November's gloom less seen?
Where breathes a purer breeze t'assuage
The fiery dog's enfevering rage?
Where are you safer from the heap
Of Macbeth cares that “murder sleep”?
What Persian carpet can exceed
The velvet of a flowery mead?
What couch can be so soft, but moss
May very well supply that loss?
Though gentle gales through London streets
Whisper from whom they stole their sweets,
Has Warren's warehouse one perfume
Superior to a bean in bloom?
Can Cælia's crimson cheek disclose
A softer blush than paints the rose?
Can the mix'd blaze of gems surpass
The dewdrop sparkling in the grass?
Can any water be so clear,
So pleasing to the pensive ear,
When hissing through the bursting lead,
As rippling down its pebbly bed?
Indeed amidst your squares one sees,
A few poor straggling scrubbed trees,
That nodding seem to ask each other
In whispers, “How came we here, brother?”
Or gardens, plots of grass, or basons
Scoop'd in burlesque of lakes by masons,
Where, sleeping o'er a common sink,
In state the happy mud-nymphs stink.
Then if your garret window yields
A yard of prospect to the fields,
“Well, what a charming view! how pretty!
“Here's quite the country in a city!”
Thus Nature, use what force you will,
Ejected, turns upon you still,
Nor ceases, till, at length replac'd,
She share at last the throne of Taste.

Propertius.

Along the shore Pelides idly roved
While regal force detained the maid he loved,
No more could war no more could glory charm,
To plaintive lyres he bent his strenuous arm;
And wooed the tender muse in shady bowers,
While Hector's flames consumed the Doric towers.
The Greeks beheld through many an anxious tear,
Degrading rust corrode the Pelian spear;
And while his arms divine neglected lay,
His bleeding country chid her hero's stay.
He saw unmoved,—nor lent his friendly hand,—
His loved Patroclus gasping on the sand,
Unmoved great Hector's glorious deeds could view,
For love prevailed o'er fame and friendship too.
But when the fair was to his arms restored,
Great Hector fell beneath his conquering sword,
Again the Trojans saw his vengeful spear
Their flying ranks confound, and thunder on their rear.

Sonnet.

[Thrice hath the sun his annual circle rolled]

Thrice hath the sun his annual circle rolled
And now is hastening to the goal again,
Since Love within my bosom fixed his reign,
And, joined by reason, lorded uncontrolled.
Yet never dared my lips, too fondly bold,
To speak what language can but ill explain;
And if to conscious Heaven I breathed my pain,
In faltering sounds the timorous wish I told.
Ah! then in livelier signs than words exprest,
In softly languid looks, and stealing sighs,
Read, gentle maid, my tender woe confest.
And Thou to whom is known, O Power all-wise,
Each unborn purpose labouring in the breast,
So hear my faltered vows, as pure they rise.

Sonnet.

WRITTEN AT MR. THISTLETHWAITE'S.

Oh! sprung of virtuous and of gentle race!
Sweet buds of infancy, whose secret roots
Together spread their intermingled shoots,
Tho' now ye branch dissever'd from th'embrace.
As now the bloom unfolding on the face
With glad presage my friendly muse salutes;
So may your minds too blossom: may the fruits
Of Wise and Good your riper season grace.
Oh brothers! whom, as yet unborn, ye lay,
Nature united! may no treacherous wiles
Of foes divide you, no domestic strife.
Strive only which shall best with love repay
Her love, who fondly gazing on your smiles
Forgets in joy the pangs that gave you life.

Sonnet.

WRITTEN AT NORMAN COURT (MR. THISTLETHWAITE'S).

As Nature fondly viewed, with conscious pride,
This airy brow with waving forests crowned,
Th'expanse of varied green and hills that bound
The rich domain, Mine be the praise! she cried.
Not thine alone, my sister, Art replied;
I clothed in livelier green the varied ground,
And here with woods the circling vale embrowned,
There spotted with thin shade the mountain side.
Yes, Nature said, with thee that praise I share;
But view these beauties where alone I reign,
Where Art has added, and can add, no grace.
Her haughty rival with th'insulting air
Of mockery turned; but when upon the plain
She saw Selina, blushing veiled her face.

To a Lady.

SENT WITH HAMMOND'S LOVE ELEGIES.

Sonnet.

[Pulteney! the fourth young Spring now clothes the earth]

Pulteney! the fourth young Spring now clothes the earth,
Since my rude muse with laureate wreaths essayed
To deck the sacred spot where he is laid,
Who formed my genius, and who gave me birth.
Yet o'er my gayest hours of social mirth
Oft still his absence casts a sadd'ning shade:
Oft still to him my secret tears are paid,
While memory fondly dwells upon his worth.
Hence mindful, who most shared his grateful love,
By many an act of gen'rous kindness won,
This page I mark, O Pulteney! with thy name:
Happy, if so I draw thee to approve
The pious gratitude which warms the son,
Howe'er thy nicer taste the poet blame.

Sonnet.

[Ye gales, that gently soothe the smiling sky]

Ye gales, that gently soothe the smiling sky,
And, stealing from the flow'rs their nectar'd dews,
In many a wanton blandishment diffuse
The balmy shower of odours, as ye fly;
Ye verdant vales, ye springs that murmur by,
Fit haunts, which amorous sorrow well might choose.
Who bade so oft your echoes to my muse?
Each hope, each fear, that ruled the song, reply.
Those conscious echoes I no more to tales
Of tender woe shall wake: since o'er my mind
Again firm reason holds her calm control.
Yet, though no more to lonely grief resigned
I wander here to weep, not less my soul
This cool, these murmurs loves, and verdant vales.

Odes.

ODE I. ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING, 1777.

ODE II.

[Why doubts thy foot, too timorous maid]

ODE III.

[The sabler shades of night prevailing]

ODE IV. INVOCATION OF THE ZEPHYRS.

ODE V. TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER ATTAINING HER 21st YEAR.

ODE VI. TO A YOUNG LADY.

ODE VII. To Fancy.

A PRIZE AT LADY MILLAR'S.

ODE VIII.

[Till graver years, O wisdom, stay!]

Song.

[Love! I am thy slave confest!]

Elegy.

[Now sunk in dumb despondence on the thorn]

Fragment.

[Father of being, who, before all time]

Connal and Crimora.

A Fragment,

WRITTEN AT BEACONSFIELD BEFORE MR. BURKE'S DEATH.