The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

Miss! Cousin! Molly! Terms like those
Become the simple style of prose.—
When One to claim our verse we find
Dear, because good, above her kind,
To mark her from the vulgar throng,
Melissa is her name in song.

Melissa! then, (for you may claim
Dear, because good, the favorite name,)
Accept, acknowledge, and approve
Esteem, that means much more than Love;

Esteem, that greets each native trace
Of Spirit, Sentiment, and Grace;
And tho' in You she owns them met,
Presumes you not quite perfect yet;
But hopes to see you (doubt who will)
Still dearer, because better still.

How nicely form'd the Female Heart
For genuine Merit's noblest part!
How might your livelier Fancy's pow'rs
Extend, adorn, and soften ours!
How brilliant, how almost divine,
Would every sterner Virtue shine,
Transferr'd into a Woman's breast,
And in the Sex's sweetness drest!

Why then so barren lies a soil,
So worthy of the cultor's toil?

Ah! Ladies! by one fate you fall;
One little error ruins all!

I'll tell it,—tho' I stand reprov'd:
—You'd rather be admir'd than lov'd!
Hence is the Coxcomb's task so easy;
He makes you like himself, to please ye.

“Tis great to astonish and subdue,
“And lead a train of Captives.”—True—
Yet little Glory gilds your Reign,
If Knaves and Fops compose the train.
And take it, Fair-ones, for a rule,
A Flatterer must be Knave or Fool;
Whose treacherous tale, howe'er exprest,—
(Knaves do their worst, and Fools their best,)
Too soon, too surely lures your youth
From youth's first friend, Impartial Truth.
Truth, which would teach you to obtain
That Excellence it scorns to feign.

From Truth's award Melissa's ear
Had ever more to hope than fear:

Melissa therefore will agree,
Applauding Moore, to pardon me,
If proud in such a plan to join,
I preface Verse like his, with mine.

The Glass bright Laura's Toilette grac'd,
Patch, powder, and perfume were plac'd:—
—Before the gentle Dame drew nigh,
Her Monkey, and her Parrot by,
A courtly tête-à-tête began:—
And thus the conversation ran.

“Sweet Poll, permit me, or I burst,
“To tell my thought—Indeed! I must!
“That mimic archness—(Ah! mon cœur!)
“What mortal Monkey can endure!
“Such endless humour you have got!
“So fluent! so!—I can't say what!
“You rise in harmony and style,
“Above the feather'd race, a mile!

“In every tone of every word,
“A very, very human bird!
“And Toasts, would Toasts my hint pursue,
“To know themselves should study You.”
—He said, the Parrot thus reply'd;
“Your praises are just ground for pride:
“For sure, what Men themselves appear
“None knows so well, none comes so near;
“Trust me, your Grin displays to sight,
“Meaning as deep, and Teeth as white.—
“What Man could puff with happier face,
“For Wisdom, Spleen; for Wit, Grimace?
“This tongue, whose harmony of tone,
“Your rare discernment deigns to own,
“Would fail, insensible and cold,
“Ere half your parts and worth was told.
“Never in Manners, Air, or Feature,
“Was such a Gentleman-like Creature!”

Flattering and flatter'd, each believes:
Conceit takes all, that Folly gives.
Genius, it seems, with men they share:
Why not as graceful? and as fair?
Flush'd with the thought before the Glass
The self-made dupes resolve to pass:
Assur'd (what else could they suppose?)
Each peep would some new Grace disclose.

The Monkey turning first, survey'd
His own odd likeness;—shrug'd,—and said,—
“False Mirror, no!—it cannot be!
“I'm not that frightful Thing, I see!
“Spite, thy mere spite, protracts, I vow,
“My visage; and deforms my brow.”

The Parrot next, with fluttering breast,
Her disappointment thus confest;
“What have we here?—Is that my figure?
“Have Pow'rs so various, bulk no bigger?

“What symptom of a Wit so keen,
“Can in that drowsy Phiz be seen?
“Can from that pot-hook of a Bill,
“The honey of my Voice distill?
“Second, dear Pug, my vengeful blow;
“And shiver this insulting foe.”

She spoke,—and both with eager aim,
Rush'd furious, tow'rd the little frame.

“Hold! Blockheads! hold!” a Lap-dog cry'd,
(Who listen'd by the Toilette's side,)
“From wrath so base, so rash, forbear:—
“The Glass reflects you—as you are!
“Ugly, contemptible, absurd!
“A silly Brute, and paltry Bird!
“That Glass, when Laura's form it shows,
“With Beauty's liveliest lustre glows;
“Yet then, as now, no Blemish spares;
“Nor favour, nor affection bears:

“But gives to all—e'en all their Due;
“Her Charms to her—your Shame to you.”

Truth, like a Glass, when it conveys,
In moral Portraits, Blame or Praise,
Paints from the Life;—and will offend
Those only, whom it cannot mend.

TO MISS DICKINS,

WITH A PRESENT OF MOORE'S FABLES.

Books, my dear Girl, when well design'd,
Are moral Maps of human kind;
Where, sketch'd before judicious eyes,
The Road to Worth and Wisdom lies.

Severe Philosophy portrays
The steep, the rough, the thorny ways:

Cross woods and wilds, the Learned Tribe
A dark and doubtful path describe:

But Poesy her votaries leads
O'er level lawns, and verdant meads;

And if perchance, in sportful vein,
Thro' Fable's scenes she guide her train,
All is at once enchanted ground,
All Fancy's Garden glitters round.

I, Sally! (who shall long to see
In you, how good your Sex can be)
Before you range with curious speed,
Where'er that Garden's beauties lead,
And mark how Moore could once display
A scene so varied, and so gay,
Beg you, for introduction's sake,
A short excursive trip to make
O'er one poor plat, unlike the rest,
Which my more humble care hath drest:
Where, if a little flow'ret blows,
From pure Affection's root it grows.

A Virgin Rose, in all the pride
Of Spring's luxuriant blushes dy'd,
Above the vulgar Flowers was rais'd,
And with excess of lustre blaz'd.—

In full career of heedless play,
Chance brought a Butterfly that way;
She stopt at once her giddy flight,
Proud on so sweet a spot to light;
Spread wide her plumage to the sun,
And thus in saucy strain begun:

“Why, but to soften my repose,
“Could Nature rear so bright a Rose?
“Why, but on Roses to recline,
“Make forms so delicate as mine?
“Fate destin'd by the same decree,
“Me for the Rose; the Rose for me.”

A tiny Bug, who close between
The unfolding bloom had lurk'd unseen,

Heard, and in angry tone addrest
This rude invader of his nest:

“For thee, consummate fool, the Rose!
“No—to a nobler end it blows:—
“The velvet o'er it's foliage spread
“Secures to me, a downy bed:
“So thick it's crowding leaves ascend,
“To hide, to warm me, and defend:
“For me those odours they exhale,
“Which scent at second hand the gale;
“And give such Things as thee to share,
“What my superior claim can spare!”

While thus the quarrel they pursu'd,
A Bee the petty triflers view'd;
For once, reluctant, rais'd her head
A moment from her toil; and said;

“Cease, abject animals, to contest!
“They claim things most, who use them best.

“Would Nature finish Works like these,
“That Butterflies might bask at ease?
“Or Bugs intrench'd in splendor lie,
“Born but to crawl, and doze, and die?
“The Rose you vainly ramble o'er,
“Breaths balmy dews from every pore;
“Which yield their treasur'd sweets alone
“To skill and labour like my own:
“With sense as keen as yours, I trace
“Th' expanding blossom's glossy grace;
“It's shape, it's fragrance, and it's hue;
“But while I trace, improve them too:
“Still taste; but still, from hour to hour,
“Bear home new Honey, from the flow'r.”

Conceit may read for mere pretence;
For mere amusement, Indolence;
True Spirit deems no study right,
Till Profit dignify Delight.

TO MRS. BISHOP,

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.

“A Knife,” dear Girl, “cuts Love,” they say!
Mere modish Love, perhaps it may—
—For any tool, of any kind,
Can separate—what was never join'd.

The Knife, that cuts our Love in two,
Will have much tougher work to do;
Must cut your Softness, Truth, and Spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of Merit;
To level yours, with modern Taste,
Must cut a world of Sense to waste;

And from your single Beauty's store,
Clip, what would dizen out a score.

That self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, Judgment, Sight, for ever:
All Memory of Endearments past,
All Hope of Comforts long to last;—
All that makes fourteen Years with you,
A Summer;—and a short one too;—
All, that Affection feels and fears,
When hours without you seem like years.

Till that be done, (and I'd as soon
Believe this Knife will chip the Moon,)
Accept my Present, undeterr'd,
And leave their Proverbs to the Herd.

If in a kiss—delicious treat!—
Your lips acknowledge the receipt,

Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only—“cut and come again!”

TO THE SAME,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO HER BIRTH DAY. WITH A RING.

“Thee, Mary, with this Ring I wed”—
So, fourteen Years ago, I said.—
Behold another Ring!—“for what?”
“To wed thee o'er again?”—Why not?

With that first Ring I married Youth,
Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth;
Taste long admir'd, Sense long rever'd,
And all my Molly then appear'd.

If she, by Merit since disclos'd,
Prove twice the Woman I suppos'd,
I plead that double Merit now,
To justify a double Vow.

Here then to-day, (with Faith as sure,
With Ardor as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the Rites divine,
I took thy Troth, and plighted mine,)
To thee, sweet Girl, my second Ring
A Token and a Pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper Virtues to my heart;
Those Virtues, which before untry'd,
The Wife has added to the Bride:
Those Virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing Wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake, as well as Love's.

And why?—They shew me every hour,
Honour's high thought, Affection's power,
Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence,—
—And teach me all things—but Repentance.—

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH AN ORANGE-BERGAMOT SNUFF-BOX.

An husband, as in duty bound,
Presents, what an admirer found;
(Pray start not, when you lift the lid!)
A portrait in a Snuff-Box hid:
Aye marry—and myself alone
Can boast th' original my own.

By nature's early cunning wrought,
This Box no second polish sought;
Such in this form, as on the bough;
Plain orange then, plain orange now.

Apt outline of a certain Dame,
Whose taste from nature's judgment came;
To whom mere genius gives a style,
Which fashion ne'er could mend—nor spoil.

Our Boxes of more modish make,
From various sources value take;
An artist's name; an humourist's whim;
The curious hinge; the costly rim:
But all in this agree, they bear
No perfume, till we place it there;
While modest Orange here, augments
From it's own store the richest scents;—
A miniature complete, and true,
Of—why not speak at once?—of you!—
Whose manner, in each part you fill,
Makes pleasure's self, more pleasing still.

This Orange, in some former hour,
Had, like all oranges, it's sour;

But soon that acid fount was drain'd;
And endless fragrancy remain'd:
So, in the Woman I admire,
If pregnant sense, perchance, inspire
A little jest, a little tart,
'Tis from the fancy, not the heart;
Fancy—whose sour a moment quells;
An heart—where sweetness ever dwells.

And is not then the picture like?
And does not every feature strike?—
Yes!—And the world would own it too,
If what I've seen, the world could view;—
I, who with this poor gift and lay,
Thus greet again our Wedding Day;
And cent'ring in one friend and guide,
My joy's excess, my reason's pride,
Would for increasing love engage,—
Were every day to come, an age!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A PEARL BUCKLE, AND VELVET COLLAR.

The day declin'd; the year was clos'd;—
Beside his forge, tir'd Labour doz'd:—
A Golden Buckle, meant to deck
At morn's return my Mary's neck,
(Tribute mere justice long'd to pay,)
Half finish'd, on his anvil lay.

Benighted, (how, it matters not,)
Love, Truth, and Time, approach'd the spot:
They saw th' imperfect toy; they knew
Where, and from whom, and when, 'twas due.

“What pity things should thus stand still,
“Till yon dull Drudge hath slept his fill!
“Suppose,” the three companions cry'd,
“Ourselves our joint exertions try'd.”

The project pleas'd—so said, so done—
And each his several part begun.

From every Charm, that grac'd the Dame,
Some hint of decoration came.

For Bloom, that heaven's own painting shows;
For Features, where high Feeling glows;
For Looks, that more than language speak;
For Sweetness, dimpling Humour's cheek;
For Dignity, by Neatness drest;
Where still, whatever is, is best;
For Powers, that call the captive eye,
From all nymphs else, when She is by;
Yet make us, when she is not near,
Ev'n for her sake, her sex revere;

For Softness, and for Strength of mind;
Sense, ripe tho' rapid, keen tho' kind;
For Liberal Purpose, and prompt Skill
That liberal purpose to fulfill;
For Friendly Zeal's aspiring blaze;
For Generous Joy in honest praise;
For all, that can exalt thro' life,
The Woman, or endear the Wife;—
Love, whose quick sight no facts evade,
A separate Pearl in order laid.

Truth, pearl by pearl exactly told,
Arrang'd them in the circling Gold;
Announc'd their weight, from first to last;
And set them close; and clinch'd them fast.

Time, o'er the whole a Polish threw,
Which brighter still, and brighter grew.

The work thus wrought, with equal haste,
The Workmen on this Collar plac'd;

Then bade the fondest husband bear
The present, to the worthiest fair;
Bade him salute with cordial lay,
Her natal, and her bridal day;
And, his own suffrage to approve,
Appeal to Time, and Truth, and Love!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A PASTE BUCKLE FOR AN HANDKERCHIEF.

Gems, had I gems to send, would seem
Short of your worth, and my esteem.

But as no mortal wedded dame
Has more from grateful love to claim,
So ne'er did loving husband live,
Whose gratitude had less to give.

And yet the trifle I enclose,
Where only mimic brilliance glows,
Poor Paste (and poor it is indeed!)
Has something, ev'n as Paste, to plead.

Th' effect of borrow'd bloom to raise,
A Diamond's supplemental blaze
To many a bosom draws our view,
Where nothing, but itself, is true:
—This Paste upon your bosom wear,
'Twill be as great a contrast there;
Of all within ye, and without ye,
The only thing untrue about ye.

On Merit's ground proud Diamonds go,
As who should say,—“Thus we bestow:”
Paste comes to you, on terms less vain,
Not to bring beauty, but to gain;
And therefore seeks, in suppliant tone,
To blend it's lustre with your own.

Whoe'er has seen you, must have seen,
How just to Nature's gifts you've been;
Secure th' applause of Sense to fix,
By Ease and Truth, not airs and tricks:

So rich, in talents so applied,
With nothing to affect or hide,
The Diamond's aid you well may spare;
Much less can Paste deserve your care:
And yet for once, dear girl, consent
T' adopt a needless ornament:—
Nor scorn to have it understood,
Art would improve you, if she could.

When heralds Excellence describe,
They send us to the Jewel tribe;
By Sapphires constant Faith display;
Firm Valour by the Ruby's ray:
And Paste will stand in your behoof,
Humility's best type and proof;—
For while your equal head and heart,
(Supreme in each superior part,)
Show Virtues, more than Fancy's eye
Finds gems to blazon virtues by,

The simple Toy, you thus prefer,
(So mean, so honour'd,) will aver,
That ever, as Desert extends,
Ingenuous Spirit condescends.

No teeth of Time the Diamond fears;
But lasts more ages, than Paste years:—
Yet Paste, by your acceptance crown'd,
For all the difference will compound:
To 've prompted, in what sort it may,
The verse, that hails this welcome day,
Then on your breast to meet it's fate,
Will counterpoise so short a date;
And leave one solid praise it's due,
—That while it shone, it shone for You!—
Praise, which myself, who most despair
To shine, would only shine, to share!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A VERY SMALL ALMANACK.

While in this tiny Volume's space,
The current year's records you trace,
(For which, arrang'd in common size,
Twelve times th' extent would scarce suffice,)
Allow plain truth in serious lay,
To state an obvious fact,—and say,
Your own high merit, amply told,
A Book, still less than this, might hold.

Charms singly bright, may stand portray'd
In flowery diction's proud parade;—

The briefest phrase will yours declare;
'Tis but to say—that “all is fair.”

Genius, that blossoms, once an age,
May crave the long descriptive page:—
For yours, one little line has room;
—'Tis Genius, never out of bloom!

Thro' all our years of married life
Would language signalize the wife,—
A period of five words will strike;
For every hour was good alike!

No need of style prolix and quaint,
The mother, or the friend to paint;—
Name but Benevolence—all the rest
A thousand memories can suggest.

Terms as concise, may serve as well,
Great as it is, my Joy to tell;

And prove, what folios could but prove,
With how just wonder, pride, and love,
I boast, in one dear woman join'd,
All Grace of Form, all Power of Mind;—
An Heart, by many a trial known,
All kind, all true—and All my own!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A WORK-BAG OF SILK AND PAPER.

Since our connubial bliss begun,
How many years their course have run!
And, if more dear could be, more dear,
How Love has made you, year by year!

What wonder therefore, if my breast,
By one idea all possest,
Whene'er I think, whate'er I do,
Enjoys the slightest hint of You!

Ev'n in a Toy at random wrought,
Some features faithful Fancy caught;

Whence Love could trace, and Truth portray,
The Wife and Woman of to-day.

In this same simple Bag, I see
A type of female Industry:—
And where's the Labour, where's the Care,
You've fear'd to meet, or grudg'd to share?
A scanty Lot the world supplies!—
—You make that scanty lot suffice.
Hope for a little moment gleams!—
—More liberal efforts prompt your schemes.
While sense improves a thousand ways,
What Patience bore, with equal praise:
And frugal skill, correcting Taste,
Seems only Ornament more chaste:
Or Toils express, as each takes place,
How new exertions vary grace.

Two-fold Materials, aptly join'd,
To form this votive Bag combin'd:

A Silken Top invites our hands,
Whose Base mere humble Paper stands.
That Base, (too well experience knows,)
Your tender Frame's true semblance shows;
Which pain now rends, now weakness wears,
And every ruder touch impairs:—
While, like the Silken Top, your Mind,
Preserves, unconquer'd tho' resign'd,
Gentle to sooth, firm to endure,
It's texture whole, it's lustre pure.

A Band, scarce obvious to the sight,
Extends this Bag, or draws it tight;
Fit emblem of the secret clue,
(As delicate, and as powerful too,)
With which our judgments you controul,
And move, or fix at will, the soul:—
While all a daughter's feelings say,
'Tis mere indulgence to obey;

And fondness knows not how to boast
An husband's pride, or pleasure, most.

When in this Bag, your care has pent
Each future needful implement,
'Twill be the perfect counter-part,
Of that large treasury—your heart:
Where gradual exercise hath stor'd
Whate'er makes merit more ador'd:
Where every grief your friends endure,
Expects it's comfort; or it's cure!

Still, Molly, let that Heart find room,
For all th' extremes of mortal doom;
To every sorrow round apply
A cordial, or devote a sigh;—
But keep from all, save rapture, free
A corner there for Love and Me.

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH HIS OWN PROFILE IN SHADOW.

In many an emblem's better part,
I've pictur'd oft, your head and heart;
Permit me now to let you see,
A Shadow, that should look like me;
The Shadow of a Man obscure,
In all, but one dear treasure, poor;
Yet more than wealthy, happy too,
To call that one dear treasure—You!

The Shadow of a Man, whose eye
Could Worth in Beauty's form descry:

Mark'd where the worthiest charm the most;
And saw in You, all each could boast;
And seeing, lov'd; and loving, thought,
The more he lov'd, the more he ought.

The Shadow of a Man, who knows
How likeness from affection grows;
And his own Virtue best secures,
When most he feels, and honours Yours.

In short, mere Shadow, as it is,
Queer copy of as queer a Phiz,
This mimic bawble of a face,
Assumes a style, and claims a place,
All other Pride and Praise above—
—The Shadow of the Man You love!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY, WITH A SILVER TEA-POT, AND OTHER PLATE.

Affection, which in humbler Toys,
Has oft expressed it's annual joys,
Boasts no increase, assumes no state,
In these more gaudy gifts of Plate:
Small odds their previous price procures,
Their Worth commences, when they 're Yours:
And Love so just as mine before,
Was never less—nor can be more.

I knew you amiably great,
When hallow'd Union join'd our fate;

Whatever part esteem inspir'd,
Or duty taught, or need requir'd,
Took from your Spirit double force;
'Twas good—and it was yours, of course;
Or, vice versâ understood,
Was yours—and therefore it was good.

Imagin'd powers, if fiction drew,
Your real powers made fiction true:
If praise indulged a loftier tone,
'Twas praise of manners—like your own.

Years following years disclos'd to sight,
The same dear merit in new light;
Merit, that every light could bear,
More varied, but to seem more fair.
Th' Address, that made my fondest hope,
The centre of it's earlier scope,
With equal latitude still shares
Th' acute excess of all my cares;—

Now, drooping nature to sustain,
Smiles Comfort on the bed of pain:—
Now, shows me on how sure a base,
Temper and Sense build Taste and Grace;—
Now, adds a plume to Fancy's flight:—
Now, points my views to nobler Height.

Meanwhile, thus cheer'd, assisted, blest,
I ('tis the most I can) attest
My grateful heart's applausive truth,
With paltry Plate, and Rhymes—forsooth!

Yet take 'em, Girl, as meant to prove
Tokens, not measures, of my Love:
If value, more than that, they plead,
They're miserably short indeed!
No Verse can make my feelings known,
While Verse consists of words alone:
No Silver give you half your due,
Till Silver is as pure as You!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH AN IVORY TOOTH-PICK CASE, OF FRENCH MANUFACTORY.

A Toy from France craves leave to pay,
With me, it's homage to the Day:—
A Toy indeed!—from France indeed!—
—That's all it pleads—or has to plead.

My little tokens, oft, of yore,
Your emblematic semblance bore:
But this, the portrait I propose,
By not resembling, will disclose.

Mark, to what polish Art has wrought
Materials never worth a groat!—
How different that from Nature's care,
Which form'd You good, as well as fair?
Produc'd a brilliant work 'tis true;
But from itself, it's lustre drew.

The Trifle, à-la-mode de France,
Shews all it's splendor at a glance:
But you in meek concealment shroud
Enough to make a thousand proud;
Outshine the vainest of the vain;
Yet bide more excellence, than they feign!

See where a wire-drawn circlet trim
Of cobweb gold, surrounds each rim;
Pure gold perhaps, and just so far
'Tis sterling, as your Virtues are;
But when for substance we enquire,
No contrast could be carried higher.

If any price the Bawble bear,
'Tis fashion's tax on foreign ware;
Fashion, that when your sense submits
To popular folly's prankful fits,
Improvement from your Manner makes,
And gives not half th' eclat it takes.

Observe the taudry Trinket shine
At once as useless, as 'tis fine:
But You, when most you please us, boast
Both will and power to serve us most;
And prove superior judgment's light,
As beneficial, as 'tis bright.

So short my Present's merits fall!
—And how precarious after all!
How slight a touch, how brief a space,
It's glossy beauties may deface!
While you to years, and years to you,
Devolve new grace, and influence new.

But wherefore, ('twill, of course, be said,)
Is such a worthless offering made?
—Plain truth forbids me to disclaim
A very, very, selfish aim;—
'Twas that, the Gift might soon be spurn'd;
And all your thanks, if thanks were earn'd,
And every kiss of thanks you'd spare,
Be, whole and sole, the Giver's share.

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH SOME TABLE FURNITURE OF CUT GLASS.

Esteem, when this glad Morn appears,
Looks back on Gratitude's arrears;
And conscious still of comforts new,
Whose value with their number grew,
Gives wedded Love, a double scope,
—How much to boast!—how much to hope!

“Would Love,” you'll say, “so very prone,
“That boast to urge, that hope to own,
“In brittle Glass an emblem find,
“For Worth of such enduring kind?”

Yes, Girl, affection can pursue,
On any ground, some trace of You;
And ev'n in Glass, just cause explore,
To deem the past, a pledge of more!

From this same Glass, the workman's art,
Has cut, 'tis true, th' exterior part;
And yet the loss the whole sustains,
Adds sevenfold price to what remains:
So time, that saps with gradual stealth,
Your prime of strength, your bloom of health,
Lessening their period, year by year,
Leaves all the residue more dear.

This Glass, o'er which the tool has gone,
Puts new, tho' native, radiance on;
And where a deeper touch it shews,
From pressure, into polish glows;
Till light in every angle plays,
Transmits more beams, reflects more blaze:

So toils, which resolute right procures,
Raise, by oppressing, minds like yours;
Bring powers inherent into sight;
Prove them at once, and make them bright;
While patience multiplies, of course,
Each effort's lustre, with it's force.

This Glass, in short, whatever end
It's future fortunes shall attend,
Useful till broken, and when broke,
Crush'd, not obscur'd, beneath the stroke,
Will to transparent fragments pass,
A shining, tho' a shiver'd, mass:
So You, whatever hour to come,
Shall close your active virtue's sum,
Clear to the last, at last will know,
Ev'n under dissolution's blow,
That death (where life was what life shou'd)
Is only ceasing to do good.

Then, sorrowing o'er a shock so rude,
Remembrance, Conscience, Gratitude,
Will treasure with religious care,
Each atom of a fame so fair:
“Such Sense,” 'twill say, “such genuine Taste,
“Such Spirit, by such Manners grac'd,
“Such bland Sensation's liberal glow,
“So frank with joy, so kind to woe,
“Tho' separate rays they now dispense,
“Form'd once, one general Excellence;
“In Bishop's Mary long display'd
“The Friend's, Wife's, Mother's praise;—and made,
“To honour'd age, from brilliant youth,
“Her Bard, at least, the Bard of Truth!”

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A POCKET LOOKING-GLASS.

To you, dear wife, (and all must grant
A wife's no common confidant,)
I dare my secret soul reveal;
Whate'er I think, whate'er I feel.

This verse, for instance, I design
To mark a Female Friend of mine;
Whom long, with passion's warmest glee,
I've seen—and could for ever see!

But hear me first describe the Dame:
If candour then can blame me—blame.

I've seen Her charm at forty more,
Than half her sex, at twenty four:—

Seen her, with equal power and ease,
Draw right to rule, from will to please;
Seen her so frankly give, and spare
At once, with so discreet a care;
As if her sense, and hers alone,
Could limit bounty like her own;—
Seen her in nature's simplest guise,
Above arts, airs, and fashions rise;
And when her peers she had surpast,
Improve upon herself, at last;—
Seen her, in short, in every part,
Figure, Discernment, Temper, Heart,
So perfect, that till Heaven remove her,
I must admire her, court her, love her.

Molly, I speak the thing I mean:
So rare a Woman I have seen;—
And send this honest Glass, that You,
Whene'er you please—may see her too!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT.

Long us'd, in annual gifts to find
Some semblance of your form, and mind,
I stood resolv'd, this year, to make
One change at least, for changing sake;
And by a powerful pencil's aid,
Present you with—Myself portray'd.

Vain scheme!—My Face the canvas shows;
My Verse no change of Object knows;
Fancy, tho' vagrant, faithful too,
Extends, but never quits the clue.

In justice to friend Clarkson's skill,
Call it my Picture, if you will,
Confess 'tis all, you wish'd it shou'd;
Say 'tis as like, as he is good:
I join the suffrage, and rejoice;—
But your idea prompts my voice,
When in the Copy you approve
The Man, who loves you, as I love!

Whatever lineaments I trace,
Some excellence of yours takes place.

That Eye, these rival tints display,
Recalls each livelong, rapturous day,
While, as new Grace round Beauty grew,
My real Eye dwelt all on You.
How oft, for Comforts you bestow'd,
With cordial sympathy it glow'd!
How oft, amidst despondence clos'd,
Safe in your Virtues it repos'd!

How oft, it glitter'd with delight,
If your approach engag'd it's sight!
How still, (so rich your Merit's store!)
It only sees, to wonder more!

Where art has sketch'd those Lips of mine
Resemblance lives along the line;
I look—and own my features caught:
I think—and you inspire my thought:—
Quick to the lips reflection flies,
Whose theme my Molly's Name supplies;
The Lips, whose vows so truly made,
Her Truth with interest has repaid;
The Lips, which boast the double bliss,
To speak her praise—and claim her kiss.

Happy that stroke's expressive ease,
Which living Character can seize!—
Such strokes, such ease, I here discern;
And back of course to You return:

“Whence did th' original suggest
“The Character so well exprest?”
—'Tis animation You impart:—
You point the look, who rule the Heart!

And if mere colours could reveal
In outward seeming, all I feel,
They'd show my joy, my pride, my hope,
My whole imagination's scope,
So full of You; and You alone,
'Twere less my Portrait, than your own!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A SPINNING-WHEEL.

'Tis a long list of happy days,
Since first I triumph'd in your praise;
And still in all you did, or said,
Some new, some dear distinction read.

This truth, by various gifts confest
Perpetual inmate of my breast,
A Spinning-Wheel must now allege—
Affection's poor, but cordial pledge.
Accept it, Girl; and with it, take
My reasons for the choice I make.

First, then, (howe'er unlike my trim,)
For Fashion's sake indulge the whim:
'Twill be but charitable zeal,
If, while you ply the modish Wheel,
You follow Taste, a step or two,
Till Taste may learn to follow you!

In your own sex's general name,
Your bland acceptance, next, I claim.
Can Fancy's self a feature trace,
Your animation would not grace?—
Does Duty any task propose,
To which your spirit never rose?—
Has Sense a sanction it procures
From acts or thoughts, more just than yours!
—In active merit so complete,
What else could you adorn?—Retreat!—
There shall this Wheel of mine attest,
“Your leisure knows no useless rest;”—

And on that fact another found,
“That Female Genius has no bound;”—
While with alert address you fill
Each interval of nobler skill;
From higher aims, to humbler, fall,—
Still equal to yourself, in All!

When for my Wheel I intercede,
The cause of all your Friends, I plead:
For while your total virtue's height
Puts competition out of sight,
To them, your slighest works will stand,
Proofs of that virtue's vast demand;
Will make your mere amusements tell,
Each character you bear, born well;
And every web your Wheel supplies,
A relique for esteem to prize.

Last, for myself, let me intreat,
My Wheel may prompt acceptance meet;—

Myself!—whose fondest hope and care
Are centred in this single prayer,—
“That while you twine the ductile threads,
“Her treasures while Reflection spreads,
“Recalls to each applauded part,
“The suffrage of your conscious heart,
“And raises from your feelings past
“The glow, that will endear your last,
“Some soft remembrance you'll devote,
“To Him, who sings this annual note;
“Proud, when the festive Morn calls forth,
“His tribute to one Woman's worth:
“Who loveliest of the lovely, stood,
“Because still best, among the good!”

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A COMPLETE SET OF WORCESTER CHINA.

Time, to our matrimonial score,
Sets up one year of union more:
And while, at every period's close,
Th' accumulate total richer grows,
Bids hours of comfort, as they fly,
Bring me new joys—to reckon by.

Ev'n now (besides th' accustom'd glow,
Which round this festive Morn they throw,)
They deck with more immediate care,
The smile, my Gift and I shall share;—

My Gift; which under China's name,
Asserts an English artist's claim.

Wit, well I know, time out of mind,
Ladies and China-ware has join'd;
While random Censure's flippant tongue
On fair, and frail, the changes rung.
How far your Sex deserves the jest,
On more than Censure's charge, should rest:
I deem it false;—for if 'twere true,
Your sex, I'm sure, deserves not You!

Comparison, meanwhile, may found
Resemblance, on much surer ground;
Resemblance, just, and obvious too,
By taking from your Mind it's cue:
There, China's properest use may trace—
Where social Sense aids native grace!—
Thence China's happiest boast may draw—
“All Excellence, without a flaw!”—

Or noting, how with foreign dies,
Domestic manufacture vies,
May, to this moment, from your birth,
Deduce a parallel of Worth;
Worth, which peculiar powers extracts,
Ev'n from the sphere, wherein it acts;
And in it's home, of humble life,
Displays a Mother, Friend, and Wife;
Whose like, the proudest Nations known,
Might feel new pride, to call their own.

Mark what a group of pieces met,
To make, in China-style, a Set.—
To make the parts you fill, so bright,
As great varieties unite;
All showing, tho' distinctly plac'd,
One Pattern of superior Taste;
All in one brilliant Whole combin'd,
Of Right and Useful, Firm and Kind;

All sanctioning one faithful list,
Where not a Virtue e'er was mist!

The lot for sale at auction lay:—
“And what of that?” perhaps you'll say;
—Marry, could then, the standers-by,
Have known for whom I bought, and why,
They'd forc'd me, for the good of trade,
To twice the bidding I had made:
For surely, 'tis but fair, to state,
That purchase cheap at any rate,
Which coming, as this comes, a sign
Of Veneration, just as mine,
Love's votive mite to Merit pays,
Above all Price, as well as Praise!

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A POCKET-BOOK.

Another year's demands I pay;—
Another Gift; another Lay;
A Gift, a Lay, reserv'd to adorn
The twofold triumph of the Morn,
Which to the world, and me, benign,
First gave you Birth; then made you mine:
A Gift, a Lay, which but reveal,
This moment, what in all I feel;
Save that each joy, from time that springs,
More length of sweet remembrance brings.

Then, scorn not on these toys to look,
So mean a Verse, so blank a Book;
One soft sensation if it raise,
That Verse will earn me more than praise:
To fill that Book, if you think good,
'Twill show forthwith, (what no Verse cou'd,)
How just, how ample action's scale,
When powers of Mind, like Yours, prevail.

Yet while successive pages bear
Your comprehensive range of care,
Each hint, from sounder Sense that flows,
Each impulse friendlier Feeling knows,
Each purpose of superior strain,
Maternal, conjugal, humane,
To my sole claim one space assign,
Where both our signatures may join!—
—Where witness'd, in the name you shar'd,
When mutual troth our vows declar'd,

Frank as the heart, that gave your hand,
A sanction of my Love may stand;
Of Love, which never yet, exprest
A preference, Truth could not attest;
Nor e'er more cordial comfort felt,
Than what your kind Complacence dealt;
Nor ever in idea rose
Above such Worth, as you disclose!
—Where my name too, next yours display'd,
May own that Love, with Love repaid;
May boast a Wife, my favourite theme,
As well from justice, as esteem;
May vouch, (what life shall ne'er forget,)
Affectionate approbation's debt;
And bind me, ev'n with death in view,
To fix my dearest thought on You!
While the last gasp tir'd nature draws,
To sigh “Farewell!” with, breath's Applause.

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A GOLD WATCH.

Memory, this Morn, was turning o'er
It's treasur'd matrimonial store;
All, mutual troth had meant, or done,
Since those first vows, that made us One.

Time, cross the spot, that moment flew,
And held his Hour-glass up to view;
As who should say, “No Union's band
“Arrests my course, or checks my hand:
“In vain, tho' life's perplexing lot
“Attempt to loose the sacred knot;

“In vain, tho' pains and frailties try;—
“My Scythe cuts, what they can't untie.”

A tear that trill'd down Memory's cheek,
Confest, what language could not speak;
And bad me, with the faithful Lay,
Which greets, once more, our Nuptial Day,
Commend, dear Mary, to your care,
The votive gift, the Watch, I bear;
That when Time counts his reck'ning, You
May have your Regulator too.

For mine then, and for Memory's sake,
The sure, tho' silent Monitor take;
And on it's surface when you trace,
Your present Being's lessening space,
Let hints from past exertions caught,
To future scenes exalt your thought;—
Adjust your judgment of events,
By facts your own Desert presents;—

Recall th' applause to merit due,
At once, so various, and so true;—
Renew the glow, complacence found,
Whene'er it dealt complacence round;—
Revive the energy, which of yore,
Infirmity's frequent pressure bore;—
Thro' fortune's fathomless obscure,
Lead patient worth, and purpose pure;—
And strength to ev'ry spring impart,
Which actuates a Superior Heart.
—Whene'er, in short, beneath your eye,
The hours, in measur'd motion fly,
Let each a kind concern suggest,
For him, with whom you'll share the rest:
Think, all he asks of Heav'n to give,
Is with you, and for you to live!
Think, 'tis his prime ambition's scope,
His happiest theme, his dearest hope,

From labours too severe redeem'd,
Esteeming you, by you esteem'd,
Sustaining you, by you sustain'd,
To wait resign'd, th' award ordain'd;
Enjoy your joys, sooth your repose,
Till Love and Life together close.

Let Time, meanwhile, indulge his spite,
Swift as he is, his swiftest flight,
(Whate'er impressions mark his speed
Tow'rd that last home, for all decreed,)
Will but attest Affection's power,
To plant, in every step, a Flower.

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A GOLD THIMBLE.

A Thimble!—“Whence,” plain sense might say,
“Came such a thought, on such a day?
“What! after every ampler test,
“Of Worth so tried, and so confest,
“T' address, by way of off'ring too,
“An hint of Industry to You!
“Could Love suggest a Gift like this?
“Or Truth approve it?”—Molly, Yes!

All hints, you know, are but design'd
To bring realities to mind:

If Thimbles, therefore, types so clear
Of common Industry appear,
A Golden one, of course, may be
A type of Golden Industry;
Of such superior stamp, as still
Yours ever bore,—and ever will.
This Youth has prov'd; this Age will prove!
And so says Truth;—and so says Love!

Th' illustrious Warrior, heretofore,
(His laurels won, his labours o'er,)
Beside some trophied shrine, display'd
The Sword, by victory, sacred made;
That future Chiefs might see, and draw
More emulous zeal, from what they saw!
—If useful toils claim Honour's Prize,
Your Thimble, Mary, to the wise,
Will evidence of desert afford,
As just, as any Warrior's Sword:—

And when, (far distant be that hour!)
Your hand and mind resign their pow'r,
May pass, as sacred, to your heirs;
Proof of your excellence!—pledge of theirs!

For who can separate, ev'n in thought,
Your Thimble now, from what you've wrought?
What work of yours was ever known,
In which no singular fancy shone?
Could any applause, to fancy due,
Be more spontaneous? or more true?
Could truth give any virtuous merit,
More lustre, than your skill and spirit?
Does any example meet our sight,
With more impressive energy bright?

And when th' effect of all your taste,
Shall only be in Reliques plac'd;
When votive verse no more shall earn,
The kiss, that blest this morn's return;

Nor my warm heart, with rapture share
The joy of boasting, what you are;—
Ev'n then your Thimble will remain,
Dear to ingenuous Sympathy's train;
And Justice own how You surpast,
As long as Gold, and Memory last.

TO THE SAME,

ON ANOTHER ANNIVERSARY OF THE SAME DAY. WITH A BRILLIANT HOOP-RING.

“A Ring! again—And is it so?
“Does then Invention run so low?
“What! could not such sincere esteem,
“Find, once a year, some novel Theme?”

Yes doubtless!—But in my design,
(Each votive Gift, each faithful line,)
Invention never labour'd yet:—
'Twas Truth's prompt praise, 'twas Love's mere debt:
These still I've brought; these now I bring,
The same Heart,—tho' another Ring!

Meant on my Molly's hand to shine,
And the first Pledge of Union join:
That while her Native elegance shows,
How little, grace to splendor owes,
The radiant Circle's friendly plea,
May speak a word or two, for me.

Perhaps, when there, henceforth she marks,
It's glittering sparks succeed to sparks,
She'll think, how oft my joy confest
Each brighter part her life exprest:
And saw, in such gradation plac'd,
The rays of Genius, Sense, and Taste,
That scarce affectionate applause,
Had known a limit, or a pause!

Perhaps, when she observes how pure,
How glowing, how intense t' endure,
The lustre every point displays,
Whose each new motion beams new blaze,

Her conscious Memory will return,
To similar proofs of my concern;
Attachment, whose perpetual care,
Her interests, merits, comforts share;
Regard, which nothing could transfer,
Ev'n to a wish, estrang'd from her;
Feelings, which Fate's eventful range
Did never chill, shall never change.

Perhaps, Reflection's eye will seize
An hint, from Brilliants, hard as these;
Impassive substance; firm to mock,
Assailing pressure's rudest shock:
And thence a kind remembrance cast,
On years of patient effort past;
When her Exertion, Skill, Address,
Made all my Toils and Sorrows less;
Till emulous Perseverance caught
The Spirit, her example taught;

And Hope, thro' pain, suspense, dismay,
Cheer'd by her aid, pursued it's way;
Hope, doubly welcome, when it's aims
Unite my prospects, with her claims.

Perhaps, in short, sometimes by chance,
These Gems may catch her graver glance;
And Thought suggest, how soon may fail
The voice, that loves her worth to hail!
Then, while her silent sighs ascend,
The Ring will bring to mind the Friend;
Th' Admirer, Lover, Husband, Man,
Who glorying in one favorite plan,
Resolv'd t' announce, in Time's despite,
(As long, at least, as Diamonds might,)
That Heav'n's award to him assign'd
The Best and Dearest of her kind!

TO THE SAME,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER WRITTEN TO HIM DURING HIS ABSENCE ON A JOURNEY INTO KENT.

FROM THE GATE-POST LEADING TO LEYBURN GRANGE, AUGUST 27, 1786.

Do you ask how I fare, and how matters turn out?
—I am heartily pleas'd; and am happily stout;

And can give every wish, except one, it's Quietus;
'Tis a wish, that occurs with each prospect I view;
Let Horace tell Clare, and let Clare tell it you;—

“Excepto quod non simul esses, cætera lætus.”
Or if Clare's too engag'd with his Adams and Sandby,
And you'll take a translation in my Nanby Panby,
“Wanting only yourself, to be snug, as snug can be.”

TO THE SAME,

WITH A PRESENT OF APPLES.

FROM THE RUINS OF DITTON PARSONAGE, AUGUST 28, 1786.

Your Golder's Hill, you oft exclaim,
Fills every wish your heart can frame:—
No such proud boast can Ditton make;
Yet gives you for a token's sake,
What ev'n at Golder's Hill you miss,
—A Dumplin, in a year like this!

TO THE SAME.

CANTERBURY, AUGUST 28, 1789.

I

Will you hear a new sing-song, of hey! diddle derry?
How a Bishop ran rambling to fair Canterbury?
A Bishop by name, tho' no Bishop in deed,
Un-Doctor'd, un-Lordship'd, un-Mitred, un-See'd;
Derry Down.

II

This Bishop left All, when his journey he took;
Nay his own better half, his dear Wife, he forsook;
From whence you'll perceive, if at Irish you laugh,
That this Bishop's All—was an All and an half:
Derry Down.

III

But a truce with this paddy-cal, punnical scrawl,
Whose sense, when you've found it, is no sense at all:
Our torrent of wit let us wisely contract;
And glide on in plain terms, to plain matter of fact:
Derry Down.

IV

Master Bishop, to do things a little in style,
Took a seat in a Dilly, at so much per mile,
And because the best Company suited his palate,
Had on this side a Brim, and on that a French Valet:
Derry Down.

V

Monsieur to the Lady meet rapture addrest,
With whose beauty our sight was so happily blest!
Tho' the Dame, if appearance will authorise guessing,
Was experter in blasting of eyes, than in blessing.
Derry Down.

VI

The Bishop sat wishing with many a pout;—
Wishing what?—Why the end of the journey, no doubt;—
For tho' tempted, he scorn'd, for mere Charity's sake,
To wish their necks broke—while his own was at stake.
Derry Down.

VII

But luck, which had play'd him full oft a dog-trick,
For this once, in his life, stood his friend, in the nick;
And by changing about, at Stone's End, he was carry'd
With a rich Kentish Squire, and a Maid he had marry'd:
Derry Down.

VIII

So leaving the Dilly and also it's Vermin,
To make love, or be hang'd, as their fate shall determine,
He got safe in good quarters, in fair Canterbury:—
And thus ends this queer sing-song of hey! diddle derry.
Derry Down.

TO THE SAME.

CANTERBURY, AUGUST 29, 1789.

Thro' tower-crown'd battlements I stray,
Whence Kings th' assault of rage defy'd;
Or take midst gorgeous shrines my way,
August remains of priestly pride.

Those priests so proud, those kings so great,
Their pomp and power, have long resign'd;
Tho' haply at the hour of fate,
They sigh'd—for what they left behind!

I pity them, alas!—and why?
Ev'n now a similar grief I share;
Who think of Golder's Hill, and sigh,
For what I left behind me there!

TO THE SAME,

ON HER DESIRING TO KNOW WHAT SORT OF JOURNEY HE HAD TO DITTON.

1791.

A Dame, frank, spirited, and smart,
With lively daughters two,
Reliev'd my journey's tedious part;
But none of them—was You!

A comfortable Inn's retreat,
My just approval drew;
'Twas neatness, drest in style most neat,
But still it wanted—You!

Nature display'd her Vernal Face,
In all it's pride of hue;
'Twas bloom, 'twas beauty, sweetness, grace,
But yet it was not—You!

Bright Scenes, good Quarters, Converse gay,
For other hearts might do;
But I've a wish, where'er I stray,
Which nothing fills—but You!

TO THE SAME,

DESIRING HIM TO WRITE ONLY ABOUT HIMSELF, ON A JOURNEY.

MAIDSTONE, AUGUST 11, 1792.

You charg'd me, from the Bell, Maidstone,
To write about myself alone;
“For why? My health, and my glad cheer,
“Was all the news, you long'd to hear.”

Mary! I love to meet your will,
But this injunction mocks my skill:
Your Bard, I'll rhyme; your Slave, I'll run;
But cannot do, what can't be done.

For instance;—note the truths I tell—
“Your Bishop has arriv'd right well;”

“Enjoy'd a journey, warm, but good,”
“And pleasant—as you wish'd he shou'd;”
“O'er his lamb-chop to you he drinks:”
“Of you, when happiest, most he thinks.”

Now mark!—and speak, what justice ought.—
—Could this be written, told, or thought,
Without (pray count them, if you please)
At least as many you's as me's?

While then, your kind concern I own,
I've no such thing, as self alone:
Expression can no more disjoin,
My-self from yours, your-self from mine,
Than time or tide, can ever part,
One Faith in both; one Will; one Heart!

And I must be a strange forgetter,
If e'er, in fancy, phrase, or letter,
By any means, on any spot,
I share a self, which you share not;

Or let two words, in my mind's eye,
Unite more close, than You, and I.

Bate this impossible condition,
In all things else, I'm all submission:
But every mention how I fare,
Must one predominant feature bear;
While each idea's constant clue,
Begins with me!—to end with you!

TO THE SAME,

ON HER WEARING A NEW DRESS.

Sweet negligence and happy art,
Leave Mary equally complete;
Her Taste makes smartness, still more smart;
Her Grace makes neatness, still more neat.

Your sex, with too immense a claim,
Our hearts, dear Mary, would subdue,
If dress could give to every dame,
As much as it receives from you!

TO THE SAME,

ON HER HAVING ACCIDENTALLY HURT HER EYE.

That orb extinct a general grief would draw;
For you and for the world, how just! how keen!
You'd lose the clearest eye that ever saw;
The world the brightest, that was ever seen!

TO THE SAME,

WITH A PRESENT OF PICKLED OYSTERS.

I Hope, you'll not quarrel
With this little barrel;
Nor scornfully stickle
Against oysters in pickle,
Since so freely they pass
O'er your palate in sauce.
If the Critics look cross,
As if sauce should be sawce;
Let them tie their wit up,
While on oysters you sup:—
And as soon as you've done,
If their tongues then must run,
Let them take for their pains, what these tubs left behind 'em,
And lick the shells clean—if they know, where to find 'em!

TO MRS. AND MISS BISHOP,

IN EXCUSE FOR NOT COMING INTO THE COUNTRY TO DINNER.

A Visit, in due form, I paid,
To my good Lord of Bangor's—maid!
Himself!—no friends in Town will share him,
Till Senates call, and Wales can spare him.

Then strove I, (but in vain I strove,)
To shew my shapes in time for Grove.

The cross puss Fortune still turn'd tail;
And distanc'd me again with Gale.

Fretting to fiddle-strings my guts,
I found 'twas now too late for Cutts.

No huswife, in a cookmaid's pocket,
Was e'er cram'd half so full as Crockett.

Both Houlds and Weeks (could I have gotten 'em)
Requir'd a previous tramp to Tottenham;
And should I miss 'em, double, double,
(Going and coming,) toil and trouble.

On foot, I might as well pretend
To reach the North Pole, as North End;
Tho' you were dearer, three times told,
And Golder's Hill, an Hill of Gold.

I therefore am compell'd to clap,
This scurvy scribble on this scrap,

And send Amigôs assientôs
The greeting I can't bring on ten-toes.

I am, dear girls, to dam and cub,
Affectionate dad, and loving hub!

TO MISS BISHOP, BEING ON A VISIT AT RICHMOND.

[_]

MARTIAL. BOOK 10. EPIGRAM 47. IMITATED.

The things, my dearest girl, that please
In visitants like you—are these:
—Politeness, that appears inspir'd
By Nature, not by Art acquir'd:
Sense quick to learn, and glad t' inform:
Good-humour ever frank and warm:

100

Will, that contends not: No Excess,
Nor needless Frequency of Dress:
An Heart that is, and seems serene:
Youth's active Ease: Health's cheerful Mien:
Prudent Simplicity: A Mind,
To social Gentleness inclin'd:
An Appetite, that scorns no Treat;
Yet most enjoys the simplest Meat:
Spirits from Morn to Night that last,
By no affected Gloom o'ercast:
Mirth not extravagant, nor loud:
And Seriousness nor cross, nor proud:

101

A firm Resolve in Act and Thought,
To be the very thing you ought;
Whate'er you do, where'er you go,
Sleeping and waking, still to show
For Friends abroad all just concern;
Nor long, nor scruple to return.

102

TO THE SAME, AT RICHMOND.

SUPPOSED TO COME FROM A FAVORITE PERSIAN KITTEN.

'Tis but a little wish I send,—
Accept it from a little friend.—

May the whole period of your stay
Be jocund, as a Kitten's Day!
Your temper and your manner shine,
Sprightly and innocent, as mine!
May Pleasure's self, for your dear sake,
A portion of my likeness take!
Be brilliant, as the eye so blue;
Be spotless, as the snowy hue;
Be frequent, as the frisks; and yet,
Smooth, as the fur, of your—Minette!

103

TO THE SAME,

WITH A POCKET-MIRROR.

This Glass above all price you'll raise,
Yourself, dear girl, above all praise;
If you can teach it to display,
(As all my hopes portend it may,)
One living likeness of your Mother—
—The World can hardly show another!

104

TO THE SAME,

WITH A COPY OF MADAM SÉVIGNÉ'S LETTERS.

Such was, in France, but in another age,
A polish'd Woman's sweetly moral Page;
Taught by a Mother's Feelings to display
An Heart so tender, in a Style so gay!

Mary! 'tis yours th' alternate part to prove!
How Filial, can return Maternal Love!
To urge a claim on present Excellence plac'd;
Perfect in Act; as Sévigné was in Taste!

105

While conscious Candor shall rejoice to learn,
From what She wrote, and what your Virtues earn,
That Heav'n appropriates Genius, to no time;
Sense, to no sex; and Merit, to no clime!

Superior Minds, like Stars, o'er infinite space,
With separate radiance, various orbits trace:
But when impell'd by Pious Ardor's force,
(Whate'er their period, magnitude, or course,)
Rise in full glow; and shine sublimely fair!—
—For Nature's noblest Energies center there.

106

TO THE SAME,

WITH A MEDALLION, ON WHICH WAS REPRESENTED A FIGURE OF HOPE, LEANING ON AN ANCHOR OF DIAMONDS.

When Filial Piety, Female Worth refines,
Parental Hope, on Adamant reclines.

TO THE SAME,

WITH A SILVER SEAL, WHICH HAD BELONGED TO THE AUTHOR'S FATHER, SET IN GOLD.

Let this Domestic Relique prove,
If not your Father's wealth, his love;
Of all his Father once enjoy'd,
The only Relique, not destroy'd;

107

Devolving, by unquestion'd claim,
On You—sole Heiress—of our Name.

If, when your Grandsire's Arms you view,
Nature should catch th' affecting cue,
And prompt a pious wish t' explore,
What Form, what Mind, that Grandsire bore,
The very Seal, those Arms which shows,
Some prominent Features will disclose:—
The Silver marks his mental store;
Pure, unambitious, useful Ore:
While ever, like the Gold, his Deed,
Each moral Touchstone's test could plead.—
—For other traits my pencil trust:
Tho' faint the tints, the lines are just.

A Stature, full, compact, erect,—
A Manner, to command respect,—
An Eye, that look'd a friendly joke,—
The frank, but firm Old Briton spoke.

108

Well-principled, well-inform'd, well-skill'd,
He dignified the part he fill'd;
Wrought no man's wrong—nor e'er delay'd,
When injur'd right requir'd his aid:
Stern to condemn, tho' slow to wound
The guilt, his keen discernment found;
To fraud inflexible;—yet prone
To mitigate suffering folly's moan;
And spare the criminal, while he gave
To sure conviction all the knave:
By Craft, at once admir'd and fear'd;
By Sense approv'd; to Worth endear'd.

Tho' crush'd by pain, entomb'd he lay,
Ere your eyes open'd to the day,
Myself have heard, on public ground,
Within the passing year's short round,
Surviving evidence proclaim
Spontaneous reverence for his name;

109

While thus the cordial suffrage ran,—
“'Twas generous George, the Upright Man!”
How few among the sumptuous shrines,
Where proud mortality reclines,
Boast merit, on that basis rais'd?
So long remember'd?—or so prais'd?

If aught in his contracted sphere,
An Heart so manly, Hands so clear,
By Spirit nerv'd, by Fortune crost,
With Honour earn'd, with Patience lost,
May that arrear, whate'er th' amount,
Be plac'd, dear Girl, to your account!
To you, may Heaven's award benign,
The Health, to him denied, assign!
To you, with this his Seal, make o'er
His right to Better Days, of yore!
And add, your own Deserts to grace,
All Time's old Debts, to all your Race!

110

TO THE REV. THOMAS CLARE.

SEPTEMBER 6, 1779.

While all the quid-nunc tribe aghast lies,
Bamm'd by the present, and the past Lies,
Such desperate here—there such bombast Lies,
Twixt which, small odds, tho' great contrast lies,
(I would to heav'n, they were the last Lies,)
What if we two, whose dim forecast lies,
Bewilder'd in so vague, and vast Lies,
Quit Politics—and meet at Astley's?

111

TO THE SAME.

LEFT AT THE BAR OF THE SOMERSET-HOUSE COFFEE-HOUSE.

Where are the Wits, extoll'd of yore?
Like Master Bishop—Gone before—
—Where's Master Bishop?—As they are,
Gone forward—but not quite so far!
—Him and his ways, three words explain—
The Pit—Orchestra—Drury-Lane.

112

TO ANTHONY DICKINS ESQ.

IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER.

JUNE 5, 1777.

Before your friendly note I got,
Two Abchurch hams were in the pot:—
So much I heard upon the spot;—
And people deeper in the plot,
Dropt hints (I heard not clearly what)
Of fish-pans, sauce, and water hot,
Which put together, spelt turbot;
For which the parish pays the shot.

But viands move me not a jot;
To Lincoln's Inn, at four, I'd trot,

113

But that my promise bids me not,
—To break such promise would (God wot)
Be in my scutcheon a foul blot:—
The more unlucky is my lot.

Yet must I pass for knave or sot,
If your kind summons be forgot:
Some fitter day I'll soon allot,
At your and Madam's side to squat,
Enjoy her pie, and Sal's Gavot.—
—Else may each Muse in grove or grot
Despise me, more than Wilkes a Scot;
More than a lion, a marmot!
May cookmaids hoot me for a cot!
May Dutchmen call me Hottentot!
May all my rhymes on dunghils rot!
Still may I sail, without pilot,
On board the Disappointment Yatch;
Meagre and mad as Don Quixote,

114

My wealth, a cypher and a dot;
May Tyburn's self, in the upshot,
String for my neck a running knot!
And my good name, outstink schalot!

115

TO THE SAME,

SHOT ON THE POINT OF AN ARROW, INTO HIS GARDEN AT EWELL.

OCTOBER 27, 1779.

“From whence,” you'll cry, “comes This, I trow?”
“From Spirits on high? or Imps below?”

'Tis not from Spirits on high—tho' sure
What claims our Love, must theirs procure.

'Tis from no Imp—for, entre-nous,
The Devil better knows his cue:
Busy inferior souls to catch,
But shy of Worth—above his match.

In short (of doubts, at once, to ease ye)
'Tis from the Dorking Stage, and please ye!

116

A flying How d'ye! and God bless ye!
—But why in this odd mode address ye?—
To make you laugh, and, laughing, say,
“The Fool has shot his bolt to day.”

Tho' should you giggle, till you cry, Sir;
Till doom's-day; or till I grow wiser;
You can't my folly more deride,
Than I do, half the world's beside.

For, truly, when with closer ken,
One views the trim of things and men;
How oft convenience, stands for conscience,
And wisdom, is but graver nonsense;
While, hare-um! scare-um! crowds jog on,
Imposing, and impos'd upon;
While this, I say, still meets one's eye;
Tho' sometimes it provoke a sigh,
At others, 'tis at least as well,
Voir, etre, faire—la Bagatelle.

117

TO THE SAME,

ON HIS CALLING TO INQUIRE AFTER THE AUTHOR'S HEALTH, WHEN CONFINED TO HIS CHAMBER WITH THE GOUT.

[_]

EXTEMPORE.

Soon as I heard your friendly rap,
I wish'd of course from gouty lap,
To greet you with poetic scrap,
But Fancy cried, “Negatur:”
She deals in vanity, a bit,—
But never, in her vainest fit,
Could think of keeping pace in wit,
With Dickins in Good-nature.

118

TO A LADY,

ON THE BIRTH OF HER GRANDSON.

In your, and in your Grandson's name,
A short, but hearty wish we frame:—
May he down Life's smooth current swim,
And still new cause occur,
To make his Mother's pride in Him,
As just, as Yours in Her!

119

TO THE BISHOP OF BANGOR.

APRIL 8, 1780.

'Tis true—we see, my Lord, the Times
So rank in Follies, Vices, Crimes,
That all the serious Truths you preach,
Instruct not, more than they impeach.

Yet while th' enormities, you blame,
Eclipse too visibly our fame,
One sign at least, of grace suspends
The total shame, our guilt portends.

For Censure's self will scarce engage,
Ev'n on so profligate an age
To fix an universal blot,—
Till Your Promotion is forgot.

120

TO ALDERMAN BOYDELL.

From Esteem in Cheapside, to Eclat in Pall Mall,
How happily Boydell proceeds;
While his judgment discriminates efforts so well,
To which his encouragement leads!

No wonder if loud approbation ensue!
'Tis Merit's right natural fruit;
When Spirit, like his, carries Arts into view;
And those Arts carry Shakespeare to boot!

121

TO THE REVEREND MR. FAYTING.

WOTTON, AUGUST 1779.

Dear Sir! To you this packet bears
My hearty duty, and best prayers.
To which annexed a Schedule is
Of Sundries here at Wotton—Viz:

A Country, delicately rude—
(I mean not to be quaint, or shrewd,)
My heart so calls, while my eye views it—
Had I an apter phrase, I'd use it,

A Soil, so dry, that spite of rains,
Along the ridge, or cross the plains,

122

Pope's slip-shod Sybil might have past;
And not been wet-shod, first or last.

A Congregation, of plain men:—
Of Squires I've had as yet no ken;
For truly, thro' my time at least,
They've troubled neither Church nor Priest.

A Parsonage, on a spot in which
Wisdom herself her tent would pitch;
That scorns the storm, yet greets the gale;
Below the hills; above the vale.

A Parlour, whose dimensions lie,
More long, than wide; more wide, than high;
Yet high enough to dine, with ease,
A score—of Giants if you please;
Of Giants, tall, as earth e'er bred;—
Unless one sits on t'other's head!

A Chamber, trim as trim can be:
A Bed, snugg—with a double g:

123

Furnish'd—how smartly, and how well,
In truth I slept too sound, to tell.

Lawns, Ponds, a Garden, and a Mound,
With firs of classic grandeur crown'd:
And Comfort, (some sure signs declare,)
Has taken up her Quarters there.

A Yard, where pigs and poultry stray:
A Glebe, where all things seem to say,
The sooner Friends exhaust this store,
The sooner they'll make room for more.

Two Rooms, on one foundation set;
Mere walls, and floors, and ceilings yet:
But Taste, my Landlord's engineer,
Stands bound to finish 'em next year.

An Host, and Hostess—but to show,
How far their courtesy can go,
Would puzzle an Extempore Muse;
And yet be telling you no news.

124

If peradventure, your esteem
Suggest more questions on this theme,
To solve such questions I'll endeavour,
In vivâ voce Prose—Yours ever.

125

TO THE SAME.

(ON A BROOMSTICK.)

1779.

“Write on a Broomstick, Friend,” you cry'd:—
“Write on, and for Yourself,” says Pride.—
How shall I both commands fulfil?
You ought to rule me, and Pride will.—

What if I try, in one design
Duty, and Vanity to join?—
And while I urge the Broomstick's plea,
Describe, how it resembles Me?
Perhaps you may approve the hint;
Tho' if you should, there's danger in't:

126

Approval, such as yours, to get,
Would only make me prouder yet.

“Can prouder be?”—quoth Critic Laughter.
That's even as shall appear hereafter:—
Enquire we now, wherein, and why,
Such as the Broomstick is, am I.

When once 'tis sever'd from the tree,
None heeds the Broomstick's pedigree:
And who, I wonder, cares a pin,
From whom I sprung, to whom I'm kin?

Before the Broomstick of to-day
Came, as a Broomstick, into play,
'Twas pluck'd, and peel'd, and lopt, and clipt,
Of Boughs, as I of Fortune stript;
Then, like myself, at random hurl'd,
A bare adventurer on the world.

Most Broomsticks to a twist incline,
Just like this poking Pate of mine:

127

Nor can you set, by art or might,
The Wood quite straight, the Head upright:
Nor is the Head, nor is the Wood,
Worth half the trouble, if you cou'd.

A Broomstick's point (if you attend)
Is always near it's bigger end:
So, (this dull ditty makes it plain,)
My thickest part is next my brain.

Humour a Broomstick, as you may,
'Twill crack, before it will give way:
And I, for my own whims contending,
Bear great antipathy to bending.

Tho' oft in squabbles it appear,
No Broomstick fights a volunteer;
Press'd into combat, if it break
One's head, 'tis for another's sake:
—Such would I be;—my friends to guard,
Would smite; and, if I smote, smite hard;

128

But never thro' the whole of life,
Stand forth, a Principal in strife.

The Broomstick ne'er affects extremes,
Content to be, the thing it seems:
May I, with stedfast mind and phiz,
Taking the world, as the world is,
Make such philosophy my own;
Glad to let well enough alone!

True to it's proper part, and place,
The Broomstick scorns to push a face:
And I that maxim to a tittle
Pursue, some think too far a little;
More prone to quit the ground I've got,
Than claim a rank I merit not;
Conscious how scanty, at the most,
Is all Truth can, or Sense would, boast.

Witches, 'tis said, on Lapland's coast,
Astride their Broomsticks travel post:

129

So when the Muse is pleas'd to back
My wooden Genius for an hack,
Away she scampers, like a Witch,
Thro' thick and thin, cross hedge and ditch;
As if resolv'd, before we part,
To break her own neck, or my heart.

Broomsticks on no punctilios stand,
Ready alike for every hand:
So I my skill and powers would suit,
(Powers how confin'd! skill how minute!)
To any need, at any call!—
Be useful—or not be at all.

One semblance more of me (God knows)
The Broomstick, too exactly, shows;
By bands, long! long! perhaps to last,
'Tis, like myself, to Birch bound fast!
—And shall things ever thus remain?—
'Tis fair to hope, tho' not complain.

130

I bear, meanwhile, what must be born:
And when to a mere Stump I'm worn,
Let this Eulogium on my Tomb stick,
“Here lies the Model of a Broomstick!”

131

TO THE REVEREND DR. ALTHAM.

THANKS FOR A PRESENT OF A PIG. WRITTEN UNDER AN EMBLEM OF ELOQUENCE, REPRESENTED BY THE FIGURE OF A MAN EXALTED ON A PEDESTAL, AND HOLDING THE EARS OF HIS AUDITORS IN STRINGS.

From a scrub book, no matter what,
This Type of Eloquence I got;
But think, with better right and grace,
Your Pig may take the Speaker's place.

For, from the moment I drew out
From straw and packthread it's round snout,
I've listen'd to the news it brings,
As if it held my ears in strings.

132

Ask you upon what theme it dwells?
—Hear then the tale, a dead Pig tells!—

First, Sir, and foremost, thus it saith,
“That Rumour is not ground for Faith.”
—No great discovery I allow;—
Yet mighty welcome doctrine now:
For Rumour you must know, with too many
Sad symptoms of a Peripneumony,
Had laid you up—and would, no doubt,
Ere long have kill'd, and laid you out.
But this same Pig of yours alleges,
(And for it's truth it's carcase pledges,
Whereto it adds, by way of proof,
A label scrawl'd with your own hoof,)
That you (let Fame lie more or less)
Two properties at least possess
Of Men alive, and fit to live—
—An hand to write—an heart to give.

133

Moreover, it sets forth, as fully,
As if 't had studied under Tully,
That, spite of changes and of chances,
Time, distance, and cross circumstances,
An odd old Comrade's name can fill
One corner of your memory still;
An honour, truly worth my getting;
A joy, that shrinks not in the wetting:
To which, had I the life of Nestor,
I would subscribe my—Ita testor.

Am I then an ill estimator,
Who call your Pig a Prime Orator?
No.—If 'tis Eloquence's part
To give a fillip to the heart,
Try Pigs, and Speech-makers ad libitum,
When, where, and how you please, exhibit 'em,
Yet from earth's surface to it's centre,
You'll never find an eloquenter.

134

So much for rhyme.—Descende, Pegase!—
—What! and forget Dame Hanway's Legacy!—
The Pig indeed spoke not a word on't;
Perhaps, because it never heard on't;
Perhaps, because it would not puff:
—But Jem's authority's enough:
And Jem has stated an account
Of Goods and Monies;—whose amount
Will fill with plate your shop, and his shop;
Your pockets; and I hope your wish up;—
Whereof God give you joy!—Yours, Bishop.

135

TO MR. MERLIN.

WRITTEN IN ONE OF HIS CHAIRS, DURING A FIT OF THE GOUT.

FEBRUARY 4, 1789.

I

You! who in Fortune's rough high road,
Which all are deem'd to whirl in,
For gouty feet, would keep a Seat,
Apply to Master Merlin!

II

Tho' coronets, fringe, and velvet deck
The Chair that holds an Earl in,
At Gout's first touch, he'd change ten such,
For One of Master Merlin!

136

III

The Beau must have a powdering Chair,
To frizz toupee, and curl in:—
Let him be fine, let ease be mine,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

IV

Some hire an Holiday Chaise and one,
To cram man, wife, boy, girl in:—
I neither steed, nor company need,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

V

Talk not of Eastern Caravans,
With silk, gold, spice, and pearl in:—
Life knows no gain, like rest from pain,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

137

VI

You travel at your driver's will,
In Dilly, Hack, or Berlin:—
I choose my ground; back, forward, round,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

VII

The splendid Carriage oft admits
A proud self-center'd churl in:—
I wish mankind the joy I find,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

VIII

Your very Wheels a tax must pay,
If public roads they twirl in:—
He rides toll-free, who rides like me,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

138

IX

Fancy, meanwhile, takes ample scope,
Her boldest sails t' unfurl in;
From crippled limbs, at large she skims,
In Chair of Master Merlin!

X

Toes, ankles, knees, to facts so felt,
Their conscious suffrage hurl in;
And Truth encores, from thousand pores,
O! bravo! Master Merlin!

139

TO MR. AND MRS. SCOTT,

ON THEIR MARRIAGE.

“What Dower has gentle Kate to show?”—
—Good-humour's comfortable glow;
Voice, gesture, looks, that say,
One tried in pious Duty's part,
A Maid with all a Mother's heart,
Becomes a Bride to-day.

Let Him, whose prudent choice prefers
Her, and endowments such as hers,

140

Give bliss, as he is blest;
Devote his own, to aid her powers;
With love relieve her careful hours,
With love endear the rest.

Let Kate with sweet complacence earn,
With grace receive, with joy return,
Each proof of tender zeal;
For every praise, have every plea;
Be, all the fondest Wives can be;
Feel, all the happiest feel.

141

TO TWO AND TWENTY TOWNLEYS,

MET TOGETHER TO CELEBRATE THE SIXTIETH BIRTH-DAY OF MR. KIRKES TOWNLEY.

SIGNED BY MR. MRS. AND MISS BISHOP.

JULY 27, 1776.

Three Bishops, in three Bumpers, with three Cheers,
Wish every Townley all that life endears,
All Taste of Pleasure, and all Power to please;
In Youth all Spirit, and in Age all Ease!
Thus for the general Townley Train,
In general terms the Bishops pray:
But form a more peculiar strain
For one peculiar Friend—and say;

May no Complaint his ear engage,
But what his kindness can assuage!

142

No Strife his peaceful haunts alarm,
But what his Candour can disarm!
May never Grief, or Pain, or Want,
Implore the help he cannot grant;
Nor ever Want, or Grief, or Pain,
Receive the help he grants, in vain!
Where'er He is, may Comfort be!
And every Comfort he shall see
To gentle Worthiness assign'd,
Bring Virtues of his own to mind!
While He, thro' Life's remaining race,
Preserves the present even pace;
As perfect in each future scene,
(Tho' many a Birth-day intervene,)
As when this Sixtieth Birth-day past—
—Good Uncle Kirkes—from first to last!

143

TO THE REVEREND GEORGE STEPNEY TOWNLEY,

ON THE BIRTH OF HIS DAUGHTER MISS MARTHA TOWNLEY.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1779.

What shall the Father hope, the Mother pray,
When their Girls' eyes first open to the day?

That ductile Spirit, simple Truth,
And pregnant Sensibility,
May lead up Infancy to Youth!—
And every prank of playful glee
Still seem to say, “This Babe was born
“A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!”

144

That year by year, new female Grace
To manlier Judgment may be join'd!
Her Genius animate her Face!
Her Manner indicate her Mind!
A Face, a Mind, that show her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That her full Form, and perfect Powers,
The Worthy, and the Wise may strike;
And Love, to bless her married hours,
Conduct and match her to her Like!—
One, who shall know, and boast her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That her capacious Heart may take
Grateful, the share of Good decreed!
And comfortable Candour make
All she enjoys, be Joy indeed!—

145

Joy, whose pure glow, may prove her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That never insult, loss, or pain,
May work an heavier weight of Care,
Than conscious Honour can disdain,
Or provident Discretion bear!
While meek Complacence speaks her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That Age insensibly may creep!
And her last look may see survive
An Offspring of her own, to keep
Her Likeness, and her Name alive!
Then may she die, as she was born,
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

146

TO THE REVEREND MOSES PORTER,

ON THE DAY HIS DAUGHTER WAS BORN.

Give, Porter! on receipt of this,
Your Daughter of to-day a kiss;
And to your Prayers for her, subjoin
A small, but hearty Wish of mine!
—That with sound Sense, and Conscience clear,
She thro' a sinful World may steer;
And, after every peril past,
Be, just what now she is, at last,—
One of the few, in all the throng,
Who have not liv'd a Day too long!

147

TO MR. WOODWARD.

SONNET, IN IMITATION OF MILTON.

Harry! (whose apt and quaintly pregnant skill
O'er prompt obedient features could diffuse
Each tint of wayward Humour; while the Muse
Thro' all her fleet lubricities, at will
Pursued the Changeling; limning portraits still,
Which mimic Art doth animate, and use
For worthiest ends; sith therein Folly views
Her own form; conscious, tho' she laugh her fill;

148

Haply so best confronted!) What to Thee,
The Public Ear hath ow'd, unquestion'd stands;
Whenas thy Powers, aye rising in degree,
Rais'd tiptoe Expectation's high demands;
And to the Scene gave that abundant glee,
Which to applaud long task'd a Nation's hands!

149

ON THE DEATH OF DR. ISAAC SCHOMBERG.

Could drugs of more immediate power,
By skill more opportune apply'd,
Protract, for man, the vital hour,
No Friend of Schomberg's e'er had dy'd!

Could warm Benignity of soul
Arrest th' arm up-rear'd to kill,
Death would have felt the bland controul,
And Schomberg had been living still!

150

CHARACTER OF THE REVEREND JAMES TOWNLEY, FORMERLY HEAD MASTER OF MERCHANT-TAYLORS' SCHOOL.

INTRODUCED IN AN EXERCISE, SPOKEN AT THE FIRST PUBLIC EXAMINATION OF THE SCHOLARS AFTER HIS DECEASE.

------ For one lost Friend
A tear will trickle, and a sigh ascend.—
Never did Friend Love more parental prove;
Never did Father bear more friendly Love;
Largely benevolent; minutely just;
Above Disguise, because above Distrust:
Sure, if he err'd, to err on Candour's side;
And only proud, to shew Contempt of Pride:

151

Frank, but not forward; without Rigor, right;
With Genius modest, and with Truth polite.
Lively, yet liberal, his convivial Joke;
Warm Humour pointed it; Good-nature spoke.
Rich was his Fancy; tho' unlabour'd, neat
His Phrase; and chaste, tho' comic, his Conceit.
His Wit was Satire, by Address disarm'd;
The Manner won, ev'n whom th' attack alarm'd;
Save, when at Vice (to Vice alone a foe)
Full in the face of Day, he aim'd his blow;
Or sped, unseen, th' effectual Shaft; while Fame,
That hail'd the Triumph, knew not whose the Claim.

152

CHARACTER OF THE REVEREND NICHOLAS FAYTING.

[_]

SPOKEN AT MERCHANT-TAYLORS' SCHOOL.

On this same Spot, the Muses first
His infant dawn of Genius nurst:
On this same Spot, they soon confest
His toils to public use addrest;
His care coercive, yet benign,
Endearing stricter discipline;
And blending in the Teacher's part,
The Censor's eye, the Parent's heart.

In Priestly Character, his zeal
Was what Conviction ought to feel:

153

Inflexibly severe, to tread
Where personal Duty's limits led;
And live in act, and be in thought,
A Comment on the Truths he taught.

His social hour's conspicuous merit
Was cheerful, yet corrected, Spirit;
That rais'd in each surrounding breast,
The same Good-humour it exprest.

His Judgment was a ray, that glow'd
To light strong Sense, thro' Reason's road:
Trac'd Worth's true price; and left Deceit
To work at will, it's own defeat.

His Charity had a double drift,
To give—and to conceal the gift;
Anxious to see the Good it dealt,
Not number'd, not describ'd—but felt!

Excellence so rare, from human view,
With Him, you lov'd so long, withdrew:—

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—Yet why the falling star deplore?—
Heaven gains one Luminary more!
The Light his Life has ceas'd to give,
Will ev'n in his example live:
And Memory's grateful Incense burn,
Diffusing Radiance from his Urn!

155

MEM: SAC: MATT. DISNEY—ARCHIB. BRAKENRIDGE.

Spirits, long loos'd from mortal care,
If haply down your fields of air
A momentary glance ye cast,
And see a lonely lingerer stray
Thro' paths, where oft in prankful play,
With you his younger foot hath past!

Accept the sudden tear, that steals
Along his cheek.—For sure he feels
The genuine impulse of the Muse;
Who leading Memory back to you,
Friends as ye were!—reminds him too,
What Friends himself was doom'd to lose!

GODSTOW, JULY 12, 1775.

156

EPITAPH ON THE REVEREND MR. BLUCK,

FORMERLY CURATE OF ST. ANDREW'S HOLBORN.

While o'er this modest stone Religion weeps,
Beneath a generous cheerful Christian sleeps;
Rests from the Teacher's charge, the Scholar's part;
Labours of Love, and Virtues of the Heart:
Who own'd, observant still of Truth's fair rays,
No other guide, nor wish'd for other praise:
Who Friend to Man, and Foe to Vice alone,
Liv'd for our Bliss; and died to crown his own.

157

EPITAPH ON MRS. HAND,

IN THE PARISH CHURCH OF ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE.

For Worth so dear, th' eternal tear might flow;
And Love would sanctify an Husband's Woe:
But Truth the record of that Worth displays,
And takes from Sorrow, what it gives to praise:
Alternate claims his grateful heart divide;
And Memory's Misery is Affection's Pride.

158

INSCRIPTION,

DESIGNED FOR A BATH, AT THE ROOKERY NEAR WOTTON IN SURRY,

WRITTEN AT THE DESIRE OF A FRIEND.

Thou, Virgin Halth! who turn'st with scorn away
From Luxury's lure, and Riot's rude assault,
To crown the genuine joy of Labour's day,
Or feast with Temperance in the moss-grown vault,

Wilt oft henceforth, if right of thee we deem,
When Hope shall here her azure pinions lave,
Ascend propitious with the bubbling stream,
And love to greet her in so pure a wave.