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Nugae Modernae

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

Park, Thomas (1759-1834)

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EPITAPH FOR A BABE.

CONTENTMENT VINDICATED, AND SPLEEN REPELLED.

AN APOLOGY FOR MY GARDEN .

ON QUITTING A COTTAGE RESIDENCE.

THE FILBERD-TREE.

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

TO MARIA-HESTER.

THE BROAD AND NARROW WAY CONTRASTED.

A MIDNIGHT MUSING.

WRITTEN IN MY “COMPANION TO THE ALTAR.”

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

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

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

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

SOMNIUM JUCUNDISSIMUM.

A WALKING RUMINATION.

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

TO THE REV. HAY DRUMMOND,

INSCRIPTION FOR AN IVY BOWER.

TO EDWARD, LORD THURLOW,

TO MARIA-HESTER.

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

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

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

[Such feeling prompts a passing culogy]

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

OBLOQUY INVITABLE.

SPIRITUAL ASPIRATION.

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

A MIDNIGHT MUSING.

TO MISS P. ON HER REMOVAL FROM HAMPSTEAD.

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

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

THE DEATH-SONG OF A CHRISTIAN.

TO A PIOUS YOUNG FRIEND.

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

GLORIA IN EXCELSIS DEO.

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91

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

Southey! thy mind hath long aspir'd to prove
True poets are no triflers ; though they seem
Near fields of amaranth at times to rove,
Culling mere pansies. Rightly didst thou deem,
And now approv'st thy deeming: Madoc's lay
Shall lift thy loud fame to the clime, where erst
The bard of Eden wing'd his trackless way.
For such heroic hymning scarce hath burst
From British harp, since Milton's ear did steal
Music from Siloa; or the Cymbrian strain
Of hoary Llywarch, rous'd to vengeful zeal
The host of dread Cadwallon. More humane
Thy war-conch winds, and thence more just thy plea
To wear the palmy wreath of bardic poësy.

Mr. Southey, in a letter written several years before, had hinted to the Author, that it was his purpose to make it appear—poetry was no trifle.