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No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone ?
And hop'st thou not ('tis ev'ry father's hope)
That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need some comfort, to assuage
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age,
That then, in recompense of all thy cares,
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left?
Aware then how much danger intervenes,
To compass that good end, forecast the means,
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command:
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place,
But, if thou guard its secret chambers sure
From vicious inmates, and delights impure,
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can say
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.
“Oh, barb'rous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools—what !—all the schools i’ th’
Or throw them up to liv'ry-nags and grooms,
Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms ?”-
A captious question, sir, (and yours is one),
Deserves an answer similar, or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Appris'd that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray ?
330 TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS.
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.
And though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepar'd t embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better manag’d, or encourag'd less.
OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a country Clergyman complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burden of my song.
This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,
But, oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.
He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.
For then the farmers come jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good.
In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express’d,
When he that takes and he that
Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may,
for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come--each makes his leg,
And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score. “ And how does miss and madam do,
The little boy and all ?”
“ All tight and well. And how do you,
Good Mr. What-d'ye-call ?”
The dinner comes, and down they sit:
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
the cloth before. The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins,
“ Come, neighbours, we must wag”—. The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs, that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
Quoth one, “A rarer man than you
In pulpit none sball hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear.”
0, why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine ? A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.
SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the Defence of Warren
Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords. COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears
(Attentive when thou read’st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea Thy gen'rous pow'rs; but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gaz’d on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and headl; and couldst with music sweet
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.
ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
Author of “ The Botanic Garden."
Two Poets* (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree),
Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!
Conspire to honour Thee.
They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own, Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.