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Thrice welcome then! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song

Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,

Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,

And every season Spring.


Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him and dispelled his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head.

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. The country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,

Hears thee by cruel men and impious called

Frantic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the pour, the wronged, the fetter

galled, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.

Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution

pause And weave delay, the better hour is near

That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

MORAL. Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.



PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. To purify their wine some people bleed A lamb into the barrel, and succeed; No nostrum, planters say, is half so good To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood. Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, And thence perhaps the wondrous virtue springs. 'Tis in the blood of innocence alone Good cause why planters never try their own.





WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear

From yonder withered spray, This foremost morn of all the year,

The melody of May? And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd

To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command, Commissioned to presage a course

Of happier days at hand?

Austin! accept a grateful verse from me, The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind Pleasing requital in my verse may find; Verse oft has dashed the scythe of Time aside; Immortalizing names which else had died. And O! could I command the glittering wealth With which sick kings are glad to purchase


Yet, if extensive fame and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his art with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend!* I love thee, tho' unknown,
And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

Since therefore I seem to incur

No danger of wishing in vain,
When making good wishes for her,

I will e'en to my wishes again
With one I have made her a wife,

And now I will try with another,
Which I can not suppress for my life-

How soon I can make her a mother,



HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown,
In our first interview, delightful guest!

To Mary and me for her dear sake distressed,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,

On his picture of me in crayons, drawn at Eartham in the
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;

61st year of my age, and in the months of August and Sep

tember, 1792.
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,

And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest Romney expert, infallibly to trace
Of Friendship more, except with God alone; On chart or canvass, not the form alone

But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe, And semblance, but, however faintly shown,
Who, ere this last aflictive scene began, The mind's impression too on every face

Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow. With strokes that time ought never to erase,

My brother, by whose sympathy I know Thou hast so penciled mine, that though I own Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

The subject worthless, I have never known Not more t'admire the bard than love the man. The artist shining with superior grace.

But this I mark-that symptoms none of wo

In thy incomparable work appear.

Well, I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
On her Marriage to George Courtnay, Esq.

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
Believe it or not as you choose,

When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
The doctrine is certainly true,
That the future is known to the muse,

And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire

To see Catharina at home,
At the side of my friend George's fire,

In language warm as could be breathed or penned,
And lo-she is actually come.

Thy picture speaks th' original, my friend,

Not by those looks that indicate thy mindSuch prophecy some may despise,

They only speak thee friend of all mankind;
But the wish of a poet and friend

Expression here more soothing still I see,
Perhaps is approved in the skies,

That friend of all a partial friend to me.
And therefore attains to its end.
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth

From a bosom effectually warmed
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was formed.

Mariat would leave us, I knew,

To the grief and regret of us all,
But less to our grief, could we view

Turive, gentle plant! and weave a bower
Catharina the queen of the hall.

For Mary and for me,
And therefore I wished as I did,

And deck with many a splendid flower
And therefore this union of hands

Thy foliage large and free.
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,

Thou cam’st from Eartham, and wilt shade
But all cry—amen-to the bans.

(If truly I divine)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Lady Throckmorton. Of Him who made thee mine.

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Should Daphne show a jealous frown,

And envy seize the bay, Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honoured brows as they. Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,

And with convincing power; For why should not the virgin's friend

Be crowned with virgin's bower ?

But I am bankrupt now; and doomed henceforth

To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled worth!

But what is commentator's happiest praise !


That he has furnished lights for other eyes, Which they, who need them, use, and then despise.



A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well-fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.


My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,

I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love;—that gem's too dear

For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.

But you have killed a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.


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Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see them daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought thee low

My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary! But well thou playd’st the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary! Thy silver locks once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

What portents, from that distant region, ride,
Unseen till now in ours, the astonished tide?
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves
Of seacalves, sought the mountains and the groves.
But now, descending whence of late they stood,
Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood.
Dire times were they, full-charged with human

woes; And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now? More wondrous still ? Be

hold! Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found ? No. Never such a countless dazzling store Had left, unseen,

the Ganges' peopled shore. Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, Should sooner far have marked and seized the

prize. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Ves'vius', or from Ætna's burning womb ? Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display

The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day? With borrowed beams they shine. The gales,

that breathe
Now landward, and the current's force beneath,
Have borne them nearer : and the nearer sight,
Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.

Their lofty summits crested high, they show,
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow.

The rest is ice. Far hence, where most, severe,
Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year,

Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below; He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reached the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, And long successive ages rolled the while; Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claimed to stand, Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and unremoveable by skill, Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that, though firmly fixed, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight, It left the shelving beach—and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around Self-launched, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old, How Delos swam th’ Ægean deep, have told. But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crowned with laurel,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;

And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delayed not to bestow;
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he,

Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,

Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power

His destiny repelled :
And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried—“Adieu!"
At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.


Even under wintry skies, a summer smile ; And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle. But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you, He deems cimmerian darkness only due. Your hated birth he deigned not to survey, But, scornful, turned his glorious eyes away, Hence! seek your home, nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phæbus, and a softer air ; Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

No poet wept him: but the page

Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date.
But misery still delights to trace
Its 'semblance in another's case.

OBScurest night involved the sky;

Th’ Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,

Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hopes, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast,

Than he, with whom we went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,

Expert to swim he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away;
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had failed

To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless, perforce,

No voice divine the storm allayed

No light propitious shone; When, snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

Translations front Vincent Bourne


BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray; That shows by night a lucid beam,

Which disappears by day.

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