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Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.

XVII. DENNER'S OLD WOMAN.

In this mimic form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,
No wrinkle, or deep-furrowed frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around

With locks like the ribbon, with which they are bound;

While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,
Or that indicates life in its winter-is here.
Yet all is expressed, with fidelity due,

Nor a pimple, or freckle, concealed from the view.

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste: The youths all agree, that could old age inspire The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, And the matrons, with pleasure, confess that they

see

Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,
O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.

Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage
To peruse, half-enamoured, the features of age;
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair,
That she when as old, shall be equally fair!
How great is the glory, that Denner has gained,
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtained!

XVIII. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expired-his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And-"Oh! my child, accept," he said,
"('Tis all that I can now bestow,)
This tribute of a father's wo!"
Then, faithful to the twofold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And formed at once a fellow pair.
His brow, with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew, not livid yet;
And shaded all, that he had done,
To a just image of his son.

Thus far is well. But view again,
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's power he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies:
And still his cheek, unfaded, shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedless to the finished whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.

Now, painter, cease! thy task is done,
Long lives this image of thy son;
Nor short-lived shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.

XIX. THE MAZE. FROM right to left, and to and fro Caught in a labyrinth, you go, And turn, and turn, and turn again, To solve the mystery, but in vain; Stand still and breathe, and take from me A clew that soon shall set you free! Not Ariadne, if you meet her, Herself could serve you with a better. You enter'd easily-find whereAnd make, with ease, your exit there!

XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE

SUFFERER.

THE lover, in melodious verses
His singular distress rehearses.
Still closing with a rueful cry,
"Was ever such a wretch as I!"
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumbered Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

XXI. THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

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THE CONTRITE HEART.

THE Lord will happiness divine

On contrite hearts bestow; Then tell me, gracious God, is mine A contrite heart or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain, Insensible as steel;

If aught is felt, 'tis only pain

To find I can not feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined
To love thee, if I could;
But often feel another mind.
Averse to all that's good.

My best desires are faint and few,

I fain would strive for more; But when I cry, "My strength renew," Seem weaker than before.

I see thy saints with comfort filled, When in thy house of prayer; But still in bondage I am held,

And find no comfort there.

Oh, make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break,
And heal it if it be.

THE SHINING LIGHT.

My former hopes are dead;

My terror now begins;
I feel, alas! that I am dead
In trespasses and sins.

THIRSTING FOR GOD.

I THIRST, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share ;
Thy words, Immanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasure there.

It was the sight of thy dear cross

First weaned my soul from earthly things, And taught me to esteem as dross

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

I want that grace that springs from thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me,
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose.

Dear fountain of delight unknown,
No longer sink below the brim :
But overflow and pour me down

A living and life-giving stream.

For sure, of all the plants that share
The notice of thy Father's eye,
None proves less grateful to his care,
Or yields him meaner fruit than I.

A TALE.*

IN Scotland's realm where trees are few.

Nor even shrubs abound;

But where, however bleak the view,

Some better things are found.

⚫This tale is founded on an an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words :

Glasgow, May 23.

In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock,

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Peace may be the lot of the mind

That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined

To the glorified spirits above.

SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON,

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST

OF HOMER, 1793.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!

When I behold this fruit of thy regard, The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.* Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn: critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather DONNE, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ.

1790.

OTHER stones the era tell,
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky, Storm and frost-these oaks or I? Pass an age or two away,

I must moulder and decay;
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd, and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and can not grow.

LOVE ABUSED.

WHAT is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, When friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine?

The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above;
And earth a second Eden shows
Where'er the healing water flows:
But ah! if from the dykes and drains
Of sensual nature's feverish veins,
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,
Impregnated with ooze and mud,
Descending fast on every side,
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flowery beauties dead.
The stream polluted, dark, and dull,
Diffused into a Stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with ever-flowing tears:
Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

LINES

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER,
ESQ. IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS
NEPHEW WILLIAM, OF WESTON. JUNE, 1788.
FAREWELL! endued with all that could engage
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age!
In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!)
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd;
Through every period of this changeful state
Unchanged thyself-wise, good, affectionate!

Marble may flatter; and lest this should seem O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half suppress'd, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 1790. POETS attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man; And, next, commemorating worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most.

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine, I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore, were grief misspent indeed; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous when they die.

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing wo
By virtue suffer'd combatting below?
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food;
Avarice, in thee, was the desire of wealth
By rust unperishable or by stealth;
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,

Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given.
And, though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course;
Yet was thy liberality discreet,

Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat,
And, though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.
Such was thy charity; no sudden start,
After long sleep, of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to th' Eternal mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,

To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake;
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and power exemplified in thee.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD.

OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest,
Whose social converse was itself a feast.
O ye of riper age, who recollect

How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect,
Both in the firmness of his better day,
While yet he ruled you with a father's sway,
And when impair'd by time and glad to rest,
Yet still with looks, in mild complaisance drest,
He took his annual seat, and mingled here
His sprightly vein with yours-now drop a tear.
In morals blameless as in manners meek,
He knew no wish that he might blush to speak;
But, happy in whatever state below,
And richer than the rich in being so,
Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed
At length from One,* as made him rich indeed.
Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here,
Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere,

The brows of those whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast, And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest! Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name.

ON FOP,

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. AUGUST, 1792.

THOUGH Once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders One whose bones some honour

claim.

No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase-

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,

RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE,-1793.

Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;

IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he This record of his fate exulting view,
found,

While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd
With heavenly gifts, to Heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen-may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.

'Yes,' the indignant shade of Fop replies'And worn with vain pursuit man also dies.'

He was usher and under-master of Westminster near fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was near seventy, with a handsome pension from the king.

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