Then grudge not her temperate meals, XVII. DENNER'S OLD WOMAN. In this mimic form of a matron in years, With locks like the ribbon, with which they are bound; While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin 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. Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage XVIII. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER. APELLES, hearing that his boy Thus far is well. But view again, Now, painter, cease! thy task is done, 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 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, Of weather. 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 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; THE SHINING LIGHT. My former hopes are dead; My terror now begins; THIRSTING FOR GOD. I THIRST, but not as once I did, 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, Dear fountain of delight unknown, A living and life-giving stream. For sure, of all the plants that share 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, 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, Which shall longest brave the sky, Storm and frost-these oaks or I? Pass an age or two away, I must moulder and decay; Cherish honour, virtue, truth, 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 LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!) 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, Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat, To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, love. TO A YOUNG FRIEND, TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD. OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest, How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, The brows of those whose more exalted lot 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, 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, While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, 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. |