« AnteriorContinuar »
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast
REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
The kindness of a friend,
As ever friendship penn'd,
Not rashly, or in sport,
And faithful in its sort,
The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
The stock whereon it grows,
I seize thy name in haste,
Lest it should prove the last.
Should be the poet's heart;
Than ever blaz'd by art.
AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, Esq. DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago Alas, how time escapes !—'tis even so With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, And always friendly, we were'wont to cheat A tedious hour--and now we never meet! As some grave gentleman in Terence says ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days),
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings Strange fluctuation of all human things !” True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, But distance only cannot change the heart; And, were I call'd to prove th' assertion true, One proof should serve-a reference to you.
Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife,
We find the friends we fancied we had won,
Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe,
Nay. Stay at home—you're always going out." "Tis but a step, sir, just at the streets end.”— “For what?" An'please you, sir, to see a friend.”
A friend!”_Horatio cried, and seem'd to startYea, marry shalt thou, and with all
heart. And fetch my cloak; for though the night be raw, I'll see him too--the first I ever saw.”
I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,
But not to moralize too much, and strain
0, happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law, like that which I relate,
a Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close button'd to the chin, Broad cloth without, and a warm heart within.
REVEREND MR. NEWTON.
An Invitation into the Country.
Compose their useless wing,
The call of early Spring.
The wildest wind that blows,
Secure of their repose.
The gloomy scene surveys;
And pant for brighter days.
Bids me and Mary mourn :
And whispers your return.
Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
And if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,
Shall shine and dry the tear.
CATHARINA, ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON,
(AFTERWARDS MRS. COURTNEY). She came-she is gone—we have met
And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem,
That will not so suddenly pass.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
And much she was charm'd with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own. My numbers that day she had sung, And gave them
a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;