EPITAPH

ON

MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY.

[April 1793.]

TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Till all who knew him follow to the skies.

Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep,
And justly-few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

QN

A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER,

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.

[Spring of 1793.]

THRIVE, gentle plant; and weave a bow'r
For Mary and for me,

And deck with many a splendid flow'r
Thy foliage large and free.

Thou cam❜st from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Of Him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the Bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honour'd brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing pow'r ;
For why should not the Virgin's Friend
Be crown'd with Virgin's bow'r?

TO MY COUSIN,

ANNE BODHAM,

ON

Receiving from her a Network Purse, made by herself.

[May 4, 1793.]

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

Than plaything for a nurse,

I danc'd 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.

INSCRIPTION

For an Hermitage in the Author's Garden.

[May, 1793.]

THIS cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built, as it has been, in our waning years;
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to-the last retreat.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

[May, 1793.]

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heav'n as some have feign'd they

drew,

An eloquence scarce giv'n to mortals, new
And undebas'd by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or wo I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.

But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heav'nly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

ΤΟ

JOHN JOHNSON,

ON

His presenting me with an antique bust of .

[May, 1793.]

KINSMAN belov'd and as a son, by me!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,
The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard,
I rev'rence 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: Criticks by courtesy.
The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine'
I loose my precious years now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,

Proves dross, when balanc'd in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou-like our forefather DONNE,
Seek heav'nly wealth, and work for God alone.

ΤΟ

A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON

His arriving at Cambridge wet, when no rain had fallen there.

[May, 1793.]

Ir Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found,

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

A TALE.

[June, 1793.]

IN Scotland's realm where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found.