BEAU'S REPLY. SIR, when I flew to seize the bird You cried-forbear-but in my breast Yet much as nature I respect, And when your linnet on a day, Had flutter'd all his strength away, Well knowing him a sacred thing, I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, And lick'd the feathers smooth. Let my obedience then excuse If killing birds be such a crime, ANSWER ΤΟ Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catha rine Fanshaw, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's lent to her on condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy. [1793.] To be remembered thus is fame, So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd ΤΟ THE SPANISH ADMIRAL, COUNT GRAVINA, ON His translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse. [1793.] My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, And, steep'd not now in rain, ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. [September, 1793.] THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain, TO MARY. [Autumn of 1793.] THE twentieth year is well nigh past Ah would that this might be the last! My Mary! 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, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; My Mary! Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks once auburn bright, For could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, My Mary! My Mary! My Mary! Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, My Mary! And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! |