TO MRS. KING

ON

Her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work, Couns terpane of her own making,

[August 14, 1790.]

THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair,

Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,
(As Homer's Epick shows)
Compos'd of sweetest vernal flow'rs,
Without the aid of sun or show'rs,
For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain

Who, laying his long sithe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till rous'd to toil again.

What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me !-
Should ev'ry maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,

The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havock would ensuc!
This bright display of ev'ry hue
All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bow'rs
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs-
Each pocketing a shred.

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle fair
Who will not come to peck me bare
As bird of borrow'd feather,

And thanks, to One, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,
Who put the whole together.

[October, 1790.]

* Certain Potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows:

PAY me my price, Potters! and I will sing
Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm
Protect their oven; let the cups and all
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked

With good success, yield them both fair renown

*Note by the Editor. No title is prefixed to this piece but it appears to be a translation of one of the Enуpaμpara of Homer, called 'O Kapivos, or the Furnace. The prefatory lines are from the Greek of Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him.

And profit, whether in the market sold,
Or street, and let no strife ensue between us,
But, oh, ye Potters! if with shameless front,
Ye falsify your promise, then I leave
No mischief uninvok'd t' avenge the wrong.
Come Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes come,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread,
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape,
May ye lament to see confusion mar
And mingle the whole labour of your hands,
And may a sound fill all your oven, such
As of a horse grinding his provender,
While all your pots and flagons bounce within.
Come hither also, daughter of the sun,
Circe the Sorceress, and with thy drugs
Poison themselves, and all that they have made
Come also, Chiron, with thy num'rous troop
Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath
The club of Hercules, as who escaped,
And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall
Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes,
And howl to see the ruin of their art,
While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop
To peep into his furnace, may the fire
Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men
Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.

IN MEMORY

OF THE LATE

JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.

[November, 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 mispent 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 board,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing wo

By virtue suffer'd combating below?

That privilege was thine; Heav'n gave thee means
Tillumine 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

Av'rice, 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 Heav'n,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had giv'n.
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 heroick course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,

Nice in its choice, and of a tempered 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.

THE FOUR AGES.

[A brief fragment of an extensive projected Poem.] [May, 1791.]

"I could be well content, allow'd the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such,
To recommence life's trial in the hope

Of fewer errours, on a second proof""
VOL. III.

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