LINES,

Written for insertion, in a collection of hand-writings and signatures made by Miss Patty, sister of Hannah More.

[March 6, 1792.]

In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,

I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.

W. COWPER

EPITAPH

ON

A free but tame Redbreast, a favourite of
Miss Sally Hurdis.

[March, 1792.]

THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who she fears,
With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast crumb.

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd

She sought him but in vain,

That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.

She, therefore, raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold,
Nor spiritlessly tame;
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.

SONNET

ΤΟ

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.

[April 16, 1792.]

THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd Fanatick, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd From exile, publick sale, and slav'ry's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.

Thou hast achiev'd a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;

Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws.

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

EPIGRAM.

(Printed in the Northampton Mercury.)

To purify their wine some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs,

'Tis in the blood of innocence alone

Good cause why planters never try their own.

TO

DR. AUSTIN,

OF CECIL-STREET, LONDON.

[May 26, 1792.]

AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee!
Lov'd by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died;
And O! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health;
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,

Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his art with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend !* I love thee, tho' unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

SONNET,

ADDRESSED TO

WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

[June 2, 1792.]

HAYLEY--thy tenderness fraternal shown,

In our first interview, delightful guest! To Mary and me for her dear sake distress'd, Such as it is has made my heart thy own, Though heedless now of new engagements grown; For threescore winters make a wintry breast, And I had purpos'd ne'er to go in quest Of Friendship more, except with God alone. But thou hast won me; nor is God my foe, Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, My brother, by whose sympathy I know

Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

Not more t'admire the bard than love the man.