The happiness of answer'd prayers, Of grandeur that ensures respect; GRATITUDE. ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. [1786.] THIS cap, that so stately appears, With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems, by the crest that it rears, Ambitious of brushing the sky : cousin I owe, to my cap She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreathed into an elegant bow, This The ribbon with which it is tied: This wheel-footed studying chair, Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair, In which I both scribble and dose, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, And rival in lustre of that In which, or astronomy lies, These carpets so soft to the foot, Oh, spare them, ye knights of the boot, Secure from collision and dust, This movable structure of shelves, This china, that decks the alcove, Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet: These curtains, that keep the room warm Or cool, as the season demands, Those stoves that for pattern and form, Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands. All these are not half that I owe To One, from our earliest youth To me ever ready to show Benignity, friendship, and truth; For Time, the destroyer declared, And foe of our perishing kind, If even her face he has spared, Much less could he alter her mind. ON Thus compass'd about with the goods I indulge my poetical moods In many such fancies as these; Poets' goods are not often so fine; When I sing of the splendour of mine. TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY HERSELF. [May 4, 1793.] My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, Than plaything for a nurse, I danced 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; The best things kept within it. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. [December 17, 1781.] DEAR ANNA, between friend and friend, Prose answers every common end; Serves, in a plain and homely way, Το express the occurrence of the day; Upon the surface of the mind. But when a Poet takes the pen, And this is what the world, which knows And tell them truths divine and clear, Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear; Who labour hard to allure and draw The loiterers I never saw, Should feel that itching, and that tingling, With all my purpose intermingling, To your intrinsic merit true, When call'd to address myself to you. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. 273 Mysterious are His ways, whose power And marks the bounds of our abode. To * An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of Cowper which faced the market-place. Lady Austen's residence in France. |