But oh! if fickle and unchaste, No need of lightnings from on high, Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird, A COMPARISON. THE lapse of time and rivers is the same, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. A FABLE. A RAVEN, while with glossy breast Shook the young leaves about her ears, The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, MORAL. "Tis Providence alone secures ANOTHER. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Silent and chaste she steals along, THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON. MARIA! I have every good For thee wished many a time, Both sad and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme. To wish thee fairer is no need, More prudent or more sprightly, In wedded love already blest, None here is happy but in part; That wish, on some fair future day, ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. PATRON of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains, And little or no meaning: Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, Why, stooping from the noon of day, Upborne into the viewless air It floats a vapour now, Impelled through regions dense and rare, Ordained perhaps ere summer flies, Illustrious drop! and happy then Of all that ever past my pen, Phoebus, if such be thy design, To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. A FABLE. I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rosseau,* And e'en the child, that knows no better It chanced then on a winter's day, To forestall sweet St. Valentine, *It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses? In many an orchard, copse, and grove, And with much twitter and much chatter, At length a Bulfinch, who could boast My friends! be cautious how ye treat I fear we shall have winter yet. A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing, and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling Turning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments, so well expressed, Influenced mightily the rest; All paired, and each pair built a nest. But though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And Destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow; Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled; Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learned in future to be wiser, Than to neglect a good adviser. MORAL. Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carryChoose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry. THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SEN NO FABLE. THE noon was shady, and soft airs My spaniel, prettiest of his race, Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds, Pursued the swallows o'er the meads It was the time when Ouse di played Their beauties I intent surveyed, With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Beau marked my unsuccessful pains To comprehend the case. But with a cherup clear and strong, I thence withdrew, and followed long My ramble ended, I returned; I saw him with that lily cropped My quick approach, and soon he dropped Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried, But chief myself I will enjoin, To show a love as prompt as thine *Sir Robert Gunning's daughters, SITIVE PLANT. An Oyster, cast upon the shore, Ah, hapless wretch, condemned to dwell I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant, grew not far off, When, cry the botanists, and stare, To make them grow just where she chooses. And when I bend, retire and shrink, In being touched, and crying-Don't! You, in your grotto-work enclosed, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Who reckon every touch a blemish, If all the plants, that can be found Embellishing the scene around, Should droop and wither where they grow, You would not feel at all-not you. The noblest minds their virtue prove By pity, sympathy, and love: These, these are feelings truly fine, And prove their owner half divine. His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed he felt it. THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. OH, happy shades-to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that can not rest, agree! This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please. But fixed unalterable Care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade. But not like me to nourish wo! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste THE WINTER NOSEGAY. WHAT Nature, alas! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied, And winter is decked with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead. "Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats From the cruel assaults of the clime. While Earth wears a mantle of snow, These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely survived The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose Seemed graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you. MUTUAL FORBEARANCE NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED THE lady thus addressed her spouse: Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, You are so deaf, the lady cried, Dismiss poor Harry! he replies; Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing- Alas! and is domestic strife, The kindest and the happiest pair The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger's treasures, Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there one who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne the sky? Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes, By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main; By our suffering since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All, sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart: Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS 'Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor.'— I own I am shocked at the purchase of slaves, And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves; What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans, Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, For how could we do without sugar and rum? What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea? If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, |