Seeds of merciless disease
Lurk in all that we enjoy;
Some, that waste us by degrees,
Some, that suddenly destroy.

And if life o'erleap the bourn

Common to the sons of men; What remains, but that we mourn, Dream, and doat, and drivel then?

Fast as moons can wax and wane, Sorrow comes; and while we groan, Pant with anguish and complain,

Half our years are fled and gone.

If a few, (to few 'tis given)

Lingering on this earthly stage, Creep, and halt with steps uneven,

To the period of an age.

Wherefore live they but to see
Cunning, arrogance, and force,
Sights lamented much by thee,
Holding their accustomed course!

Oft was seen, in ages past,

All that we with wonder view; Often shall be to the last;

Earth produces nothing new.

Thee we gratulate; content,
Should propitious Heaven design
Life for us, has calmly spent,
Though but half the length of thine.

XIV. THE CAUSE WON. Two neighbours furiously dispute: A field-the subject of the suit. Trivial the spot, yet such the rage With which the combatants engage, "Twere hard to tell, who covets most The prize-at whatsoever cost. The pleadings swell. Words still suffice; No single word but has its price: No term but yields some fair pretence For novel and increased expense.

Defendant thus becomes a name, Which he that bore it, may disclaim; Since both. in one description blended, Are plaintiffs-when the suit is ended.

XV. THE SILKWORM. THE beams of April, ere it goes, A worm scarce visible, disclose; All winter long content to dwell The tenant of his native shell.

The same prolific season gives

The sustenance by which he lives,
The mulberry leaf, a simple store,
That serves him-till he needs no more;
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though, till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.

That hour arrived, his work begins,

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins,
Till circle upon circle wound

Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task:
And, though a worm, when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,

When next we see him wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous, supplies
With future worms and future flies
The next ensuing year; and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all,
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter-lived than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.

XVI. THE INNOCENT THIEF. Nor a flower can be found in the fields,

Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,
From the largest to least, but it yields
To the bee, never-wearied, a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexplored,

With a diligence truly exact;
Yet, steal what she may for her hoard,
Leaves evidence none of the fact.

Her lucrative task she pursues,

And pilfers with so much address, That none of their odour they lose, Nor charm by their beauty the less.

Not thus inoffensively preys
The canker-worm, indwelling foe!
His voracity not thus allays

The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.

The worm, more expensively fed,

The pride of the garden devours; And birds pick the seed from the bed, Still less to be spared than the flowers, But she with such delicate skill

Her pillage so fits for her use, That the chymist in vain with his still Would labour the like to produce.

Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.

XVII. DENNER'S OLD WOMAN,

In this mimic form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,
No wrinkle, or deep-furrowed frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around

With locks like the ribbon, with which they are bound;

While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,
Or that indicates life in its winter-is here.
Yet all is expressed, with fidelity due,

Nor a pimple, or freckle, concealed from the view.

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste: The youths all agree, that could old age inspire The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, And the matrons, with pleasure, confess that they

see

Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,
O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.

Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage
To peruse, half-enamoured, the features of age;
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair,
That she when as old, shall be equally fair!
How great is the glory, that Denner has gained,
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtained!

XVIII. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expired-his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And-"Oh! my child, accept," he said,
"('Tis all that I can now bestow,)
This tribute of a father's wo!"
Then, faithful to the twofold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And formed at once a fellow pair.
His brow, with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew, not livid yet;
And shaded all, that he had done,
To a just image of his son.
P

Thus far is well. But view again,
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's power he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies:
And still his cheek, unfaded, shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedless to the finished whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.

Now, painter, cease! thy task is done,
Long lives this image of thy son;
Nor short-lived shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.

XIX. THE MAZE. FROM right to left, and to and fro Caught in a labyrinth, you go, And turn, and turn, and turn again, To solve the mystery, but in vain ; Stand still and breathe, and take from me A clew that soon shall set you free! Not Ariadne, if you meet her, Herself could serve you with a better. You enter'd easily-find whereAnd make, with ease, your exit there!

XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE

SUFFERER.

THE lover, in melodious verses
His singular distress rehearses.
Still closing with a rueful cry,
"Was ever such a wretch as I!"
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; sorne, haply, more.
Unnumbered Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,

Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

XXI. THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

THE CONTRITE HEART. THE Lord will happiness divine

On contrite hearts bestow; Then tell me, gracious God, is mine A contrite heart or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;

If aught is felt, 'tis only pain
To find I can not feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined
To love thee, if I could;
But often feel another mind.
Averse to all that's good.

My best desires are faint and few,
I fain would strive for more;

But when I cry, "My strength renew,"
Seem weaker than before.

I see thy saints with comfort filled, When in thy house of prayer; But still in bondage I am held, And find no comfort there.

Oh, make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break,
And heal it if it be.

THE SHINING LIGHT.

My former hopes are dead;
My terror now begins;
I feel, alas! that I am dead
In trespasses and sins

THIRSTING FOR GOD.

I THIRST, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share ;
Thy words, Immanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasure there.

It was the sight of thy dear cross

First weaned my soul from earthly things, And taught me to esteem as dross

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

I want that grace that springs from thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me,
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose.

Dear fountain of delight unknown,
No longer sink below the brim:
But overflow and pour me down

A living and life-giving stream.

For sure, of all the plants that share
The notice of thy Father's eye,
None proves less grateful to his care,
Or yields him meaner fruit than I.

Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love;
But rapture and bliss are confined

To the glorified spirits above.

SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON,

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER, 1793.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!

When I behold this fruit of thy regard, The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee. Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn: critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather DONNE, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVA 7 AXS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ.

1790.

OTHER stones the era tell,
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost-these oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay;
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd, and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and can not grow.

LOVE ABUSED.

WHAT is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, When friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine?

The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above;
And earth a second Eden shows
Where'er the healing water flows:
But ah! if from the dykes and drains
Of sensual nature's feverish veins,
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,
Impregnated with ooze and mud,
Descending fast on every side,
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flowery beauties dead.
The stream polluted, dark, and dull,
Diffused into a Stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with ever-flowing tears:
Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

LINES

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ. IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS

NEPHEW WILLIAM, OF WESTON. JUNE, 1788. FAREWELL! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age! In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!) Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd; Through every period of this changeful state Unchanged thyself-wise, good, affectionate!

Marble may flatter; and lest this should seem O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half suppress'd, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 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 misspent 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.