Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy forrowing fon,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee flow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long figh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it fuch ?-It was.-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a found unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern!
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And, disappointed ftill, was ftill deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant forrows spent,
I learn'd at last fubmiffion to my lot,
But, though I lefs deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Shortlived poffeffion! But the record fair,

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes lefs deeply traced.
Thy nightly vifits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they fhone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing ftill than all,
Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpofed too often makes;
All this ftill legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but fincere,

Not fcorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vefture's tiffued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jeffamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin

(And thou waft happier than myself the while, Wouldft foftly speak, and ftroke my head and fmile),

Could thofe few pleafant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not truft my heart;-the dear delight
Seems fo to be defired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is fuch,

So little to be loved, and thou fo much,
That I fhould ill requite thee to constrain.
Thy unbound fpirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft (The storms all weather'd and the ocean crofs'd) Shoots into port at fome well haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There fits quiefcent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incenfe play Around her, fanning light her ftreamers gay; So thou,with fails how swift! haft reach'd the shore, "Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar; And thy loved confort on the dangerous tide Of life long fince has anchor'd by thy fide. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always diftrefs'dMe howling blasts drive devious, tempeft-tofs'd, Sails ripp'd, feams opening wide, and compass loft, And day by day fome current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretenfions riseThe son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not fought in vain,

*Garth.

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the fin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy ftill are free, And I can view this mimic fhow of thee, Time has but half fucceeded in his theftThyself removed, thy power to foothe me left.

ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,

Which the Owner of him fold at the Author's
Inftance.

O-thou art all unfit to share

The pleasures of this place

With fuch as its old tenants are,

Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides,
Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the fides
Of rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn

With frictions of her fleece;

And here I wander eve and morn,

Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah! I could pity thee exiled
From this fecure retreat;-

I would not lose it to be styled
The happiest of the great.

But thou canst tafte no calm delight;
Thy pleasure is to show

Thy magnanimity in fight,
Thy prowess-therefore, go!

I care not whether eaft or north,
So I no more may find thee;
The angry Muse thus fings thee forth,
And claps the gate behind thee.

ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. Written in Commemoration of his Majesty's happy Recovery.

RANSACK'D, for a theme of fong,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast
Prowess to diffipate a host;

Through tomes of fable and of dream
I fought an eligible theme,

But none I found, or found them shared
Already by fome happier bard.

To modern times, with truth to guide
My bufy fearch I next applied;