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Some future day th' illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And Envy seize the bay,

Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing pow'r ;

For why should not the Virgin's Friend
Be crown'd with Virgin's Bow'r?

AN EPITAPH. 1792,

ERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew ;

Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger;
Armèd men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd ;
At his signified desire,
Would advance, present, and fire—
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled in spite of him :
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call'd ; not he
Who controls the boist'rous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY HERSELF, MAY 4, 1793.

MY gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
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 ;
But not of love —that gem's too dear
For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.

TO MRS, UN WIN.

ARY | I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from Heav'n as some have feign'd they
drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalises whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book

By Seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,

a-15-0.

On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,

And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

A TALE.

N Scotland's realm, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found;

For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefiled,

And false ones are as rare almost
As hedge-rows in the wild;

In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare,
The hist'ry chanced of late—

This hist'ry of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd :

They pair'd, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd and the moors,
Except with snow and sleet,

Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores,
Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vex'd and tired;

At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.

A ship?—could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?

Or was the merchant charged to bring
The homeless birds a nest ?

Hush—silent hearers profit most—
This racer of the sea

Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree.

But such a tree 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast,

And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloft
Their roofless home they fixed,

Form'd with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mixt.

Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight—

The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind

But goes the male Far wiser, he
#. doubtless left behiad Î

No–Soon as from the shore he saw
The winged mansion move,

He flew to reach it, by the law
Of never-failing love.

Then perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,

The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.

The seaman with sincere delight
His feather'd shipmates eyes,

Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.

For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new

Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true !

Hail, honour'd land a desert where
Not even birds can hide,

Yet parent of this loving pair
W. nothing could divide,

And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,

Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with man.

For whose lean country much disdain
We English often show,

Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and woe;

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