AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, Friend of my friend'! I love thee, though unAnd boldly call thee, being his, my own. [known, TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. DEAR President, whose art sublime And bids transactions of a day, That fleeting hours would waft away And in unfading beauty, live,- Thus say the sisterhood:--We come; First strike a curve, a graceful bow, Then slope it to a point below; Your outline easy, airy, light, Fill'd up becomes a paper kite. Let independence, sanguine, horrid, Blaze like a meteor in the forehead: Beneath (but lay aside your graces) Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces, Each with a staring, steadfast eye, Fix'd on his great and good ally. France flies the kite-'tis on the wingBritannia's lightning cuts the string. The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, Just rends it into thirteen pieces, Takes charge of every fluttering sheet, And lays them all at George's feet. 1 Hayley. ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE 1. THE genius of the Augustan age His head among Rome's ruins rear'd, And bursting with heroic rage, When literary Heron appeared. Thou hast, he cried, like him of old Who set the Ephesian dome on fire, By being scandalously bold, Attain'd the mark of thy desire; And for traducing Virgil's name Shalt share his merited reward; A perpetuity of fame, That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. IF reading verse be your delight, I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme, To soothe my friend, and, had I power, I seem no brighter in my wits, Than if I saw, through midnight vapour, The glimmering of a farthing taper. Oh for a succedaneum, then, To accelerate a creeping pen! Oh for a ready succedaneum, Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium 1 Nominally by Robert Heron, but written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785. Pondere liberet exoso, Et morbo jam caliginoso! "Tis here; this oval box well fill'd To disengage the encumber'd senses. "Tis thine to cherish and to feed That symbol of thy power, the pipe ; And thou, secure from all alarms, Of thundering drums, and glittering arms, CATHARINA. TO MISS STAPLETON, AFTERWARDS MRS. COURTENAY. SHE came-she is gone-we have metAnd meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set, And seems to have risen in vain; That will not so suddenly pass. By the nightingale warbling nigh. And much she was charm'd with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witness'd her own. My numbers that day she had sung, And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd The work of my fancy the more, And even to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed Would feel herself happier here; Than aught that the city can show. Catharina alone can rejoice, The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads! With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture inspire, As oft as it suits her to roam, She will have just the life she prefers, With little to hope or to fear, And ours would be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it here. CATHARINA: THE SECOND PART. ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ. June, 1792. BELIEVE it or not, as you chuse, The doctrine is certainly true, I did but express a desire, To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire, Such prophecy some may despise, And therefore attains to its end. Maria would leave us, I knew, To the grief and regret of us all, But less to our grief, could we view Catharina the Queen of the Hall. And therefore I wish'd as I did, And therefore this union of hands; Not a whisper was heard to forbid, But all cry, Amen! to the bans. Lady Throckmorton. Since therefore I seem to incur And now I will try with another, Which I cannot suppress for my life, How soon I can make her a mother. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. O welcome guest, though unexpected here! -Yes. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun! Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile!-it answersI heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such-It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound 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 still, was still deceived; By expectation every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less 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 wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, "Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart;-the dear delight Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar1;" And, while the wings of fancy still are free, 1 Garth. THE POPLAR FIELD. THE poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade, And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade! The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, The blackbird has fled to another retreat, My fugitive years are all hasting away, The change both my heart and my fancy employs, ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE. Go!-thou art all unfit to share The squirrel here his hoard provides, And woodpeckers explore the sides The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn And here I wander eve and morn, Like her, a friend to peace. Ah! I could pity thee exiled The happiest of the great. But thou canst taste no calm delight; Thy magnanimity in fight, I care not whether east or north, The angry muse thus sings thee forth, The stanza at first stood thus: "Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, AN EPITAPH. 1792. HERE lies one who never drew Would advance, present, and fire. A TALE.1; June, 1793. IN Scotland's realm, where trees are few, But where, however bleak the view, For husband there and wife may boast And false ones are as rare almost In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare 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, The heaths uncover'd and the moors Long time a breeding-place they sought, A ship?-could such a restless thing Or was the merchant charged to bring Hush!-silent hearers profit most,- Proved kinder to them than the coast, But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal, Their roofless home they fix'd, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd. Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor, The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, The mother-bird is gone to sea, As she had changed her kind; But goes the male? Far wiser he Is doubtless left behind. This tale is founded on an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words: "Glasgow, May 23. "In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabbert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock however visits the nest but seldom; while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food." |