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AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died.
And oh! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health;
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his heart with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

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
Gives perpetuity to time,

And bids transactions of a day,

That fleeting hours would waft away
To dark futurity, survive,

And in unfading beauty, live,-
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the nine,
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the muse.

Thus say the sisterhood:--We come;
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints,
We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory,
Must be the subject of the story.

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.

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IF reading verse be your delight,
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;
But what we would, so weak is man,
Lies oft remote from what we can.
For instance, at this very time,

I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,

To soothe my friend, and, had I power,
To cheat him of an anxious hour;
Not meaning, (for, I must confess,
It were but folly to suppress)
His pleasure or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
I' th' centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once (and who but he ?)
The name for setting genius free,
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise,
And he by no uncommon lot
Was famed for virtues he had not;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His Highness may have taken huff,
So seldom sought with invocation,
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,

I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,

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
With best tobacco, finely mill'd,
Beats all Anticyra's pretences

To disengage the encumber'd senses.
O Nymph of transatlantic fame,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide,
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,

"Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed,
Which, whether pulverized it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the nine;
Forgive the bard, if bard he be,
Who once too wantonly made free,
To touch with a satiric wipe

That symbol of thy power, the pipe ;
So may no blight infest thy plains,
And no unseasonable rains;
And so may smiling peace once more
Visit America's sad shore;

And thou, secure from all alarms,

Of thundering drums, and glittering arms,
Rove unconfined beneath the shade
Thy wide expanded leaves have made;
So may thy votaries increase,
And fumigation never cease.
May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thine odoriferous rites,
While clouds of incense half divine
Involve thy disappearing shrine;
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull
Be always filling, never full.

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;
Catharina has fled like a dream,
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem

That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,

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
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

Than aught that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is imbued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
"Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and vallies diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess

Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess

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,
That the future is known to the muse,
And poets are oracles too.

I did but express a desire,

To see Catharina at home,

At the side of my friend George's fire,
And lo-she is actually come.

Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approved in the skies,

And therefore attains to its end.
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warm'd
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was form'd.

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
No danger of wishing in vain,
When making good wishes for her,
I will e'en to my wishes again;
With one I have made her a wife,

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
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

-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
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits 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 shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still 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 sincere,
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.

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
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross’d)
Shoots into port at some well haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the
shore,

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar1;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd,-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some 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 pretensions rise,—
The 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 sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

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,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

The change both my heart and my fancy employs,
I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys;
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we'.

ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,

WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.

Go!-thou art all unfit to share
The pleasures of this place
With such as its old tenants are,
Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides,
Aware of wintry storms;

And woodpeckers explore the sides
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 secure retreat;-
I would not lose it to be styled

The happiest of the great.

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

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

I care not whether east or north,
So I no more may find thee;

The angry muse thus sings thee forth,
And claps the gate behind thee.

The stanza at first stood thus:

"Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

AN EPITAPH.

1792.

HERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew ;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger.
Armed 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 at sight of him!
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call'd; not he
Who controuls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

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A TALE.1;

June, 1793.

IN 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 history chanced of late,-
This history 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 fix'd,
Form'd with materials neat and soft,

Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.

Four ivory 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

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."

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