But merely to remark, that ours, Like some of Nature's sweetest flowers, That seem'd to promise no such prize; And made almost without a meaning That Solomon has wisely spoken; “A three-fold cord is not soon broken." TO MRS. KING, ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR; A PATCHWORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING. [August 14, 1790.] THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all, To pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a Lady fair Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, (As Homer's Epic shows), Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which, in the scorching day, Who, laying his long scythe aside, What labours of the loom I see! To scramble for the patch that bears And oh, what havoc would ensue ! All in a moment fled! As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowersEach pocketing a shred. Thanks, then, to every gentle fair Who put the whole together. SONNET, TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. [April 16, 1792.] THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Hope smiles, Joy springs, and, though cold Caution pause TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. [May 26, 1792.] AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, Were in the power of verse like mine to give, I would not recompense his art with less, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. Friend of my friend!* I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. SONNET, TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. On his picture of me in Crayons, drawn at Eartham, in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September 1792. [October, 1792.] ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone Thou hast so pencil'd mine that, though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. * Hayley. But this I mark-that symptoms none of woe Well-I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? TO MRS. UNWIN. [May, 1793.] MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven 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, record thy worth with honour due, I may In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. |