ON SEEING TWO BEAUTIFUL GIRLS, JUST IN THEIR TEENS, WITH BOOKS IN THEIR HANDS, FROM WHICH THEY WERE ENDEAVOURING TO REPEAT THEIR TASK.

WHEN brooding o'er their task I see them, Could wishes from their penance free them, I'd make them read their little hearts, Instead of those pedantic arts;

And study to be perfect there —

Books to the homely they can spare.

ON THE SIGHT OF A REAPER'S FIELD.

THE Reapers, when from toil they rest,
With harvest are in Autumn blest t;

But, often as the barn they fill,

It is the Peasant's labour still.

The seed improv'd is yet the same,

That prompts the will, and crowns the aim;
The offspring of each new supply
Feeds to consume, and lives to die.

prey,

No elements like these controul
The seed that forms a human soul:
* 'Tis born Corruption's destin'd
Clad in the vesture of decay;
But incorruptible its throne
When off its earthly veil is thrown;
'Tis born a weak and frail machine,
Though heir to Life's eternal scene;

* This and the following lines are adopted from St. Paul's eloquent Epistle to the Corinthians, which forms a part of the Burial Service.

VOL. II.

In sleep its partner can deceive,
And seems to die when sure to live;
Ascends, with brighter spirit plum'd,
By Nature's tempest unconsum'd,
When the corruptible is gone,
To put its Incorruption on.
And, when this mortal eye shall see
Its robe of Immortality,

Then shall the saying come to pass,
Though faintly seen through earth its glass,
Death, swallow'd up in Victory,

Has made the captive spirit free;

No sting shall that fell scorpion save-
And where is now the conquering grave?

TO GOLD.

DEATH to the charities of life *,
That bless the husband and the wife,
Glow in the parent's liberal heart,
And prompt the generous lover's part,
Make brothers feel themselves allied,
And crown the filial duty's pride;
With bonds on which the soul depends
Unite the unsuspected friends;

Abjure the selfish miser's hoard,

And spread with joy the festive board!
Thou cankering pest of Beauty's flower,
And serpent of Armida's bower!
Inflaming and perfidious Gold,
That scorns by Honour to be rul'd!
For thee Affection disappears,
And Mercy hides her face in tears.

* Milton.

Hence to the caves of blasted earth,

And close the dens that gave thee birth!
No more the cup of joy pollute,

Crush the wild harp, and break the lute!
No more from youth's precarious flowers
Withhold the animating showers!
No more for toys that youth engage
Deny the comforts due to age;
Or with averted Friendship's eye
To "hope deferr'd" relief supply!
No more, degrading, as you lift
The victim of a tyrant's gift,

With hard conditions make your sport,
And brand the wretch that you support!
As the Philistian for his mirth
Made Sampson prostitute his worth,
And, for Oppression's bitter scoff,
Took the old Hero's fetters off.

Oh, let us hear the voice again
Of sweet Content's angelic strain!
The charm of competency ours!
Why envy us the laughing hours?
Why, in Ambition's form, create
The jealous heart's envenom'd hate?
What pride for want of sleep can pay,
Or make it noble to betray?

All India be reserv'd for thee:
Arcadia be the realm for me!

Be mine the hearts that Peace approve,
And mine the cheering notes of Love!
But not of thee-'tis of the Muse,
I'd borrow her enraptur'd views;
Her dreams, that with affliction play,
And make her year a Summer's day.

TO THE SAME.

Gold, before the dazzled eyes,
Cheats the world, appears, and flies;
Near or distant from the view,
Him let other dupes pursue.

I, apart from all his chains,
Blow into the air his pains;
Take the harp into my hand,
And Elysian dreams command.

Once I courted him- but he
Then despis'd and laugh'd at me;
Now his arts on me are tried-
They are baffled, he's defied.
Come, perfidious Gold! and see
What my heart prefers to thee!
Not a chord that strung the lyre
Thee shall worship, or desire.

Love depreciates all thy worth:

He whom thou wouldst chain to earth, He whom thou wouldst buy to cheat, Spurns thy jewels at his feet.

Thou, in Pleasure's venal train,

Beauty's altar canst profane;

Thine is bought and perjur'd bliss,

Hymen's mercenary kiss.

Fly to the Pactolian shore;

There, alone, thyself adore!

Mine the harp and Cyprian Dove --
Short repast, and years of love.

TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROSE;

ON THE FAMINE OF 1800.

WITH me, enlighten'd Rose, examine The real cause of Britain's famine:

Tis not, believe me, in the corn,

Which amply fills the copious horn;
It is not in the reaper's hand,
Accus'd of pocketing his land;
Or in the system of device,

By middle men, to raise their price;
Nor is it in the rich, who buy,

With length of purse, the full supply.

Shall we, though Judges, fume and storm, Extirpate only to reform?

The markets, by an odious name,
Abolish first, and then defame?
Or shall we find in Pitt and War
The secret we are looking for?
Is it in Meynell's hunting stable,
Or upon Pharaoh's raffling table?
Perhaps Newmarket is the sinner!
Perhaps 'tis an Election-dinner!

What lame decypherers are these,
To puzzle fools, and statesmen teaze!
As well suppose it in the liquors
That flush the non-residing Vicars,
Or in the female cost of dress,

Which in Eve's time could scarce be less!