Could shake thee to the root-and time has been
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents, [deck That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber,* many a load! But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest, waged For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom and an atom more Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour, which had far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowel'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.
So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverized of venality, a shell
Stands now, and semblance only of itself!
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild
With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white :
Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.
And some, memorial none, where once they grew. Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force, Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine.
But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may.
One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charged his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet,
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme,
TO THE NIGHTINGALE,
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792. WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year, The melody of May ?
And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee, Though not like thee in song? Or, sing'st thou rather under force Of some divine command, Commission'd to presage a course Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long And joyless year have I, As thou to-day, put forth my song Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm, Who only need'st to sing,
To make even January charm, And every season Spring.
WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS AND SIGNATURES MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.
In vain to live from age to age While modern bards endeavour, I write my name in Patty's page, And gain my point for ever.
ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS. MARCH, 1792.
THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears, And tears by Sally shed For absent Robin, who she fears, With too much cause, is dead. One morn he came not to her hand As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch'd, to stand Picking his breakfast-crumb. Alarm'd she call'd him, and perplext She sought him, but in vain;
That day he came not, nor the next, Nor ever came again.
She therefore raised him here a tomb, Though where he fell, or how, None knows, so secret was his doom, Nor where he moulders now.
Had half a score of coxcombs died, In social Robin's stead,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, Or haply never shed.
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame,
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.
(PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.)
To purify their wine some people bleed A lamb into the barrel, and succeed; No nostrum, planters say, is half so good To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs. "Tis in the blood of innocence alone- Good cause why planters never try their own.
TO DR. AUSTIN,
OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.
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 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.
IF John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!
It can't be a match :-'tis a bundle of matches.
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 *Hayley.
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