CATHARINA:

THE SECOND PART.

ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.

JUNE, 1792.
Believe it or not, as you choose,

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. ’T was 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. 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.

* Lady Throckmorton.

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.

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 bliss
Ah, that maternal smile !-it answers-Yes.
I 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!

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.

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.

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 controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

EPITAPH ON FOP,

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.

AUGUST, 1792. Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim ; No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chase. Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice! Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.

“Yes”—the indignant shade of Fop replies— “And worn with vain pursuit man also dies.”

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.

JANUARY, 1793. In language warm as could be breathed or penn'd Thy picture speaks the original my friend, Not by those looks that indicate thy mind, They only speak thee friend of all mankind; Expression here more soothing still I see, That friend of all a partial friend to me.

EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY.

APRIL, 1793. Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Till all who know him follow to the skies. Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep; Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep; And justly-few shall ever him transcend As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN’S-BOWER,
DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.

SPRING OF 1793.
THRIVE, gentle plant! and weave a bower

For Mary and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flower

Thy foliage large and free.
Thou camest from Eartham, and wilt shade,

(If truly I divine,)
Some future day the illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.
Should Daphne show a jealous frown,

And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honour'd brows as they,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,

And with convincing power;
For why should not the Virgin's friend
Be crown'd with Virgin's Bower ?