Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape,
May ye lament to see confusion mar
And mingle the whole labour of your hands,
And may a sound fill all your oven, such
As of a horse grinding his provender,
While all your pots and flagons bounce within.
Come hither also, daughter of the sun,
Circe the Sorceress, and with thy drugs
Poison themselves, and all that they have made!
Come also Chiron, with thy num'rous troop
Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath
The club of Hercules, as who escaped,
And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall
Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes,
And howl to see the ruin of their art,
While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop
To peep into his furnace, may the fire
Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men
Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.
JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.
[November, 1790.]
POETS attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating Worthies lost,
The Dead in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore, Thee, THORNTON! worthy in some page to shine, As honest, and more eloquent than mine, I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore, were grief mispent indeed; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous, when they die.
What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing wo
By virtue suffer'd combatting below?
That privilege was thine; Heav'n gave thee means
T'illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food;
Av'rice, in thee, was the desire of wealth
By rust unperishable or by stealth,
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,
Thine had a value in the scales of Heav'n,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had giv'n
And, though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat;
And though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen..
Such was thy Charity; no sudden start,
After long sleep of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to th' eternal mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,
To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, Love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake;
That the incredulous themselves may see
s use and pow'r exemplified in thee.
(A brief fragment of an extensive projected Poem.) [May, 1791.]
"I COULD be well content, allow'd the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such,
"To recommence life's trial, in the hope "Offewer errors, on a second proof!"
Thus, while gray evening lull'd the wind, and call'd Fresh odours from the shrubb'ry at my side, Taking my lonely winding walk, I mus'd, And held accustom'd conference with my heart; When, from within it, thus a voice replied. "Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length "This wisdom, and but this, from all the past?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
"Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsaf'd to err
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?"
I heard, and acquiesc'd; then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My grav❜lly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd-what is Man?
Knows he his origin? can he ascend By reminiscence to his earliest date? Slept he in Adam? and in those from him Through num'rous generations, till he found At length his destin'd moment to be born? Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb? Deep myst'ries both! which schoolmen much have toil'd
To unriddle, and have left them myst'ries still.
It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplor'd he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where myst'ry lies
Not to be solv'd, and useless, if it might.
Myst'ries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of num'rous charms possess'd,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild:
But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frown'd oft'ner than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frown'd
Would raise her voice and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore
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