Whose character, yet undebauched, retains
Two thirds of all the virtue that remains,
Who, wise yourselves, desire your son should learn
Your wisdom and your ways-to you I turn,
Look round you on a world perversely blind;
See what contempt is fallen on human kind;
See wealth abused, and dignities misplaced,
Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced,
Long lines of ancestry, renowned of old,
Their noble qualities all quenched and cold;
See Bedlam's closeted and hand-cuffed charge
Surpassed in frenzy by the mad at large;
See great commanders making war a trade,
Great lawyers, lawyers without study made;
Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ
Is odious, and their wages all their joy,
Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves
With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves;
See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed
With infamy too nauseous to be named,
Fops at all corners, lady-like in mien,
Civeted fellows, smelt ere they are seen,
Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue
On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung,
Now flushed with drunkenness, now with whore-
dom pale,

Their breath a sample of last night's regale;
See volunteers in all the vilest arts,
Men well endowed, of honourable parts,
Designed by Nature wise, but self-made fools;
All these, and more like these, were bred
schools:

at

And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will,
That though school-bred, the boy be virtuous still,
Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark,
Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark:
As here and there a twinkling star descried,
Serves but to show how black is all beside.
Now look on him, whose very voice in tone
Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own,
And stroke his polished cheek of purest red,
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,
And say, My boy, th' unwelcome hour is come,
When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,
Must find a colder soil and bleaker air,
And trust for safety to a stranger's care;
What character, what turn thou wilt assume
From constant converse with I know not whom;
Who there will court thy friendship, with what
views,

And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;
Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me,
Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids,
And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids,
Free too, and under no constraining force,
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course,
Lay such a stake upon the losing side,
Merely to gratify so blind a guide?

L

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart
Condemns th' unfatherly, the imprudent part.
Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea,
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,

Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay
A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way;
Then, only governed by the self-same rule
Of natural pity, send him not to school.
No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?
And hop'st thou not ('tis every father's hope)
That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need some comfort, to assuage
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age,
That then, in recompense of all thy cares,
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left?
Aware then how much danger intervenes,
To compass that good end, forecast the means.
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command,
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place.
But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure
From vicious inmates, and delights impure,
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind (as who can say

But, being man, and therefore frail, he may ?)
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.

Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand, Pull down the schools-what-all the schools i th' land;

Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms,
Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms?--
A captious question, sir (and yours is one,)
Deserves an answer similar, or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay
Merely to sleep, and let him run astray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.
And, though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each-This building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepared t' embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better managed, or encouraged less.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR

1

TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burthen of my song.

The priest he merry is and blithe

Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good.

In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be expressed,
When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distressed.

Now all unwelcome at his gates

The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-

He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows

Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes,

Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come-each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,

And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do,

The little boy and all?"

"All tight and well. And how do you,

Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit:
Were e'er such hungry folks?
There's little talking, and no wit:
It is no time to joke.

Come, neighbours, we must wag-" The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

You sell it plaguy dear."

O why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;

"Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum, Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords.

COWPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,

Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's

peers,

Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers; but silence honoured

thee,

Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside
Both neart and head; and couldst with music

sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
Author of the " Botanic Garden."
Two Poets* (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree,)
Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!
Conspire to honour Thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own.

We therefore, pleased, extol thy song,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment, as strong
And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would they must at thine.

But we in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,
Unworthy of his own.

ON

MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.

THE birds put off their every hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.

The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The Pheasant plumes, which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock his arched tail's azure show;
And, river-blanched, the Swan his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,

Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.

Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,

But, screened from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.

To the same patroness resort,
Secure of favour at her court,

Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought,
Which, though new-born, with vigour move,
Like Pallas springing armed from Jove-
Imagination scattering round
Wild roses over furrowed ground,
Which Labour of his frown beguile,
And teach Philosophy a smile-
Wit flashing on Religion's side,
Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied,
The gem, though luminous before,
Obtrudes on human notice more,
Like sunbeams on the golden height
Of some tall temple playing bright-
Well-tutored Learning, from his books
Dismissed with grave, not haughty, looks.
Their order on his shelves exact,
Not more harmonious or compact
Than that, to which he keeps confined
The various treasures of his mind
All these to Montagu's repair,
Ambitious of a shelter there.
There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit,
Their ruffled plumage calm refit,
(For stormy troubles loudest roar
Around their flight who highest soar)
And in her eye, and by her aid,
Shine safe without a fear to fade.

She thus maintains divided sway
With yon bright regent of the day;
The plume and poet both, we know,
Their lustre to his influence owe;
And she the works of Phoebus aiding,
Both poet saves and plume from fading.

VERSES

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.

I AM monarca of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell ir the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,
Must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,

I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man,
O, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth,

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
The beast has laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

Fair Science poured the light of truth,

And Genius shed his rays.

See! with united wonder cried

Th' experienced and the sage,
Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age!
Discernment, eloquence, and grace,
Proclaim him born to sway
The balance in the highest place,
And bear the palm away.

The praise bestowed was just and wise;
He sprang impetuous forth,
Secure of conquest, where the prize
Attends superior worth.

So the best courser on the plain
Ere yet he starts is known,
And does but at the goal obtain,
What all had deemed his own.

ODE TO PEACE.

COME, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest

Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view;

We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From avarice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,

The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make,

And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequestered shed,

To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whate'er I loved before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say—
Farewell! we meet no more?

ON THE

PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ. To the Lord High Chancellorship of England. ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth, And ir. his sportive days,

HUMAN FRAILTY.

WEAK and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,

In vain, recorded in historic page,

Vice seems already slain;

But passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view;

And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail,

To reach the distant coast;

The breath of heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

THE MODERN PATRIOT.

REBELLION is my theme all day;

I only wish 't would come
(As who knows but perhaps it may?)
A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On t' other side th' Atlantic,

I always held them in the right,

But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court,

That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport,
Who bravely breaks the most.
But oh! for him my fancy culls

The choicest flowers she bears,
Who constitutionally pulls

Your house about your ears. Such civil broils are my delight, Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them.

A rope! I wish we patriot had

Such strings for all who need 'emWhat! hang a man for going mad! Then farewell British freedom.

They court the notice of a future age:
Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand;
Lethean gulfs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.

So when a child, as playful children use,
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire-
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire,
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark!
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.

BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of
learning;

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,

That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the courtYour lordship observes they are made with a straddle

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again)

That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,

With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how,) He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise.

CORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.

OH, fond attempt to give a deathless lot To rames ignoble, born to be forgot!

Decisive and clear, without one if or butThat, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight-Eyes should be shut!