GRATITUDE.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH.

THIS cap, that so stately appears, With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears Ambitious of brushing the sky:" This cap to my cousin I owe,

She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreathed into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied.

This wheel-footed studying chair,

Contrived both for toil and repose,
Wide elbowed and wadded with hair,
In which I both scribble and dose,
Bright studded to dazzle the eyes,
And rival in lustre of that
In which, or astronomy lies,
Fair Cassiopeia sat:

These carpets, so soft to the foot,

Caledonia's traffic and pride,
O spare them ye knights of the boot,
Escaped from a cross-country ride.
This table and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust:

This moveable structure of shelves,
For its beauty admired and its use,
And charged with octavos and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce;
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,
My poems enchanted I view,
And hope, in due time, to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too;

This china, that decks the alcove,
Which here people call a buffet,
But what the gods call it above,

Has ne'er been revealed to us yet;
These curtains, that keep the room warm
Or cool, as the season demands,
These stoves that for pattern and form,
Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands:

All these are not half that I owe
To one from her earliest youth
To me ever ready to show
Benignity, friendship, and truth:
For time the destroyer declared

And foe of our perishing kind,
It even her face he has spared,
Much less could he alter her mind.
Thus compassed about with the goods
And chattels of leisure and ease,
I indulge my poetical moods

In many such fancies as these;

And fancies I fear they will seem―

Poet's goods are not often so fine; The poets will swear that I dream, When I sing of the splendour of mine.

THE FLATTING-MILL.

AN ILLUSTRATION.

WHEN a bar of pure silver, or ingot of gold,
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is passed between cylinders often and rolled
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears

Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show, Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,

And, warmed by the pressure, is all in a glow,
This process achieved, it is doomed to sustain
The thump-after-thump of a goldbeater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill for a delicate palate.

Alas for the poet! who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill-
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,

And catch in its progress a sensible glow.

After all, he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that unfolds what an invalid swal-
lows

For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it a nausea follows.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE,
AD LIBRUM SUUM.

MARIA, Could Horace have guessed
What honour awaited his ode,
To his own little volume addressed,

The honour which you have bestowed,
Who have traced it in characters here

So elegant, even and neat,

He had laughed at the critical sneer,

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer if you please he had said, A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies, Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

STANZAS

O the late indecent liberties taken with the remains of the great Milton-Anno 1790.

"ME too, perchance, in future days,

The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.

*But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."*

Bo sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordained to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.

Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest

Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?

Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,

That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!

O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.

TO MRS. KING.

Do her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work Counterpane of her own making.

THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quickened by a call
Both on his heart and head,

To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair
Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,

(As Homer's Epic shows)
Composed of sweetest vernal flowers,
Without the aid of sun and showers,
For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain

Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus Necteus aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri Fronde comas-At ego secura pace quiesquam.

Milton in Mansa.

Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.

What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groaned for me!
Should every maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,

The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue!
This bright display of every hue

All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bowers
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers-
Each pocketing a shred.

Thanks, then, to every gentle fair
Who will not come to peck me bare,

As bird of borrowed feather,
And thanks, to One, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,

Who put the whole together.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possessed,
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,
Frowned oftener than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frowned,
Would raise her voice and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last,
And never proved severe.

To poets of renown in song

The nymphs referred the cause,
Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong,
And gave misplaced applause.

They gentle called, and kind and soft,

The flippant and the scold,

And though she changed her mood so oft,
That failing left untold.

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,

Or so resolved to err→

In short, the charms her sister had
They lavished all on her.

Then thus the god whom fondly they
Their great inspirer call,
Was heard, one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all:

Since thus ye have combined," he said,
"My favourite nymph to slight,
Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right,

"The minx shall, for your folly's sake,
Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses blue."

EPITAPH

ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.

LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's tomb, But happiest they, who win the world to come: Believers have a silent field to fight,

And their exploits are veiled from human sight. They in some nook, where little known they dwell,

Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

THE RETIRED CAT.

A POET's Cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.

I know not where she caught the trick
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Appareled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,

And the old utensil of tin

Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use;
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,

Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight, beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,

And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impelled,

But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock, (cried puss)
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,

Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!
Oh what a delicate retreat!

I will resign myself to rest

Till Sol declining in the west,

Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come, and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended,
And puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away,
(With her indeed 'twas never day)
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more,
Than if entombed the day before;

With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom.
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet, watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,

And to himself he said-" what's that?"

He drew the curtain at his side,

And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.

Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,

Consoled him and dispelled his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top..
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head.

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE,

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY.

WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear

From yonder withered 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,
Commissioned to presage a course
Of happier davs 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 harın,
Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,
And every season Spring.

SONNET.

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious called Frantic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fettergalled,

Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.

Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution

pause

And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

EPIGRAM.

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 the 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 dashed the scythe of Time aside;
Immortalizing names which else had died.
And O! 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, tho' unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

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 can not suppress for my lifeHow soon I can make her a mother.

SONNET.

ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown, In our first interview, delightful guest! To Mary and me for her dear sake distressed, Such as it is has made my heart thy own, Though heedless now of new engagements grown; For threescore winters make a wintry breast, And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest Of Friendship more, except with God alone; But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe, Who ere this last afflictive scene began, Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow. My brother, by whose sympathy I know Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

Not more t'admire the bard than love the man.

CATHARINA.

On her Marriage to George Courtnay, Esq. 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.
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warmed
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was formed.

Mariat 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 wished as I did,

And therefore this union of hands Not a whisper was heard to forbid, But all cry-amen-to the bans.

SONNET.

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

On his picture of me in crayons, drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and Sep. tember, 1792.

ROMNEY expert, infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every faceWith strokes that time ought never to erase, Thou hast so penciled mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. But this I mark-that symptoms none of wo In thy incomparable work appear. Well-I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. IN language warm as could be breathed or penned, Thy picture speaks th' original, my friend, Not by those looks that indicate thy mindThey only speak thee friend of all mankind; Expression here more soothing still I see, That friend of all a partial friend to me.

ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER.

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.

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 cam'st from Eartham, and wilt shade (If truly I divine)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Of Him who made thee mine.