ADDRESSED 10 LADY HESKETH, BY A LADY,
In returning a Poem of Mr Cowper's, lent to the Writer, on condition she should neither show it nor take a copy.
WHAT Wonder! if my wavering hand
Had dared to disobey,
When Hesketh gave a harsh command,
And Cowper led astray.
Then take this tempting gift of thine,
By pen uncopied yet!
But canst thou Memory confine,
Or teach me to forget?
More lasting than the touch of art,
Her characters remain;
When written by a feeling heart
On tablets of the brain.
COWPER'S REPLY.
To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;
And did the few, like her, the same,
The press might rest for me.
So Homer, in the mem'ry stored
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved-a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.
LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA JANE COWPER.
WILLIAM was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.
But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.
Howe'er, it happen'd, by degrees,
He mended, and grew perter,
In company was more at ease,
And dress'd a little smarter;
Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.
He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,
So that there was, or seem'd to be,
No fear of a relapse.
The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,
"The creature may do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish."
At length improved from head to heel,
"Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel
Or half so dégagé.
Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,
Let the dear maid who wrought the change E'en claim him for her own!
How quick the change from joy to woe,
How chequer'd is our lot below!
Seldom we view the prospect fair;
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care
(Some pleasing intervals between),
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid!
Far hence in happier fields I stray'd.
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.
Next day the scene was overcast-
Such day till then I never pass'd,-
For on that day, relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.
Yet ere we look'd our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell,
Fear not that time, where'er we rove, Or absence, shall abate my love."
OH! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire,
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none,
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!
INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN THE SHRUBBERY
AT WESTON.
HERE, free from riot's hated noise,
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,
A book or friend bestows;
Far from the storms that shake the great.
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat,
And sweeten my repose.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM RUSSEL.
DOOM'D, as I am, in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost;
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,
The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!
Still, still I mourn, with each returning day,
Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away;
And her thro' tedious years of doubt and pain,
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful--but in vain!
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere,
Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear;
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows;
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;
See me-ere yet my destined course half done,
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown!
See me neglected on the world's rude coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost!
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow,
And ready tears wait only leave to flow!
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,
All that delights the happy-palls with me!
EXTRACT FROM A SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN.
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,
In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants, made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!
Thanks for thy Word, and for thy day,
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy Sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear-but, oh! impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.
Sir William Russel, the favourite friend of the young poet
A NOBLE theme demands a noble verse,
In such I thank you for your fine oysters.
The barrel was magnificently large,
But, being sent to Olney at free charge,
Was not inserted in the driver's list,
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd;
For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd
Inquired for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd;
Denying that his waggon or his wain
Did any such commodity contain.
In consequence of which, your welcome boon
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon;
In consequence of which some chanced to die,
And some, though very sweet, were very dry.
Now Madam says (and what she says must still
Deserve attention, say she what she will),
That what we call the diligence, be-case
It goes to London with a swifter pace,
Would better suit the carriage of your gift,
Returning downward with a pace as swift;
And therefore recommends it with this aim-
To save at least three days,-the price the same;
For though it will not carry or convey
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you may,
For oysters bred upon the salt sea-shore,
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more.
News have I none that I can deign to write, Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night; And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour, Caught in the first beginning of the shower; But walking, running, and with much ado, Got home just time enough to be wet through, Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told, Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold; And wishing just the same good hap to you, We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu!
VERSES PRINTED BY HIMSELF, ON A FLOOD
AT OLNEY.
To watch the storms, and hear the sky
Give all our almanacks the lie;
To shake with cold, and see the plains
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains;
'Tis thus I spend my moments here,
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer;
I then should have no need of wit:
For lumpish Hollander unfit!
Nor should I then repine at mud,
Or meadows deluged with a flood;
But in a bog live well content,
And find it just my element;
Should be a clod, and not a man;
Nor wish in vain for sister Ann,
With charitable aid to drag
My mind out of its proper quag;
Should have the genius of a boor,
And no ambition to have more.
ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER.
(IN THE MANNER OF HOMER.)
THE straw-stuff'd hamper with his ruthless steel
He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat,
Or oats, or barley; next a bottle green
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd
Drop after drop odorous, by the art
Of the fair mother of his friend-the Rose.
ON THE NEGLECT OF HOMER.
COULD Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear),
"Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here."
ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH.
COCOA-NUT naught,
Fish too dear,
None must be bought
For us that are here:
No lobster on earth,
That ever I saw,
To me would be worth
Sixpence a claw.
So, dear madam, wait
Till fish can be got
At a reas'nable rate,
Whether lobster or not;
Till the French and the Dutch
Have quitted the seas,
And then send as much
And as oft as you please.
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