« PreviousContinue »
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.
EPITAPH ON FOP,
a dog belonging to LADY THROCr-Morton.
THough once a o 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 chace— 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.” August 1792.
SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.
ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYoM8,
Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September 1798.
RomNEy, expert infallibly to trace
On chart or canvas, not the form alone
And semblance, but however faintly shown,
The mind's io. too on every face—
With strokes that time ought never to erase,
Thou hast so pencill'd 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 woe
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! October 1792.
H. John marries Mary, and Mary alone,
Tis a yery good match between Mary and John.
Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!
It can't be a match—'tis a bundle of matches.
TEARs flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who knew 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.
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
on excziwing FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE MADE BY HERCELF.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
.*.*. a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here:
But not of love;—that gem's too dear
For richest rogue's to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.
May 4, 1793.
insCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN
THIs cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years.
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to—the last retreat.
MARY | I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And . by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe Ished my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
T0 JOHN JOHNSTON, ESQ.,
on His PRESENTING ME witH AN ANTIQUE Bust of housa
KINs MAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
when I behold the fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:
Joy too and grief—much joy that there should be,
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne,
M §§ heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. ay
To A YOUNG FRIEND, ox. His ARRIvng ATCAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN No RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church, endow’d With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd; In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry: Heaven grant us half the omen—may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee! May 1793.
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.
A SPANIEI, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue -
Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
orbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat
And ease a ; *.
For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man?
July 15, 1793.
Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow.
If killing birds be such a crime
Which I can hardly see),
What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me!
INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB or Me HAMILTON. PAUSE here and think: a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein; Seems it to say—“Health here has long to reign?” Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye That beams delight! a heart untaught to sigh! Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease, Anticipates a day it never sees; And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud Exclaims “Prepare thee for an early shroud.”
DEAR architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!
That he has furnish’d lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.
June 29, 1793.
On FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.
THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce;
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wise so lovely, slew them all.
September 1703. -
TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA, ON. His TRANSLATING THE AUTHOR'S SONG ON AROSE INTO ITALIAN WERSE My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, And steep'd not now in rain, But in Castilian streams by you,
1793. Will never fade again.
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
ho, nursed with tender care
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.