Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame;
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.
ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd,
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 to admire the bard than love the man. June 2, 1782.
HERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd;
At his signified desire
Would advance, present, and fire-
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him!
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call'd, not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.
ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. In language warm as could be breathed or penn'd Thy picture speaks the 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 camest from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)
Some future day the illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine.
Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crown'd with virgin's bower?
ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL
I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain,
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I received him as a gift from thee.
LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT.
SWEET babe! whose image here express'd
Does thy peaceful slumbers show;
Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,
Never did thy spirit know.
Soothing slumbers! soft repose,
Such as mock the painter's skill,
Such as innocence bestows,
Harmless infant! lull thee still.
ADDRESSED TO 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.
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