« PreviousContinue »
WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
[June 29, 1793.)
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 !
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on other's lays; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequallid worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
A SPANJEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
Whom you have torn for yours
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
So much resemble Man ?
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
And harder to withstand.
You cried-forbear-but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell’d me to the deed.
Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventur'd once to break, (As you, perhaps, may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
And panting press'd the floor,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destin'd to my tooth,
And lick'd the feathers smnoth.
Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
From your aggriev'd 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?
Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshaw, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's lent to her on condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy.
And in the first degree ;
The press might sleep for me.
So Homer, in the mem'ry stor’d
Of many a Grecian belle,
But nover lodged so well.
THE SPANISH ADMIRAL,
His translating the Author's Song on a Rose into
And, steep'd not now in rain,
Will never fade again.
The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse.
I should have deem'd it once an effort vain,