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TO

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,
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise

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A SPANJEL, 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

Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chas'd 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 ?
VOL. III.

21

BEAU'S REPLY.

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.

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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,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,

And panting press'd the floor,

Well knowing him a sacred thing,

Not destin'd to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick'd the feathers smnoth.

Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse

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?

ANSWER

TO

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.

[1793.]
To be remembered thus is fame,

And in the first degree ;
And did the few like her the same,

The press might sleep for me.

So Homer, in the mem'ry stor’d

Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preservid-a richer hoard,

But nover lodged so well.

TO

THE SPANISH ADMIRAL,

COUNT GRAVINA,

ON

His translating the Author's Song on a Rose into

Italian Verse.

(1793.]
My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,

And, steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by You,

Will never fade again.

ON

FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

[September, 1793.]

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 wife so lovely, slew them all.

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I should have deem'd it once an effort vain,
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain,
But from that errour now behold me free,
Since I receiv'd him as a gift from Thee.

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