Oh for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,

Et morbo jam caliginoso !

'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd
With best tobacco, finely mill'd,
Beats all Anticyra's pretences

To disengage th' encumber'd senses.

Oh Nymph of Transatlantic fame, Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name, Whether reposing on the side

Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide,

Or list'ning with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,

'Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed,
Which, whether pulveriz'd it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine-
Forgive the Bard, if Bard he be,
Who once too wantonly made free,
To touch with a satiric wipe

That symbol of thy power, the pipe;
So may no blight infest thy plains,
And no unseasonable rains,

And so may smiling Peace once more
Visit America's sad shore;

And thou, secure from all alarms

Of thund'ring drums, and glitt'ring arms,
Rove unconfin'd beneath the shade

Thy wide expanded leaves have made;
So may thy votaries increase,

And fumigation never cease.

40

50

60

May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thy odorif'rous rites,

While clouds of incense half divine

70

Involve thy disappearing shrine;

And so may smoke-inhaling Bull
Be always filling, never full.

THE COLUBRIAD

[Written Aug., 1782. Published by Hayley, 1806.] CLOSE by the threshold of a door nail'd fast Three kittens sat: each kitten look'd aghast.

I, passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye;

Not much concern'd to know what they did there,
Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.
But presently a loud and furious hiss

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim-what's this?
When, lo! upon the threshold met my view,
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,

A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose;
Who having never seen in field or house
The like, sat still and silent, as a mouse :
Only, projecting with attention due

10

20

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him-who are you?
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe;
With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot,
To find the viper. But I found him not,
And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,
Found only, that he was not to be found.
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
I hope--said I--the villain I would kill

Has slipt between the door and the door's sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:-

For long ere now it should have been rehears'd, 30 'Twas in the garden that I found him first.

E'en there I found him; there the full-grown cat His head with velvet paw did gently pat,

As curious as the kittens erst had been

To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,

And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat

That was of age to combat with a rat,

With out-stretch'd hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him NEVER TO COME THERE NO MORE.

TO LADY AUSTEN,

WRITTEN IN RAINY WEATHER

[Written Aug. 12, 1782. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
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;

40

'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 delug'd 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.

THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS
OR, LABOUR IN VAIN

An excellent New Song to a Tune never sung before. [Written Aug., 1782 (?). Published in The Monthly Magazine, Jan., 1808].

I SING of a journey to Clifton'

We would have perform'd if we could,
Without cart or barrow to lift on

Poor Mary' and me thro' the mud.
Sle sla slud,

Stuck in the mud;

Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!
So away we went, slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop, à la mode de deux frogs,
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,

Go briskly about,

10

7

But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout! She. "Well! now I protest it is charming;

He.

How finely the weather improves!
That cloud, though, is rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves!"
"Pshaw! never mind,

"Tis not in the wind,

15

We are travelling south and shall leave it behind." She. "I am glad we are come for an airing,

For folks may be pounded and penn'd,

Until they grow rusty, not caring

To stir half a mile to an end."

22

1 A village near Olney [1808].

2 Mrs. Unwin [1808].

He

"The longer we stay,

The longer we may ;

It's a folly to think about weather or way." 28 She. "But now I begin to be frighted;

He.

If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted,-
Stop! stop! I am sunk in a hole!"

"Nay, never care!

'Tis a common affair;

You'll not be the last that will set a foot there." 35

She. "Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do;

He.

That terrible lane I see yonder,

I think we shall never get through."

"So think I:

But, by the bye,

We never shall know, if we never should try." 42

She. "But should we get there, how shall we get home?

What a terrible deal of bad road we have
past!

Slipping and sliding; and if we should come
To a difficult stile, I am ruin'd at last!

Oh this lane!

Now it is plain

That struggling and striving is labour in vain." 49

He.

She.

"Stick fast there while I go and look---"

"Don't go away, for fear I should fall!"

He. "I have examin'd it every nook,

And what you have here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round,

The dirt we have found

Would be an estate at a farthing a pound."

Now, sister Anne', the guitar you must take,
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song;
I have varied the verse for variety's sake,
And cut it off short-because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,

Which critics won't blame,

56

For the sense and the sound, they say, should be

the same.

1 The late Lady Austen [1808].

63

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED,

by desire of Lady Austen, who wanted words to the March in Scipio.

[Written Sept. (?), 1782. Published by Hayley, 1803. The MSS. of both the English and the Latin poems are in the British Museum.]

TOLL for the brave

The brave! that are no more:
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore.

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side;

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave-
Brave Kempenfelt is gone,
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle,
No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock;

12

His sword was in the sheath,

His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

24

Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes,

And mingle with your cup

The tears that England owes;

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full charg'd with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main;

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his Eight hundred

Must plough the wave no more.

21 the] its Hayley. 27 your] our Hayley. Shall Hayley.

36.

36 Must]