ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS
MAJESTY FROM SEA-BATHING

IN THE YEAR 1789

[Written 1789. Published by Johnson, 1815.]

O SOV'REIGN of an isle renown'd
For undisputed sway

Wherever o'er yon gulph profound
Her navies wing their way,

With juster claim she builds at length

Her empire on the sea,

And well may boast the waves her strength,

Which strength restor❜d to Thee.

CATHARINA

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON
[Written May 1789. Published 1795.]
SHE came-she is gone—we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progress was often delay'd

8

8

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paus'd under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tone

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who had witness'd so lately her own.

16

My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,

As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more,

And e'en to myself never seem'd

So tuneful a poet before.

Catharina-Title] now Mrs. Courtney added after Stapleton

in 1803.

24.

Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

Than all that the city can show.

So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
"Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,

May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!

To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire
As oft as it suits her to roam,

She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to wish or to fear,

And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND

[Written May, 1789. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
MUSE-Hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake, into scorn,

Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,

Nor place where he was born.

32 all] aught first in 1808. 54 wish] hope first in 1808.

32

40

48

56

6

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)

For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styl'd)

Wanted no good below,

Gentle he was, if gentle birth

Could make him such, and he had worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose

Possess'd of ev'ry kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red,

With bushy locks his well-dress'd head
Wing'd broad on either side,

12

18

24

The mossy rose-bud not so sweet;

His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As lux'ry could provide.

30

Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,

The Cæsar of his race.

42

It chanc'd, at last, when on a day

He push'd him to the desp'rate fray,

His courage droop'd, he fled.

The master storm'd, the prize was lost,

And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doom'd his fav'rite dead.

48

He seiz'd him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,
And, Bring me cord, he cried—

The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of the tale

54

That can be, shall be, sunk

Led by the suff'rer's screams aright

His shock'd companions view the sight
And him with fury drunk.

60

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate

For the old warrior at the grate:
He, deaf to pity's call,

Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,

Death menacing on all.

But vengeance hung not far remote,

For while he stretch'd his clam'rous throat

And heav'n and earth defied,

Big with the curse too closely pent
That struggled vainly for a vent
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

66

72

"Tis not for us, with rash surmise,

To point the judgments of the skies,
But judgments plain as this,

That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,

"Tis hard to read amiss.

78

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, AD LIBRUM SUUM

[Written Feb., 1790. Published by Hayley, 1803.]

MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode

To his own little volume address'd,

The honour which you have bestow'd,

Who have trac'd it in characters here,

He had laugh'd at the critical sneer,

So elegant, even, and neat;

Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

8

And sneer, if you please, he had said,

Hereafter a nymph shall arise,
Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

16

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM [Written Feb., 1790. Published in pamphlet with Dog and WaterLily, 1798; afterwards in Poems, 1798.]

OH that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 10
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy
shall weave
weave a charm for my relief-

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

20

My mother when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

3 smile first in 1808. 25 unfelt first in 1808.

30