EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM.

hareJ. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.THE TAME HARE."THOUGH DULY FROM MY HAND HE TOOK,HIS PITTANCE EVERY NIGHT,HE DID IT WITH A JEALOUS LOOK,AND WHEN HE COULD WOULD BITE."

J. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.THE TAME HARE."THOUGH DULY FROM MY HAND HE TOOK,HIS PITTANCE EVERY NIGHT,HE DID IT WITH A JEALOUS LOOK,AND WHEN HE COULD WOULD BITE."

J. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.

THE TAME HARE.

"THOUGH DULY FROM MY HAND HE TOOK,HIS PITTANCE EVERY NIGHT,HE DID IT WITH A JEALOUS LOOK,AND WHEN HE COULD WOULD BITE."

Hic etiam jacet,Qui totum novennium vixit,Puss.Siste paulisper,Qui præteriturus es,Et tecum sic reputa—Hunc neque canis venaticus,Nec plumbum missile,Nec laqueus,Nec imbres nimii,Confecêre:Tamen mortuus est—Et moriar ego.

The following account of the treatment of his hares was inserted by Cowper in the Gentleman's Magazine.

In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind and body, incapable of diverting myself either with company or books, and yet in a condition that made some diversion necessary, I was glad of any thing that would engage my attention, without fatiguing it. The children of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given them for a plaything; it was at that time about three months old. Understanding better how to tease the poor creature than to feed it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they readily consented that their father, who saw it pining and growing leaner every day, should offer it to my acceptance. I was willing enough to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving that, in the management of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I should find just that sort of employment which my case required. It was soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased with the present, and the consequence was, that in a short time I had as many leverets offered to me as would have stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which it is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I gave them—Puss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you, that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I built them houses to sleep in; each had a separate apartment, so contrived that their ordure would pass through the bottom of it; an earthen pan placed under each received whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the day time they had the range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into that of another.

Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples. He would suffer me to take him up, and to carry him about in my arms, and has more than once fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, during which time I nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows, that they might not molest him (for, like many other wild animals, they persecute one of their own species that is sick,) and by constant care, and trying him with a variety of herbs, restored him to perfect health. No creature could be more grateful than my patient after his recovery; a sentiment which he most significantly expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then every finger separately, then between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of it unsaluted; a ceremony which he never performed but once again upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made it my custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden, where he hid himself generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing the cud till evening; in the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite repast. I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he began to be impatient for the return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden by drumming upon my knee, and by a look of such expression as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of my coat between his teeth, and pull it with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tamed; the shyness of his nature was done away, and on the whole it was visible by many symptoms, which I have not room to enumerate, that he was happier in human society than, when shut up with his natural companions.

Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had not the least effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness had an equal share of my attention; but if, after his recovery, I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. He was however very entertaining in his way; even his surliness was matter of mirth, and in his play he preserved such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such a solemnity of manner, that in him too I had an agreeable companion.

Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss was tamed by gentle usage; Tiney was not to be tamed at all; and Bess had a courage and confidence that made him tame from the beginning. I always admitted them into the parlour after supper, when, the carpet affording their feet a firm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. One evening, the cat being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drumming upon her back with such violence that the cat was happy to escape from under his paws, and hide herself.

I describe these animals as having each a character of his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so expressive of that character, that, when I looked only on the face of either, I immediately knew which it was. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that he can, by that indication only, distinguish each from all the rest; and yet, to a common observer, the difference is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimination in the cast of countenances would be discoverable in hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of them no two could be found exactly similar: a circumstance little suspected by those who have not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have a singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration that is made in the place to which they are accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a new object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a patch, and that patch in a moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of their favourites: to some persons, though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled, and would even scream when they attempted to touch them; but a miller coming in engaged their affections at once; his powdered coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens of the kind has taught me to hold the sportman's amusement in abhorrence; he little knows what amiable creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of life, and that, impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives them peculiar cause for it.

That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short summary of those articles of diet that suit them best.

I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but it is an erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple; they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, are their favourite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered by accident that fine white sand is in great estimation with them; I suppose as a digestive. It happened, that I was cleaning a birdcage when the hares were with me; I placed a pot filled with such sand upon the floor, which, being at once directed to it by a strong instinct, they devoured voraciously; since that time I have generally taken care to see them well supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy, both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat: straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their dainties: they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished with clean straw never want them; it serves them also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed require aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them with great relish, and are particularly fond of the plant called musk; they seem to resemble sheep in this, that, if their pasture be too succulent, they are very subject to the rot; to prevent which, I always made bread their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with it cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night; during the winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrot, adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin; for, though they are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. These however not being a sufficient substitute for the juice of summerherbs, they must at this time be supplied with water; but so placed, that they cannot overset it into their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of the common brier, eating even the very wood when it is of considerable thickness.

Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall; Puss is still living, and has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor even of age, except that he is grown more discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot conclude without observing, that I have lately introduced a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, but there was no real need of it. Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symptom of hostility. There is therefore, it should seem, no natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions the flight of the other, and the dog pursues because he is trained to it; they eat bread at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all respects sociable and friendly.

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with a brush under each foot; and that they are never infested by any vermin.

May 28, 1784.

Tuesday, March 9, 1786.

This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven months. He died between twelve and one at noon, of mere old age, and apparently without pain.

In Scotland's realms, where trees are few,Nor even shrubs abound;But where, however bleak the view,Some better things are found;For husband there and wife may boastTheir union undefiled,And false ones are as rare almostAs hedgerows in the wild—In Scotland's realm forlorn and bareThe history chanced of late—The history of a wedded pair,A chaffinch and his mate.The spring drew near, each felt a breastWith genial instinct fill'd;They pair'd, and would have built a nest,But found not where to build.The heaths uncover'd and the moorsExcept with snow and sleet,Sea-beaten rocks and naked shoresCould yield them no retreat.Long time a breeding-place they sought,Till both grew vex'd and tired;At length a ship arriving broughtThe good so long desired.A ship!—could such a restless thingAfford them place of rest?Or was the merchant charged to bringThe homeless birds a nest?Hush—silent hearers profit most—This racer of the seaProved kinder to them than the coast,It served them with a tree.But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,The tree they call a mast,And had a hollow with a wheelThrough which the tackle pass'd.Within that cavity aloftTheir roofless home they fix'd,Form'd with materials neat and soft,Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.Four ivory eggs soon pave its floorWith russet specks bedight—The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,And lessens to the sight.The mother-bird is gone to sea,As she had changed her kind;But goes the male? Far wiser, heIs doubtless left behind.No—soon as from ashore he sawThe winged mansion move,He flew to reach it, by a lawOf never-failing love;Then, perching at his consort's side,Was briskly borne along,The billows and the blast defied,And cheer'd her with a song.The seaman with sincere delightHis feather'd shipmates eyes,Scarce less exulting in the sightThan when he tows a prize.For seamen much believe in signs,And from a chance so newEach some approaching good divines,And may his hopes be true!Hail, honour'd land! a desert whereNot even birds can hide,Yet parent of this loving pairWhom nothing could divide.And ye who, rather than resignYour matrimonial plan,Were not afraid to plough the brineIn company with man;For whose lean country much disdainWe English often show,Yet from a richer nothing gainBut wantonness and woe—Be it your fortune, year by yearThe same resource to prove,And may ye, sometimes landing here,Instruct us how to love!

In Scotland's realms, where trees are few,Nor even shrubs abound;But where, however bleak the view,Some better things are found;

For husband there and wife may boastTheir union undefiled,And false ones are as rare almostAs hedgerows in the wild—

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bareThe history chanced of late—The history of a wedded pair,A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breastWith genial instinct fill'd;They pair'd, and would have built a nest,But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd and the moorsExcept with snow and sleet,Sea-beaten rocks and naked shoresCould yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought,Till both grew vex'd and tired;At length a ship arriving broughtThe good so long desired.

A ship!—could such a restless thingAfford them place of rest?Or was the merchant charged to bringThe homeless birds a nest?

Hush—silent hearers profit most—This racer of the seaProved kinder to them than the coast,It served them with a tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,The tree they call a mast,And had a hollow with a wheelThrough which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloftTheir roofless home they fix'd,Form'd with materials neat and soft,Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floorWith russet specks bedight—The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea,As she had changed her kind;But goes the male? Far wiser, heIs doubtless left behind.

No—soon as from ashore he sawThe winged mansion move,He flew to reach it, by a lawOf never-failing love;

Then, perching at his consort's side,Was briskly borne along,The billows and the blast defied,And cheer'd her with a song.

The seaman with sincere delightHis feather'd shipmates eyes,Scarce less exulting in the sightThan when he tows a prize.

For seamen much believe in signs,And from a chance so newEach some approaching good divines,And may his hopes be true!

Hail, honour'd land! a desert whereNot even birds can hide,Yet parent of this loving pairWhom nothing could divide.

And ye who, rather than resignYour matrimonial plan,Were not afraid to plough the brineIn company with man;

For whose lean country much disdainWe English often show,Yet from a richer nothing gainBut wantonness and woe—

Be it your fortune, year by yearThe same resource to prove,And may ye, sometimes landing here,Instruct us how to love!

June, 1793.

The twentieth year is well nigh pastSince first our sky was overcast;Ah! would that this might be the last!My Mary!Thy spirits have a fainter floI see thee daily weaker gro'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disused, and shine no more;My Mary!For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream:Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!For, could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign;Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,My Mary!Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,That now at every step thou movestUpheld by two; yet still thou lovest,My Mary!And still to love, though press'd with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!But ah! by constant heed I know,How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last,My Mary!

The twentieth year is well nigh pastSince first our sky was overcast;Ah! would that this might be the last!My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter floI see thee daily weaker gro'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disused, and shine no more;My Mary!

For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream:Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign;Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,That now at every step thou movestUpheld by two; yet still thou lovest,My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!

And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last,My Mary!

Autumn of 1793.

Obscurest night involved the sky,The Atlantic billows roar'd,When such a destined wretch as I,Wash'd headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,His floating home for ever left.No braver chief could Albion boastThan he with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion's coastWith warmer wishes sent.He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay;Nor soon he felt his strength decline,Or courage die away:But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.He shouted; nor his friends had fail'dTo check the vessel's course,But so the furious blast prevail'd,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.Some succour yet they could afford;And, such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delay'd not to bestow:But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,Whate'er they gave, should visit more.Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to dieDeserted, and his friends so nigh.He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld:And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repell'd:And ever, as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried—"Adieu!"At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,Could catch the sound no more:For then, by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson's tear;And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.I therefore purpose not, or dream,Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date:But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another's case.No voice divine the storm allay'd,No light propitious shone;When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,We perish'd, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

Obscurest night involved the sky,The Atlantic billows roar'd,When such a destined wretch as I,Wash'd headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boastThan he with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion's coastWith warmer wishes sent.He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay;Nor soon he felt his strength decline,Or courage die away:But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'dTo check the vessel's course,But so the furious blast prevail'd,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;And, such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delay'd not to bestow:But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to dieDeserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld:And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repell'd:And ever, as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried—"Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,Could catch the sound no more:For then, by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson's tear;And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date:But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,No light propitious shone;When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,We perish'd, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

March 20, 1799.

DEAR President, whose art sublimeGives perpetuity to time,And bids transactions of a day,That fleeting hours would waft awayTo dark futurity, survive,And in unfading beauty live,—You cannot with a grace declineA special mandate of the Nine—Yourself, whatever task you choose,So much indebted to the Muse.Thus say the sisterhood:—We come—Fix well your pallet on your thumb,Prepare the pencil and the tints—We come to furnish you with hints.French disappointment, British glory,Must be the subject of the story.First strike a curve, a graceful bow,Then slope it to a point below;Your outline easy, airy, light,Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite.Let independence, sanguine, horrid,Blaze like a meteor in the forehead:Beneath (but lay aside your graces)Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,Each with a staring, stedfast eye,Fix'd on his great and good ally.France flies the kite—'tis on the wing—Britannia's lightning cuts the string.The wind that raised it, ere it ceases,Just rends it into thirteen pieces,Takes charge of every fluttering sheet,And lays them all at George's feet.Iberia, trembling from afar,Renounces the confederate war.Her efforts and her arts o'ercome,France calls her shatter'd navies home.Repenting Holland learns to mournThe sacred treaties she has torn;Astonishment and awe profoundAre stamp'd upon the nations round:Without one friend, above all foes,Britannia gives the world repose.

The Genius of the Augustan ageHis head among Rome's ruins rear'd,And, bursting with heroic rage,When literary Heron appear'd;Thou hast, he cried, like him of oldWho set the Ephesian dome on fire,By being scandalously bold,Attain'd the mark of thy desire.And for traducing Virgil's nameShalt share his merited reward;A perpetuity of fame,That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.

The Genius of the Augustan ageHis head among Rome's ruins rear'd,And, bursting with heroic rage,When literary Heron appear'd;

Thou hast, he cried, like him of oldWho set the Ephesian dome on fire,By being scandalously bold,Attain'd the mark of thy desire.

And for traducing Virgil's nameShalt share his merited reward;A perpetuity of fame,That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.

OR, LABOUR IN VAIN.

A New Song, to a Tune never sung before.

I sing of a journey to Clifton,[838]We would have performed, if we could;Without cart or barrow, to lift onPoor Mary[839]and me through the mud.Slee, 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 dressed in their clogs.Wheels, no doubt,Go briskly about,But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.

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 dressed in their clogs.Wheels, no doubt,Go briskly about,But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.

SHE.

"Well! now, I protest it is charming;How finely the weather improves!That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming,How slowly and stately it moves."

HE.

"Pshaw! never mind,'Tis not in the wind,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 caringTo stir half a mile to an end."

HE.

"The longer we stay,The longer we may;It's a folly to think about weather or way."

SHE.

"But now I begin to be frighted,If I fall, what a way I should roll!I am glad that the bridge was indicted,Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole!"

HE.

"Nay never care,'Tis a common affair;You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there."

SHE.

"Let me breathe now a little, and ponderOn what it were better to do;That terrible lane I see yonder,I think we shall never get through."

HE.

"So think I:—But, by the bye,We never shall know, if we never should try."

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 comeTo a difficult stile, I am ruined at last!Oh this lane!Now it is plainThat struggling and striving is labour in vain."

HE.

"Stick fast there while I go and look;"

SHE.

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

HE.

"I have examined it, every nook,And what you see here is a sample of all.Come, wheel round,The dirt we have foundWould be an estate, at a farthing a pound."Now, sister Anne,[840]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,For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.

"I have examined it, every nook,And what you see here is a sample of all.Come, wheel round,The dirt we have foundWould be an estate, at a farthing a pound."

Now, sister Anne,[840]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,For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.

ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF MILTON.[841]ANNO 1790.

"Me too, perchance, in future days,The sculptured stone shall show,With Paphian myrtle or with baysParnassian on my brow."But I, or ere that season come,Escaped from every care,Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,And sleep securely there."[842]So sang, in Roman tone and style,The youthful bard, ere longOrdain'd to grace his native isleWith her sublimest song.Who then but must conceive disdain,Hearing the deed unblestOf wretches who have dared profaneHis dread sepulchral rest?Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones[843]Where Milton's ashes lay,That trembled not to grasp his bonesAnd steal his dust away!O ill requited bard! neglectThy living worth repaid,And blind idolatrous respectAs much affronts thee dead.

"Me too, perchance, in future days,The sculptured stone shall show,With Paphian myrtle or with baysParnassian on my brow.

"But I, or ere that season come,Escaped from every care,Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,And sleep securely there."[842]

So sang, in Roman tone and style,The youthful bard, ere longOrdain'd to grace his native isleWith her sublimest song.

Who then but must conceive disdain,Hearing the deed unblestOf wretches who have dared profaneHis dread sepulchral rest?

Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones[843]Where Milton's ashes lay,That trembled not to grasp his bonesAnd steal his dust away!

O ill requited bard! neglectThy living worth repaid,And blind idolatrous respectAs much affronts thee dead.

August, 1790.

June 22, 1782.

My dear Friend,

If reading verse be your delight,'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;But what we would, so weak is man,Lies oft remote from what we can.For instance, at this very timeI feel a wish by cheerful rhymeTo soothe my friend, and, had I power,To cheat him of an anxious hour;Not meaning (for I must confess,It were but folly to suppress)His pleasure, or his good alone,But squinting partly at my own.But though the sun is flaming highIn the centre of yon arch, the sky,And he had once (and who but he?)The name for setting genius free,Yet whether poets of past daysYielded him undeserved praise.And he by no uncommon lotWas famed for virtues he had not;Or whether, which is like enough,His Highness may have taken huff,So seldom sought with invocation,Since it has been the reigning fashionTo disregard his inspiration,I seem no brighter in my wits,For all the radiance he emits,Than if I saw, through midnight vapour,The glimmering of a farthing taper.Oh for a succedaneum, then,To accelerate a creeping pen!Oh for a ready succedaneum,Quod caput, cerebrum, et craniumPondere liberet exoso,Et morbo jam caliginoso!'Tis here; this oval box well fill'dWith best tobacco, finely mill'd,Beats all Anticyra's pretencesTo disengage the encumber'd senses.Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame,Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,Whether reposing on the sideOf Oroonoquo's spacious tide,Or listening with delight not smallTo Niagara's distant fall,'Tis thine to cherish and to feedThe pungent nose-refreshing weedWhich, whether pulverized it gainA speedy passage to the brain,Or whether, touch'd with fire, it riseIn circling eddies to the skies,Does thought more quicken and refineThan 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 wipeThat symbol of thy power, the pipe;So may no blight infest thy plains,And no unseasonable rains;And so may smiling peace once moreVisit America's sad shore;And thou, secure from all alarms,Of thundering drums and glittering arms,Rove unconfined beneath the shadeThy wide expanded leaves have made;So may thy votaries increase,And fumigation never cease.May Newton with renew'd delightsPerform thine odoriferous rites,While clouds of incense half divineInvolve thy disappearing shrine;And so may smoke-inhaling BullBe always filling, never full.

OF WESTON.

Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,But happiest they who win the world to come:Believers have a silent field to fight,And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.They in some nook, where little known they dwell,Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

1791.

Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn,Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd,Can e'er forget the charms he left behind,Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!In happier days to brighter prospects born,O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind,Like thee, content in every state may find,And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn.To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extremeOf idle mirth, and affectation coy;To blend good sense with elegance and ease;To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream;Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy,The guide to pleasures which can never cease!

Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse,If, bound in rhyming tethers,He had committed this abuseOf changing ewes for wethers;[844]But, male for female is a trope,Or rather bold misnomer,That would have startled even Pope,When he translated Homer.

Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse,If, bound in rhyming tethers,He had committed this abuseOf changing ewes for wethers;[844]

But, male for female is a trope,Or rather bold misnomer,That would have startled even Pope,When he translated Homer.

O sovereign of an isle renown'dFor undisputed sway,Wherever o'er yon gulf profoundHer navies wing their way,With juster claims she builds at lengthHer empire on the sea,And well may boast the waves her strength,Which strength restored to thee.

O sovereign of an isle renown'dFor undisputed sway,Wherever o'er yon gulf profoundHer navies wing their way,

With juster claims she builds at lengthHer empire on the sea,And well may boast the waves her strength,Which strength restored to thee.

And dwells there in a female heart,By bounteous Heaven design'd,The choicest raptures to impart,To feel the most refined—Dwells there a wish in such a breastIts nature to forego,To smother in ignoble restAt once both bliss and woe!Far be the thought, and far the strain,Which breathes the low desire,How sweet soe'er the verse complain,Though Phœbus string the lyre.Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,)Who, knowing them, can tellFrom generous sympathy what joysThe glowing bosom swell:In justice to the various powersOf pleasing, which you share,Join me, amid your silent hours,To form the better prayer.With lenient balm may Oberon henceTo fairy land be driven,With every herb that blunts the senseMankind received from heaven."Oh! if my sovereign Author please,Far be it from my fateTo live unbless'd in torpid ease,And slumber on in state;"Each tender tie of life defied,Whence social pleasures spring,Unmoved with all the world beside,A solitary thing—"Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,Thus braves the whirling blast,Eternal winter doom'd to know,No genial spring to taste.In vain warm suns their influence shed,The zephyrs sport in vain,He rears unchanged his barren head,Whilst beauty decks the plain.What though in scaly armour dress'd,Indifference may repelThe shafts of woe—in such a breastNo joy can ever dwell.'Tis woven in the world's great plan,And fix'd by Heaven's decree,That all the true delights of manShould spring from sympathy.'Tis nature bids, and whilst the lawsOf nature we retain,Our self-approving bosom drawsA pleasure from its pain.Thus grief itself has comforts dearThe sordid never know;And ecstasy attends the tearWhen virtue bids it flow.For, when it streams from that pure source,No bribes the heart can winTo check, or alter from its course,The luxury within.Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,Who, if from labour eased,Extend no care beyond themselves,Unpleasing and unpleased.Let no low thought suggest the prayer,Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,Long as I draw ethereal air,Sweet Sensibility!Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,With lustre-beaming eye,A train, attendant on their queen,(Her rosy chorus) fly;The jocund loves in Hymen's band,With torches ever bright,And generous friendship, hand in handWith pity's wat'ry sight.The gentler virtues too are join'dIn youth immortal warm;The soft relations, which, combined,Give life her every charm.The arts come smiling in the close,And lend celestial fire;The marble breathes, the canvas glows,The muses sweep the lyre."Still may my melting bosom cleaveTo sufferings not my own,And still the sigh responsive heaveWhere'er is heard a groan."So pity shall take virtue's part.Her natural ally,And fashioning my soften'd heart,Prepare it for the sky."This artless vow may Heaven receive,And you, fond maid, approve:So may your guiding angel giveWhate'er you wish or love!So may the rosy-finger'd hoursLead on the various year,And every joy, which now is yours,Extend a larger sphere!And suns to come, as round they wheel,Your golden moments blessWith all a tender heart can feel,Or lively fancy guess!

And dwells there in a female heart,By bounteous Heaven design'd,The choicest raptures to impart,To feel the most refined—

Dwells there a wish in such a breastIts nature to forego,To smother in ignoble restAt once both bliss and woe!

Far be the thought, and far the strain,Which breathes the low desire,How sweet soe'er the verse complain,Though Phœbus string the lyre.

Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,)Who, knowing them, can tellFrom generous sympathy what joysThe glowing bosom swell:

In justice to the various powersOf pleasing, which you share,Join me, amid your silent hours,To form the better prayer.

With lenient balm may Oberon henceTo fairy land be driven,With every herb that blunts the senseMankind received from heaven.

"Oh! if my sovereign Author please,Far be it from my fateTo live unbless'd in torpid ease,And slumber on in state;

"Each tender tie of life defied,Whence social pleasures spring,Unmoved with all the world beside,A solitary thing—"

Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,Thus braves the whirling blast,Eternal winter doom'd to know,No genial spring to taste.

In vain warm suns their influence shed,The zephyrs sport in vain,He rears unchanged his barren head,Whilst beauty decks the plain.

What though in scaly armour dress'd,Indifference may repelThe shafts of woe—in such a breastNo joy can ever dwell.

'Tis woven in the world's great plan,And fix'd by Heaven's decree,That all the true delights of manShould spring from sympathy.

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the lawsOf nature we retain,Our self-approving bosom drawsA pleasure from its pain.

Thus grief itself has comforts dearThe sordid never know;And ecstasy attends the tearWhen virtue bids it flow.

For, when it streams from that pure source,No bribes the heart can winTo check, or alter from its course,The luxury within.

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,Who, if from labour eased,Extend no care beyond themselves,Unpleasing and unpleased.

Let no low thought suggest the prayer,Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,Long as I draw ethereal air,Sweet Sensibility!

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,With lustre-beaming eye,A train, attendant on their queen,(Her rosy chorus) fly;

The jocund loves in Hymen's band,With torches ever bright,And generous friendship, hand in handWith pity's wat'ry sight.

The gentler virtues too are join'dIn youth immortal warm;The soft relations, which, combined,Give life her every charm.

The arts come smiling in the close,And lend celestial fire;The marble breathes, the canvas glows,The muses sweep the lyre.

"Still may my melting bosom cleaveTo sufferings not my own,And still the sigh responsive heaveWhere'er is heard a groan.

"So pity shall take virtue's part.Her natural ally,And fashioning my soften'd heart,Prepare it for the sky."

This artless vow may Heaven receive,And you, fond maid, approve:So may your guiding angel giveWhate'er you wish or love!

So may the rosy-finger'd hoursLead on the various year,And every joy, which now is yours,Extend a larger sphere!

And suns to come, as round they wheel,Your golden moments blessWith all a tender heart can feel,Or lively fancy guess!

1762.

LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.

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