IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNnton, Esq.

August, 1790.

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

So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordained to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.

Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest

Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?

Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,

That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!

O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.

POETS attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore;
Thee, THORNTON! worthy in some page to shine,
As honest and more eloquent than mine,

I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be,
The world no longer thy abode, not thee.
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky,
And glory, for the virtuous when they die.
What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe
By virtue suffered combating below?

* Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri
Fronde comas-At ego securâ pace quiescam.
MILTON in Manso.

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That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food;
Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth
By rust unperishable or by stealth;
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,

Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given.
And, though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impelled thee more to that heroic course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,

Nice in its choice, and of a tempered heat,
And though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill

Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.
Such was thy charity; no sudden start,
After long sleep, of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to the Eternal Mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,

To Him whose works bespeak His nature Love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake:
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and power exemplified in thee.

"I COULD be well content, allowed the use

Of past experience, and the wisdom gleaned

From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,

To recommence life's trial, in the hope

Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"

Thus, while grey evening lulled the wind, and called
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,

Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,

And held accustomed conference with my heart;

When from within it thus a voice replied:

"Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length

This wisdom, and but this, from all the past?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse

Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err
With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect?"
I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I passed, and next considered, What is man?
Knows he his origin? can he ascend

By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? and in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born?
Or was he not, till fashioned in the womb?

Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toiled
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.

It is an evil incident to man,

And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.

THE REFUSAL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD TO SUBSCRIBE

TO HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER.

COULD Homer come himself, distressed and poor,

And tune his harp at Rhedycina's door,

The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear)

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'Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here!"

1791.

EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.

1791.

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 veiled 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.

THE RETIRED CAT.

A POET'S cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick,-
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learned it of her master.

Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot;
There, wanting nothing save a fan
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparelled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.