SONG. Air-"The Lass of Patie's Mill." WHEN all within is peace, How nature seems to smile! And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees; Can make a wintry sky Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye The vast majestic globe, With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart A dreary wild at best; It flutters to depart, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, To the March in Scipio. 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, Had made the vessel heel, A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 1792. THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love SONNET TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. On his Emphatical and Interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords. COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 1 Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head: and couldst with music sweet Of attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON. On his Presenting me with an Antique Bust of Homer. 1793. KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me! Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn: critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather DONNE, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. |