ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, In constant exhalations; Why, stooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away A poet's drop of ink?. Upborne into the viewless air It floats a vapour now, Ordained perhaps ere summer flies, Illustrious drop! and happy then Phoebus, if such be thy design, To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. A FABLE. I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rosseau,* If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child, that knows no better Than to interpret by the letter A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon scull. It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses? 9 In many an orchard, copse, and grove, And with much twitter and much chatter, At length a Bulfinch, who could boast My friends! be cautious how ye treat I fear we shall have winter yet. A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing, and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied: Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, By his good will would keep us single Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. But though the birds were thus in haste, Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other, MORAL. Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carryChoose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry. THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SEN And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs* adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me.) Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallows o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight. It was the time when Ouse di played With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Beau marked my unsuccessful pains To comprehend the case. But with a cherup clear and strong, Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and followed long My ramble ended, I returned; I saw him with that lily cropped My quick approach, and soon he dropped Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried, Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine *Sir Robert Gunning's daughters. SITIVE PLANT. An Oyster, cast upon the shore, Ah, hapless wretch, condemned to dwell I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant, grew not far off, When, cry the botanists, and stare, To make them grow just where she chooses. And when I bend, retire and shrink, In being touched, and crying-Don't! You, in your grotto-work enclosed, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Should droop and wither where they grow, His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed he felt it. THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. OH, happy shades-to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that can not rest, agree! This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please. But fixed unalterable Care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade, But not like me to nourish wo! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste THE WINTER NOSEGAY. WHAT Nature, alas! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, From the shelter of that sunny shed,, "Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats From the cruel assaults of the clime. While Earth wears a mantle of snow, These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely survived The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose Seemed graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you. MUTUAL FORBEARANCE NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED THE lady thus addressed her spouse: Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, You are so deaf, the lady cried, Dismiss poor Harry! he replies; Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing- Alas! and is domestic strife, The kindest and the happiest pair The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; O'er the raging billows borne. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there one who reigns on high? Has he bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne the sky? Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes, By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main; By our suffering since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All, sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart: Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 'Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor.' I OWN I am shocked at the purchase of slaves, And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves; What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans, Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea? Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes, Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains; If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will, And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, Much more in behalf of your wish might be said; But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks? Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind A story so pat, you may think it is coined, On purpose to answer you, out of my mint; A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, He was shocked, sir, like you, and answered-'Oh no! What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you don't go; Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, 'You speak very fine, and you look very grave, They spoke, and Tom pondered-' I see they will go: Poor man! what a pity to injure him so! Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, But staying behind would do him no good. 'If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang, till they dropped from the Which served my weak thought for a guideThat Britannia, renowned o'er the waves For the hatred she ever has shown, To the black-sceptered rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own. THE MORNING DREAM. Far hence to the westward I sailed, In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impressed me with awe, Ne'er taught me by woman before. She sat, and a shield at her side Shed light, like a sun on the waves And, smiling divinely, she cried'I go to make freemen of slaves.' Then raising her voice to a strain The sweetest that ear ever heard, She sung of the slave's broken chain, Wherever her glory appeared. THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM. A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long |