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Yet, by his ear directed, guessed

Thrice welcome then! for many a long
Something imprisoned in the chest

And joyless year have I,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care

As thou to-day, put forth my song
Resolved it should continue there.

Beneath a wintry sky.
At length a voice which well he knew,

But thee no wintry skies can harm,
A long and melancholy mew,

Who only need’st to sing,
Saluting his poetic ears,

To make e'en January charm,
Consoled him and dispelled his fears;

And every season Spring.
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,

We seek it, ere it come to light,

The country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
In every cranny but the right.

Hears thec by cruel men and impious called
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete

Frantic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled
As erst with airy self-conceit,

From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Nor in her own fond comprehension,

Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-
A theme for all the world's attention,

But modest, sober, cured of all

Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Her notions hyperbolical,

Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear
And wishing for a place of rest,

Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Any thing rather than a chest.

Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution
Then stepped the poet into bed

pause With this reflection in his head.

And weave delay, the better hour is near

That shall remunerate thy toils severe

By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Beware of too sublime a sense

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,

From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,

Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

To purify their wine some people bleed

A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;

No nostrum, planters say, is half so good

To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,

And thence perhaps the wondrous virtue springs.
Whence is it, that amazed I hear

'Tis in the blood of innocence alone
From yonder withered spray,

Good cause why planters never try their own.
This foremost morn of all the year,

The melody of May ?
And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd

To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,
For that I also long

The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Have practised in the groves like thee,

Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Though not like thee in song?

Pleasing requital in my verse may find;

Verse oft has dashed the scythe of Time aside;
Or singʻst thou rather under force

Immortalizing names which else had died.
Of some divine command,
Commissioned to presage a course

And O! could I command the glittering wealth

With which sick kings are glad to purchase
Of happier days at hand?


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Yet, if extensive fame and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his art with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend!* I love thee, tho' unknown,
And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

Since therefore I seem to incur

No danger of wishing in vain,
When making good wishes for her,

I will e'en to my wishes again
With one I have made her a wife,

And now I will try with another,
Which I can not suppress for my life-

How soon I can make her a mother,



HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown,
In our first interview, delightful guest!

To Mary and me for her dear sake distressed,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,

On his picture of me in crayons, drawn at Eartham in the
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;

61st year of my age, and in the months of August and Sep

tember, 1792.
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,

And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest Romney expert, infallibly to trace
Of Friendship more, except with God alone; On chart or canvass, not the form alone

But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe, And semblance, but, however faintly shown,
Who, ere this last aflictive scene began, The mind's impression too on every face

Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow. With strokes that time ought never to erase,

My brother, by whose sympathy I know Thou hast so penciled mine, that though I own Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

The subject worthless, I have never known Not more t'admire the bard than love the man. The artist shining with superior grace.

But this I mark-that symptoms none of wo

In thy incomparable work appear.

Well, I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
On her Marriage to George Courtnay, Esq.

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
Believe it or not as you choose,

When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
The doctrine is certainly true,
That the future is known to the muse,

And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire

To see Catharina at home,
At the side of my friend George's fire,

In language warm as could be breathed or penned,
And lo-she is actually come.

Thy picture speaks th' original, my friend,

Not by those looks that indicate thy mindSuch prophecy some may despise,

They only speak thee friend of all mankind;
But the wish of a poet and friend

Expression here more soothing still I see,
Perhaps is approved in the skies,

That friend of all a partial friend to me.
And therefore attains to its end.
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth

From a bosom effectually warmed
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was formed.

Mariat would leave us, I knew,

To the grief and regret of us all,
But less to our grief, could we view

Turive, gentle plant! and weave a bower
Catharina the queen of the hall.

For Mary and for me,
And therefore I wished as I did,

And deck with many a splendid flower
And therefore this union of hands

Thy foliage large and free.
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,

Thou cam’st from Eartham, and wilt shade
But all cry—amen-to the bans.

(If truly I divine)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Lady Throckmorton. Of Him who made thee mine.

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There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air, Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,

Much to my own, though little to thy good,

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,

And envy seize the bay, Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honoured brows as they. Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,

And with convincing power; For why should not the virgin's friend

Be crowned with virgin's bower ?

But I am bankrupt now; and doomed henceforth

To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled worth!

But what is commentator's happiest praise !


That he has furnished lights for other eyes, Which they, who need them, use, and then despise.



A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well-fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.


My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,

I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love;—that gem's too dear

For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.

But you have killed a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

TO MRS. UNWIN. MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they

Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport

Whom you have torn for yours.


My dog! what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man?

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or wo I shed my wings,

I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright;

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Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.


You cried-forbear—but in my breast

A mightier cried-proceed 'Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest

Impelled me to the deed.

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Yet much as nature I respect,

I ventured once to break, (As you perhaps may recollect)

Her precept for your sake;

Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,

With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!


And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door, Had fluttered all his strength away,

And panting pressed the floor,


Well karring bins a sacred thing,

Soch seebieness of tabs tbou provst Viot ostire loch,

Thai na at every step toe mot'st, I only kini his ned winz.

toe by mo, yet st. two loss, And icket the abers sacoch.

My Mary! Let my obedience then encue

And stil] to love, thoegh prest with ill, My diseBDOP RNE,

In wistry age to feel no ci), Nor some reproof yourselves refuse

With me is to be lovely sta] From your azrieved bow-wow;

Mş Mary! If killing brils be such a crine,

But ah! be constant heed I know, (Which I can hardly see)

How oft the sadness that I show, What think you, sir, of killing Time

Transforms thy smiles to books of wo,
With verse addressed to me?

My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

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

My Vary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see the daily weaker grow-

What portents, from that distant region, ride, 'Twas my distress that brought thee low

Unseen till now in ours, the astonished tide ? My Mary!

In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves

Of seacalves, sought the mountains and the groves. Thy needles, once a shining store,

But now, descending whence of late they stood, For my sake restless heretofore,

|Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood. Now rust disused, and shine no more,

Dire times were they, full-charged with human My Mary!


And these, scarce less calamitous than those. For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil

What view we now ? More wondrous still ? BeThe same kind office for me still,

hold! Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold; My Mary!

And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, But well thou playd'st the housewife's part,

And all around the ruby's fiery glow. And all thy threads with magic art,

Come they from India, where the burning earth, Have wound themselves about this heart,

All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; My Mary!

And where the costly gems, that beam around

The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? Thy indistinct expressions seem

No. Never such a countless dazzling store Like language uttered in a dream;

Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore. Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes,

My Mary!

Should sooner far have marked and seized the Thy silver locks once auburn bright,

prize. Are still more lovely in my sight

Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come Than golden beams of orient light,

From Ves'vius', or from Ætna's burning womb?

Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display My Mary!

The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day? For could I view nor them nor thee,

With borrowed beams they shine. The gales, What sight worth seeing could I see?

that breathe The sun would rise in vain for me,

Now landward, and the current's force beneath, My Mary!

Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,

Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;

Their lofty summits crested high, they show,

With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

The rest is ice. Far hence, where most, severe, My Mary!

Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year,

Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below; He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reached the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, And long successive ages rolled the while; Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claimed to stand, Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and unremoveable by skill, Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that, though firmly fixed, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight, It left the shelving beach—and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around Self-launched, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old, How Delos swam th’ Ægean deep, have told. But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crowned with laurel,

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,

Delayed not to bestow;
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he,

Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,

Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power

His destiny repelled :
And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried—“Adieu!"
At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.


Even under wintry skies, a summer smile ; And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle. But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you, He deems cimmerian darkness only due. Your hated birth he deigned not to survey, But, scornful, turned his glorious eyes away, Hence! seek your home, nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phæbus, and a softer air ; Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

No poet wept him: but the page

Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date.
But misery still delights to trace
Its 'semblance in another's case.

OBScurest night involved the sky;

Th’ Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,

Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hopes, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast,

Than he, with whom we went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

With 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 failed

To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless, perforce,

No voice divine the storm allayed

No light propitious shone; When, snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

Translations front Vincent Bourne


BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray; That shows by night a lucid beam,

Which disappears by day.

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