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Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need’st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,
And every season Spring.
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
The country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thec by cruel men and impious called
Frantic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution
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.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.
PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.
And thence perhaps the wondrous virtue springs.
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone
Good cause why planters never try their own.
The melody of May ?
TO DR. AUSTIN,
OF CECIL-STREET, LONDON.
Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dashed the scythe of Time aside;
Immortalizing names which else had died.
And O! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase
Yet, if extensive fame and sure to live,
Friend of my friend!* I love thee, tho' unknown,
Since therefore I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain,
I will e'en to my wishes again
And now I will try with another,
How soon I can make her a mother,
ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.
On his picture of me in crayons, drawn at Eartham in the
61st year of my age, and in the months of August and Sep
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest Romney expert, infallibly to trace
But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe, And semblance, but, however faintly shown,
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;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
And poets are oracles too.
ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.
In language warm as could be breathed or penned,
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;
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.
From a bosom effectually warmed
ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER.
DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.
Turive, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flower
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou cam’st from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)
Some future day th' illustrious head
Lady Throckmorton. Of Him who made thee mine.
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.
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,
KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well-fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
MADE BY HERSELF.
Than plaything for a nurse,
I thank thee for my purse.
For richest rogues to win it;
But you have killed a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Forbidding you the prey.
And ease a doggish pain,
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;
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.
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
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,
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 much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
ON THE ICE ISLANDS,
SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.
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,
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.
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, such as storms allow,
Delayed not to bestow;
Their haste himself condemn,
Alone could rescue them;
In ocean self-upheld:
His destiny repelled :
His comrades, who before
Could catch the sound no more.
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,
Is wet with Anson's tear.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
A more enduring date.
Th’ Atlantic billows roared,
Washed headlong from on board,
Than he, with whom we went,
With warmer wishes sent.
Expert to swim he lay;
Or courage die away;
To check the vessel's course,
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
I. THE GLOW-WORM.
BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,
A worm is known to stray; That shows by night a lucid beam,
Which disappears by day.