Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,

Consoled him and dispelled his fears;
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,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head.

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
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 THE NIGHTINGALE,

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW-YEAR'S

DAY.

WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear

From yonder withered spray,

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,
For that I also long

Have practised in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command,
Commissioned to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?

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 againWith one I have made her a wife,

And now I will try with another, Which I can not suppress for my lifeHow soon I can make her a mother.

SONNET.

ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
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,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest
Of Friendship more, except with God alone;

But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe,
Who ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow.
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

Not more t' admire the bard than love the man.

CATHARINA.

On her Marriage to George Courtnay, Esq. BELIEVE it or not as you choose,

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,
And lo-she is actually come.

Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approved in the skies,

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 Catharina the queen of the hall. And therefore I wished as I did,

And therefore this union of hands Not a whisper was heard to forbid, But all cry-amen-to the bans.

SONNET.

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. tember, 1792.

ROMNEY expert, infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every faceWith strokes that time ought never to erase,

Thou hast so penciled mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known 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?

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 mind-
They only speak thee friend of all mankind;
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.

ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER.

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.

THRIVE, 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

Of Him who made thee mine.

1 Lady 1hrockmorton.

Ut Him who made thee nie.