Of Him who made thee mine.
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?
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NET-WORK PURSE,
MADE BY HERSELF.
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.
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,
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;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!
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.
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.
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?
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.
Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break,
(As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
Had fluttered all his strength away,
And panting pressed the floor,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kissed his ruffled wing,
And licked the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourselves refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow;
If killing brids be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,) What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse addressed to me?
THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since our first sky was overcast,
Ah would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see them daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought thee low
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, -
My Mary!
But well thou playd'st the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st,
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo,
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!
SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.
WHAT portents, from that distant region, ride,
Unseen till now in ours, the astonished tide?
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves
Of seacalves, sought the mountains and the groves
But now, descending whence of late they stood,
Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood.
Dire times were they, full-charged with human
woes;
And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now? More wondrous still? Behold!
Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold;
And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,
And all around the ruby's fiery glow.
Come they from India, where the burning earth,
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;
And where the costly gems, that beam around
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found?
No. Never such a countless dazzling store
Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore.
Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes,
Should sooner far have marked and seized the
Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come
From Ves'vius', or from Ætna's burning womb?
Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display
The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day?
With borrowed beams they shine. The gales,
that breathe
Now landward, and the current's force beneath,
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.
The rest is ice. Far hence, where most, severe,
Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year
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