BOOK VI. · Part 3

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But, though slave they have enroll'd me, Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection 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, Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use?

Hark! he answers--wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks; Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds answer--no.

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 sufferings, since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart, All sustain'd 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 shock'd 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, For how could we do without sugar and rum? Especially sugar, so needful we see? 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 coin'd, On purpose to answer you, out of my mint; But I can assure you I saw it in print.

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, Had once his integrity put to the test; His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, And ask'd him to go and assist in the job.

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, "Oh no! What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you don't go; Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, Then think of his children, for they must be fed."

"You speak very fine, and you look very grave, But apples we want, and apples we'll have; If you will go with us, you shall have a share, If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear."

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 will do him no good.

"If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree; But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too, He will lose none by me, though I get a few."

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, And went with his comrades the apples to seize; He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan: He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

THE MORNING DREAM.

'Twas in the glad season of spring, Asleep at the dawn of the day, I dream'd what I cannot but sing, So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. I dream'd that, on ocean afloat, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high lifted the boat, And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.

In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impress'd 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 appear'd. Some clouds, which had over us hung, Fled, chased by her melody clear, And methought while she liberty sung, 'Twas liberty only to hear.

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, Where a demon, her enemy, stood-- Oppression his terrible name. In his hand, as the sign of his sway, A scourge hung with lashes he bore, And stood looking out for his prey From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as, approaching the land, That goddesslike woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both sicken and die, And, the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts, that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired.

Awaking, how could I but muse At what such a dream should betide? But soon my ear caught the glad news, Which served my weak thought for a guide; That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves For the hatred she ever has shown To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN;

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear: Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.

My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.

He soon replied, I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calendrer Will lend his horse to go.

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnish'd with our own, Which is both bright and clear.

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find, That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!"

Good lack! quoth he--yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise.

Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat.

So, fair and softly, John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin--who but he? His fame soon spread around, He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!

And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, As they had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.

Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house! They all at once did cry; The dinner waits, and we are tired: Said Gilpin--So am I!

But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?--his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly--which brings me to The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calendrer's His horse at last stood still.

The calendrer, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:

What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall-- Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke! And thus unto the calendrer In merry guise he spoke:

I came because your horse would come, And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road.

The calendrer, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit: My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.

But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case.

Said John, It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.

So turning to his horse, he said, I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away, Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?--they were too big.

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;

But, not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:--

Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman! Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing, long live the king, And Gilpin long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM.

A Nightingale, that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When, looking eagerly around He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark; So stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent-- Did you admire my lamp, quoth he, As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same Power divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night. The songster heard his short oration. And, warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. Hence jarring sectaries may learn Their real interest to discern; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other; But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.

AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

MADAM,

A stranger's purpose in these lays Is to congratulate, and not to praise. To give the creature the Creator's due Were sin in me, and an offence to you. From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, A coin by craft for folly's use design'd, Spurious, and only current with the blind. The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briers in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. But He, who knew what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears." O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! O salutary streams, that murmur there! These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys; Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys; An envious world will interpose its frown, To mar delights superior to its own; And many a pang, experienced still within, Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin: But ills of every shape and every name, Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim: And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast, Is given in earnest of eternal rest. Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste! No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine-- So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, And drought on all the drooping herbs around.

TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

Unwin, I should but ill repay The kindness of a friend, Whose worth deserves as warm a lay As ever friendship penn'd, Thy name omitted in a page That would reclaim a vicious age.

A union form'd, as mine with thee, Not rashly, or in sport, May be as fervent in degree And faithful in its sort, And may as rich in comfort prove, As that of true fraternal love.

The bud inserted in the rind, The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though differing in its kind, The stock whereon it grows, With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, As if produced by nature there.

Not rich, I render what I may, I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay, Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be--in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, Should be the poet's heart; Affection lights a brighter flame Than ever blazed by art. No muses on these lines attend, I sink the poet in the friend.

TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

The swallows in their torpid state Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait The call of early Spring.

The keenest frost that binds the stream, The wildest wind that blows, Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, Secure of their repose.

But man, all feeling and awake, The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache, And pant for brighter days.

Old Winter, halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your return.

Then April, with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours.

And if a tear that speaks regret Of happier times, appear, A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine, and dry the tear.

CATHARINA.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.)

She came--she is gone--we have met-- And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set, And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream-- (So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delay'd By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree, And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witnessed her own.

My numbers that day she had sung, And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede, Would feel herself happier here; For the close-woven arches of limes On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times Than aught that the city can show.

So it is when the mind is endued With a well-judging taste from above, Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse, May even our wonder excite; But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads.

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home; And with scenes that new rapture inspire, As oft as it suits her to roam; She will have just the life she prefers, With little to hope or to fear, And ours would be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it here.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

A hermit, (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old,) A man, once young, who lived retired As hermit could have well desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finish'd his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book, Within its customary nook, And, staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at evening-tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees, that fringed his hill, Shades slanting at the close of day, Chill'd more his else delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet, Just reach'd it when the sun was set. Your hermit, young and jovial sirs! Learns something from whate'er occurs-- And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game, Imagination to his view Presents it deck'd with every hue, That can seduce him not to spare His powers of best exertion there, But youth, health, vigour to expend On so desirable an end. Ere long approach life's evening shades The glow that fancy gave it fades; And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace That first engaged him in the chase. True, answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the senior's side-- But whether all the time it cost, To urge the fruitless chase be lost, Must be decided by the worth Of that which call'd his ardour forth. Trifles pursued, whate'er the event, Must cause him shame or discontent; A vicious object still is worse, Successful there, he wins a curse; But he, whom e'en in life's last stage Endeavours laudable engage, Is paid at least in peace of mind, And sense of having well design'd; And if, ere he attain his end, His sun precipitate descend, A brighter prize than that he meant Shall recompense his mere intent. No virtuous wish can bear a date Either too early or too late.

THE FAITHFUL BIRD.

The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long, Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast, With force not easily suppress'd; And Dick felt some desires, That, after many an effort vain, Instructed him at length to gain A pass between his wires.

The open windows seem'd to invite The freeman to a farewell flight; But Tom was still confined; And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too generous and sincere To leave his friend behind.

So settling on his cage, by play, And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say, You must not live alone-- Nor would he quit that chosen stand Till I, with slow and cautious hand, Return'd him to his own.

O ye, who never taste the joys Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, Fandango, ball, and rout! Blush when I tell you how a bird A prison with a friend preferr'd To liberty without.

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

There is a field, through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes, For which, alas! my destiny severe, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch, When, exercise and air my only aim, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang All Kilwick[824] and all Dinglederry[824] rang. Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest; Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd, To me their peace by kind contagion spread. But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd, The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed, All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again; But recollecting, with a sudden thought, That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, They gathered close around the old pit's brink, And thought again--but knew not what to think. The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long drought, when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they catch the largess of the skies; But, with precision nicer still, the mind He scans of every locomotive kind; Birds of all feather, beasts of every name; That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Have all articulation in his ears; He spells them true by intuition's light, And needs no glossary to set him right. This truth premised was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next. Awhile they mused; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind, That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt, Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; Or academic tutors, teaching youths, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd. Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prison-house below arise, With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much composed, nor should appear, For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd All night, me resting quiet in the fold. Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, I could expound the melancholy tone; Should deem it by our old companion made, The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd, And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear? Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad; I hold it therefore wisest and most fit That, life to save, we leap into the pit. Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe. How! leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave? For can we find it less? Contemplate first The depth how awful! falling there, we burst: Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall In part abate, that happiness were small; For with a race like theirs no chance I see Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Or be it not, or be it whose it may, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs, Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear, We have at least commodious standing here. Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, close attended at his heels By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a different course. The flock grew calm again, and I, the road Following, that led me to my own abode, Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found Such cause of terror in an empty sound, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

[824] Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.

MORAL.

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow: Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you.

HEROISM.

There was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doom, A conflagration labouring in her womb, She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies, While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along? Havoc and devastation in the van, It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, And all the charms of a Sicilian year. Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninformed and idle mass; Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?) Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of shortlived sweets! The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound: Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below. Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore. Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence; Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where you have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbour's and their own, Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her firstborn son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds--but Plenty, with her train Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again: And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below. Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again. Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are. O place me in some heaven-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where Power secures what Industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here: Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-- But no--what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay: So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"[825] And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd-- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

[825] Garth.

FRIENDSHIP.

What virtue, or what mental grace But men unqualified and base Will boast it their possession? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart, And dullness of discretion.

If every polish'd gem we find, Illuminating heart or mind, Provoke to imitation; No wonder friendship does the same, That jewel of the purest flame, Or rather constellation.

No knave but boldly will pretend The requisites that form a friend, A real and a sound one; Nor any fool, he would deceive, But prove as ready to believe, And dream that he had found one.

Candid, and generous, and just, Boys care but little whom they trust, An error soon corrected-- For who but learns in riper years That man, when smoothest he appears, Is most to be suspected?

But here again a danger lies, Lest, having misapplied our eyes, And taken trash for treasure, We should unwarily conclude Friendship a false ideal good, A mere Utopian pleasure.

An acquisition rather rare Is yet no subject of despair; Nor is it wise complaining, If, either on forbidden ground, Or where it was not to be found, We sought without attaining.

No friendship will abide the test, That stands on sordid interest, Or mean self-love erected; Nor such as may awhile subsist Between the sot and sensualist, For vicious ends connected.

Who seek a friend should come disposed To exhibit, in full bloom disclosed, The graces and the beauties That form the character he seeks, For 'tis a union that bespeaks Reciprocated duties.

Mutual attention is implied, And equal truth on either side, And constantly supported; 'Tis senseless arrogance to accuse Another of sinister views, Our own as much distorted.

But will sincerity suffice? It is indeed above all price, And must be made the basis; But every virtue of the soul Must constitute the charming whole, All shining in their places.

A fretful temper will divide The closest knot that may be tied, By ceaseless sharp corrosion; A temper passionate and fierce May suddenly your joys disperse At one immense explosion.

In vain the talkative unite In hopes of permanent delight-- The secret just committed, Forgetting its important weight, They drop through mere desire to prate, And by themselves outwitted.

How bright soe'er the prospect seems, All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, If envy chance to creep in; An envious man, if you succeed, May prove a dangerous foe indeed, But not a friend worth keeping.

As envy pines at good possess'd, So jealousy looks forth distress'd On good that seems approaching; And, if success his steps attend, Discerns a rival in a friend, And hates him for encroaching.

Hence authors of illustrious name, Unless belied by common fame, Are sadly prone to quarrel, To deem the wit a friend displays A tax upon their own just praise, And pluck each other's laurel.

A man renown'd for repartee Will seldom scruple to make free With friendship's finest feeling, Will thrust a dagger at your breast, And say he wounded you in jest, By way of balm for healing.

Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention; Aspersion is the babbler's trade, To listen is to lend him aid, And rush into dissension.

A friendship that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation, Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, Most unavoidably creates The thought of conflagration.

Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as a needle to the pole, Their humour yet so various-- They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too, Their love is so precarious.

The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete; Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour.

Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green) They sleep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares Unmoved and without quaking.

Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their heterogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Like that of salts with lemon juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence.

Religion should extinguish strife, And make a calm of human life; But friends that chance to differ On points which God has left at large, How freely will they meet and charge No combatants are stiffer.

To prove at last my main intent Needs no expense of argument, No cutting and contriving-- Seeking a real friend, we seem To adopt the chemist's golden dream, With still less hope of thriving.

Sometimes the fault is all our own, Some blemish in due time made known By trespass or omission; Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defect, long hid from sight, And even from suspicion.

Then judge yourself, and prove your man As circumspectly as you can, And, having made election, Beware no negligence of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection.

That secrets are a sacred trust, That friends should be sincere and just, That constancy befits them, Are observations on the case, That savour much of common place, And all the world admits them.

But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone To finish a fine building-- The palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget The carving and the gilding.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend, that one had need Be very much his friend indeed To pardon or to bear it.

As similarity of mind, Or something not to be defined, First fixes our attention; So manners decent and polite, The same we practised at first sight, Must save it from declension.

Some act upon this prudent plan, "Say little, and hear all you can." Safe policy, but hateful-- So barren sands imbibe the shower, But render neither fruit nor flower, Unpleasant and ungrateful.

The man I trust, if shy to me, Shall find me as reserved as he, No subterfuge or pleading Shall win my confidence again; I will by no means entertain A spy on my proceeding.

These samples--for alas! at last These are but samples, and a taste Of evils yet unmention'd-- May prove the task a task indeed, In which 'tis much if we succeed, However well intention'd.

Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense and knowledge of mankind To be at least expedient, And, after summing all the rest, Religion ruling in the breast A principal ingredient.

The noblest Friendship ever shown The Saviour's history makes known, Though some have turn'd and turn'd it; And, whether being crazed or blind, Or seeking with a biass'd mind, Have not, it seems, discern'd it.

O Friendship! if my soul forego Thy dear delights while here below, To mortify and grieve me, May I myself at last appear Unworthy, base, and insincere, Or may my friend deceive me!

ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,

WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.

Go--thou art all unfit to share The pleasures of this place With such as its old tenants are, Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides, Aware of wintry storms, And woodpeckers explore the sides Of rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn, Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah!--I could pity thee exiled From this secure retreat-- I would not lose it to be styled The happiest of the great.

But thou canst taste no calm delight; Thy pleasure is to show Thy magnanimity in fight, Thy prowess--therefore, go--

I care not whether east or north, So I no more may find thee; The angry muse thus sings thee forth, And claps the gate behind thee.

ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789.

WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY.

I ransack'd for a theme of song, Much ancient chronicle, and long; I read of bright embattled fields, Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast Prowess to dissipate a host; Through tomes of fable and of dream I sought an eligible theme, But none I found, or found them shared Already by some happier bard. To modern times, with truth to guide My busy search, I next applied; Here cities won, and fleets dispersed, Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, Deeds of unperishing renown, Our fathers' triumphs and our own. Thus as the bee, from bank to bower, Assiduous sips at every flower, But rests on none till that be found Where most nectareous sweets abound, So I, from theme to theme display'd In many a page historic, stray'd, Siege after siege, fight after fight, Contemplating with small delight, (For feats of sanguinary hue Not always glitter in my view,) Till, settling on the current year, I found the far-sought treasure near. A theme for poetry divine, A theme to ennoble even mine, In memorable eighty-nine. The spring of eighty-nine shall be An æra cherish'd long by me, Which joyful I will oft record, And thankful at my frugal board; For then the clouds of eighty-eight, That threaten'd England's trembling state With loss of what she least could spare, Her sovereign's tutelary care, One breath of heaven, that cried--Restore! Chased, never to assemble more: And for the richest crown on earth, If valued by its wearer's worth, The symbol of a righteous reign Sat fast on George's brows again. Then peace and joy again possess'd Our Queen's long-agitated breast; Such joy and peace as can be known By sufferers like herself alone, Who losing, or supposing lost, The good on earth they valued most, For that dear sorrow's sake forego All hope of happiness below, Then suddenly regain the prize, And flash thanksgivings to the skies! O Queen of Albion, queen of isles! Since all thy tears were changed to smiles, The eyes, that never saw thee, shine With joy not unallied to thine; Transports not chargeable with art Illume the land's remotest part, And strangers to the air of courts, Both in their toils and at their sports, The happiness of answer'd prayers, That gilds thy features, show in theirs. If they who on thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 'Tis but the natural effect Of grandeur that ensures respect; But she is something more than queen Who is beloved where never seen.

HYMN,

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care, And taught to seek thy face.

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear,--but O impart To each desires sincere, That we may listen with our heart, And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age, Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take Under thy gracious sway, Who canst the wisest wiser make, And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies shower'd on those Who placed us where it shines.

STANZAS.

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,[826] ANNO DOMINI 1787.

[826] Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.

Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.--HORACE.

Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.

While thirteen moons saw smoothly run The Nen's barge-laden wave, All these, life's rambling journey done, Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail Than in foregoing years? Did famine or did plague prevail, That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their sires, Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute Death requires, And never waves his claim.

Like crowded forest trees we stand, And some are mark'd to fall; The axe will smite at God's command, And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay tree, ever green, With its new foliage on, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, I pass'd--and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth With which I charge my page; A worm is in the bud of youth, And at the root of age.

No present health can health ensure For yet an hour to come; No medicine, though it oft can cure, Can always balk the tomb.

And O! that humble as my lot, And scorn'd as is my strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot, I may not teach in vain.

So prays your clerk with all his heart, And, ere he quits the pen, Begs _you_ for once to take _his_ part, And answer all--Amen!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1788.

Quod adest, memento Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis Ritu feruntur.--HORACE.

Improve the present hour, for all beside Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide.

Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage To whom the rising year shall prove his last, As I can number in my punctual page, And item down the victims of the past;

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die; And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye!

Time then would seem more precious than the joys In which he sports away the treasure now; And prayer more seasonable than the noise Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, Told that his setting sun must rise no more.

Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say Who next is fated, and who next to fall, The rest might then seem privileged to play; But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL.

Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade-- One falls--the rest, wide scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, Still need repeated warnings, and at last, A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, Die self-accused of life run all to waste!

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones. The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin; Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones, But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon or late, death also is your lot, And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1789.

--Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit.--VIRG.

There calm at length he breathed his soul away.

"O most delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his span, His folly and his woe!

"Worlds should not bribe me back to tread Again life's dreary waste, To see again my day o'erspread With all the gloomy past.

"My home henceforth is in the skies, Earth, seas, and sun, adieu! All heaven unfolded to my eyes, I have no sight for you."

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd Of faith's supporting rod, Then breathed his soul into its rest, The bosom of his God.

He was a man among the few Sincere on virtue's side; And all his strength from Scripture drew, To hourly use applied.

That rule he prized, by that he fear'd, He hated, hoped, and loved; Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd, But when his heart had roved.

For he was frail as thou or I, And evil felt within; But when he felt it, heaved a sigh, And loathed the thought of sin.

Such lived Aspasio; and at last Call'd up from earth to heaven, The gulf of death triumphant pass'd, By gales of blessing driven.

His joys be mine, each reader cries, When my last hour arrives: They shall be yours, my verse replies, Such only be your lives.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1790.

Ne commonentem recta sperne.--BUCHANAN.

Despise not my good counsel.

He who sits from day to day Where the prison'd lark is hung, Heedless of his loudest lay, Hardly knows that he has sung.

Where the watchman in his round Nightly lifts his voice on high, None, accustom'd to the sound, Wakes the sooner for his cry.

So your verse-man I, and clerk, Yearly in my song proclaim Death at hand--yourselves his mark-- And the foe's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come, Publishing to all aloud-- Soon the grave must be your home, And your only suit, a shroud,

But the monitory strain, Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to sound too much in vain, Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confess'd Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft impress'd, Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins, Hear it often as we may; New as ever seem our sins, Though committed every day.

Death and judgment, heaven and hell-- These alone, so often heard, No more move us than the bell When some stranger is interr'd.

O then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from every eye, Spirit of instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1792.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

VIRG.

Happy the mortal who has traced effects To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, And death and roaring hell's voracious fires!

Thankless for favours from on high, Man thinks he fades too soon; Though 'tis his privilege to die, Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan His blest concerns aright, Would gladly stretch life's little span To ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain, To ages, where he goes Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain, And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart, Enamour'd of its harm! Strange world, that costs it so much smart, And still has power to charm.

Whence has the world her magic power? Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's best hour, And covet longer woe?

The cause is Conscience--Conscience oft Her tale of guilt renews: Her voice is terrible though soft, And dread of death ensues.

Then anxious to be longer spared Man mourns his fleeting breath: All evils then seem light, compared With the approach of death.

'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fear That prompts the wish to stay: He has incurr'd a long arrear, And must despair to pay.

_Pay!_--follow Christ, and all is paid; is death your peace ensures; Think on the grave where _he_ was laid, And calm descend to _yours_.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1793.

De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut conserventur.