What though in scaly armour dress'd,
Indifference may repel

The shafts of woe-in such a breast
No joy can ever dwell.

'Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by Heaven's decree,
That all the true delights of man
Should spring from sympathy.

"Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws
Of nature we retain,

Our self-approving bosom draws
A pleasure from its pain.

Thus grief itself has comforts dear
The sordid never know;

And ecstacy attends the tear
When virtue bids it flow.

pure source

For, when it streams from that
No bribes the heart can win
To check, or alter from its course,
The luxury within.

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labour eased,
Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.

Let no low thought suggest the prayer,
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,
Long as I draw ethereal air,
Sweet Sensibility!

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,

With lustre-beaming eye,

A train, attendant on their queen, (Her rosy chorus) fly;

The jocund loves in Hymen's band,

With torches ever bright,

And generous friendship, hand in hand

With pity's wat'ry sight.

The gentler virtues too are join'd

In youth immortal warm;

The soft relations, which, combined,

Give life her every charm.

The arts come smiling in the close,
And lend celestial fire;

The marble breathes, the canvas glows
The muses sweep the lyre.

"Still may my melting bosom cleave
To sufferings not my own,

And still the sigh responsive heave
Where'er is heard a groan.

"So pity shall take virtue's part,
Her natural ally,

And fashioning my soften'd heart,
Prepare it for the sky."

This artless vow may heaven receive,
And you, fond maid, approve:
So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love!

So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year,
And every joy, which now is yours,
Extend a larger sphere!

And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless

With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess!

1762.

FROM

A LETTER TO THE REV. MR NEWTON,

LATE RECTOR OF ST MARY WOOLNOTH.

SAYS the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air

I give to the company-pray do but note 'em

You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there
Or at least would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.

My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear;
There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses,
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear.

Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way,

And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging. The box in reply was heard plainly to say,

What a silly dispute is this we are waging!

If you have a little of merit to claim,

You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed, And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,

The before-mention'd drug in apology plead.

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus,

We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,

But of anything else they may choose to put in us

THE FLATTING MILL.

AN ILLUSTRATION.

WHEN a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.

Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show,
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow.
This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain
The thump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill for a delicate palate.

Alas for the poet! who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill-
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter, like gold to the sight,
And catch in its progress a sensible glow.

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows;
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.

EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST,

A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS.

THESE are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed

For absent Robin, who she fears,

With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,

And, on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd,
She sought him, but in vain-
That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.

She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows-so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died

In social Robin's stead,

Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold

Nor spiritlessly tame;

Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.

March 1792.

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 distress'd,
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 to admire the bard than love the man
June 2, 1792.

AN EPITAPH.

HERE lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd;
At his signified desire

Would advance, present, and fire-

Stout he was, and large of limb,

Scores have fled at sight of him!

And to all this fame he rose

Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call'd, not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton

1792.

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.

IN language warm as could be breathed or penn'd Thy picture speaks the original, my friend, Not by those looks that indicate thy mindThey only speak thee friend of all mankind; Expression here more soothing still I see, That friend of all a partial friend to me. January 1793.

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 camest from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)

Some future day the illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crown'd with virgin's bower?
Spring of 1793.

ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL

FROM MR HAYLEY.

I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain.
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I received him as a gift from thee.

LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT.

SWEET babe! whose image here express'd
Does thy peaceful slumbers show;
Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,
Never did thy spirit know.

Soothing slumbers! soft repose,
Such as mock the painter's skill,

Such as innocence bestows,

Harmless infant! lull thee still.