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.

1 THRIVE, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me;

And deck with many a splendid flower,
Thy foliage large and free.

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

Some future day the illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.

3 Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,

Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honour'd brows as they

4 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.

October 1793.

LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT.

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

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

Such as innocence bestows,

Harmless infant! lull thee still.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA

JANE COWPER.

1 WILLIAM was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,

That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.

2 Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.

3 But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.

4 Howe'er, it happen'd, by degrees, He mended, and grew perter

5 Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;

And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.

6 He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes;

So that there was, or seem'd to be,
No fear of a relapse.

7 The women said, who thought him rough, But now no longer foolish, "The creature may do well enough, But wants a deal of polish."

8 At length improved from head to heel,
"Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel,
Or half so dégagé.

9 Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,

Let the dear maid who wrought the change
Even claim him for her own!

TO THE SAME.

How quick the change from joy to woe,
How chequer'd is our lot below!
Seldom we view the prospect fair ;
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care
(Some pleasing intervals between),
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid!
Far hence in happier fields I stray'd.
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.
Next day the scene was overcast―
Such day till then I never pass'd;

For on that day, relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.

Yet ere we look'd our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell—
"Fear not that time, where'er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love."

LINES.

OH! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire-
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrown'd turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none,
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!

INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN THE

SHRUBBERY AT WESTON.

HERE, free from Riot's hated noise,
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,

A book or friend bestows;

Far from the storms that shake the great,
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat,

And sweeten my repose.