To purify their wine some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar as a negro's blood.
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And hence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone-
Good cause why planters never try their own.
ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.
On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords
CowPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears
(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers,
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers; but silence honoured thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.
Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside
Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.
OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX
Verses addressed to a country Clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the Parsonage
COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest
The burden of my song.
This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe
When tithing-time draws near.
He then is full of frights and fears
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.
For then the farmers come jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good.
In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be expressed,
When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distressed.
Now, all unwelcome at his gates,
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates-
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come- -each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.
"And how does Miss and Madam do,
The little boy and all?"
"All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"
The dinner comes, and down they sit :
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins :
"Come, neighbours, we must wag"-
The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
Oh, why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?
A kick that scarce would move a horse
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum
Without the clowns that pay.
ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS
THE birds put off their every hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.
The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The pheasant plumes which round infold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The cock his arched tail's azure show;
And, river-blanched, the swan his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But, screened from every storm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.
To the same Patroness resort,
Secure of favour at her court,
Strong Genius from whose forge of thought
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought,
Which, though new-born, with vigour move,
Like Pallas springing armed from Jove-
Imagination scattering round
Wild roses over furrowed ground,
Which Labour of his frown beguile,
And teach Philosophy a smile--
Wit flashing on Religion's side,
Whose fires to sacred Truth applied
The gem, though luminous before,
Obtrude on human notice more,
Like sunbeams on the golden height
Of some tall temple playing bright—
Well tutored Learning, from his books
Dismissed with grave, not haughty, looks,
Their order on his shelves exact
Not more harmonious or compact
Than that, to which he keeps confined
The various treasures of his mind-
All these to Montagu's repair,
Ambitious of a shelter there.
There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit,
Their ruffled plumage calm refit,
(For stormy troubles loudest roar
Around their flight who highest soar,)
And in her eye, and by her aid,
Shine safe without a fear to fade.
She thus maintains divided sway
With yon bright regent of the day;
The Plume and Poet both, we know,
Their lustre to his influence owe;
And she the works of Phoebus aiding,
Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.
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 even to woman paid
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use designed,
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 reached that blest abode
Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheered as they go by many a sprightly strain :
Where nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread;
Admonished, 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 designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called 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,
Transformed 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 shepherds' tents within thy view appear,
But the chief Shepherd even there is near;
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