Methinks I see him powdered red,
With bushy locks his well-dressed head
Winged broad on either side,

The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertained

With barbarous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight

'Twixt birds to battle trained.

One feathered champion he possessed,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,

Nor e'er had fought but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced at last, when on a day
He pushed him to the desperate fray,
His courage drooped, he fled.
The master stormed, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doomed his favourite dead.

He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatched the spit,
And "Bring me cord!" he cried:
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement, the bird
Alive and struggling tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of the tale
That can be, shall be, sunk.
Led by the sufferer's screams aright,
His shocked companions view the sight
And him with fury drunk.

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate :
He, deaf to pity's call,

Whirled round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,

Death menacing on all.

But Vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretched his clamorous throat,
And heaven and earth defied,
Big with the curse too closely pent
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He tottered, reeled, and died.

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgments of the skies;
But judgments plain as this,

That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,
'Tis hard to read amiss.

LINES AFTER THE MANNER OF HOMER

DESCRIPTIVE OF THE OPENING OF A HAMPER

THE straw-stuffed hamper with his ruthless steel He opened, cutting sheer the inserted cords Which bound the lid and lip secure.

Forth came

The rustling package; first, bright straw of wheat, Or oats, or barley; next a bottle green,

Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distilled

Drop after drop odorous, by the art

Of the fair mother of his friend-the Rose.

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 oh, 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 showered on those
Who placed us where it shines.

LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST

To Jesus, the Crown of my Hope,
My soul is in haste to be gone;
Oh bear me, ye cherubim, up,

And waft me away to his throne!

My Saviour whom absent I love,
Whom not having seen I adore;
Whose name is exalted above

All glory, dominion, and power;

Dissolve thou the bond, that detains
My soul from her portion in thee,
Ah! strike off the adamant chains,
And make me eternally free.

When that happy era begins,

When arrayed in thy beauty I shine,

Nor grieve any more, by my sins,
The bosom on which I recline;

Oh then shall the veil be removed,

And round me thy brightness be poured, I shall meet Him whom absent I loved, Shall see him whom unseen I adored.

And then, never more shall the fears,
The trials, temptations, and woes,
Which darken this valley of tears,
Intrude on my blissful repose.

Or, if yet remembered above,

Remembrance no sadness shall raise,
They will be but new signs of thy love,
New themes for my wonder and praise.

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain
Shall set me eternally free,

Will but strengthen and rivet the chain
Which binds me, my Saviour! to thee.

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.

IMPROMPTU

ON WRITING A LETTER WITHOUT HAVING ANYTHING TO SAY

So have I seen the maids in vain
Tumble and tease a tangled skein;

They bite the lip and scratch the head,
And cry, "The deuce is in the thread!"
They torture it and jerk it round,
Till the right end at last is found;
Then wind, and wind, and wind away,
And what was work is changed to play.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON

ON HER BEautiful tRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE "AD LIBRUM SUUM

MARIA, Could Horace have guessed
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume addressed,

The honour which you have bestowed
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,

He had laughed at the critical sneer

Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

"And sneer, if you please," he had said,
"Hereafter a nymph shall arise
"Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
"The glory your malice denies;

"Shall dignity give to my lay,

"Although but a mere bagatelle;

"And even a poet shall say,

66

Nothing ever was written so well."

"

INSCRIPTION

FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, ESQ. 1790

OTHER stones the era tell

When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.