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Then grudge not her temperate meals,

Thus far is well. But view again, Nor a benefit blame as a theft;

The cause of thy paternal pain ! Since, stole she not all that she steals,

Thy melancholy task fulfil!
Neither honey nor wax would be left.

It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's power he tries,

For on his lips a smile he spies :
XVII. DENNER'S OLD WOMAN,

And still his cheek, unfaded, shows

The deepest damask of the rose. In this mimic form of a matron in years,

Then, heedless to the finished whole, How plainly the pencil of Denner appears !

With fondest eagerness he stole, The matron herself, in whose old age we see

Till scarce himself distinctly knew Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she! The cherub copied from the true. No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low, No wrinkle, or deep-furrowed frown on the brow! Now, painter, cease! thy task is done, Her forehead indeed is here circled around

Long lives this image of thy son; With locks like the ribbon, with which they are

Nor short-lived shall the glory prove, bound;

Or of thy labour, or thy love.
While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,

XIX. THE MAZE.
Or that indicates life in its winter-is here.

From right to left, and to and fro Yet all is expressed, with fidelity due,

Caught in a labyrinth, you go, Nor a pimple, or freckle, concealed from the view.

And turn, and turn, and turn again, Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste To solve the mystery, but in vain ; For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste :

Stand still and breathe, and take froin me The youths all agree, that could old age inspire

A clew that soon shall set you free!
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, Not Ariadne, if you meet her,
And the matróns, with pleasure, confess that they Herself could serve you with a better.

You enter'd easily-find where-
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.

And make, with ease, your exit there!
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,
O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.

XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage

SUFFERER.
To peruse, halfenamoured, the features of age;
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair,

Tue lover, in melodious verses
That she when as old, shall be equally fair!

His singular distress rehearses. How great is the glory, that Denner has gained,

Still closing with a rueful cry,
Since A pelles not more for his Venus obtained !

" Was ever such a wretch as I !"
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.

Unnumbered Corydons complain,
XVIII. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

And Strephons, of the like disdain; APELLES, hearing that his boy

And if thy Chloc be of steel, Had just expired-his only joy!

Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel; Although the sight with anguish tore him,

Not her alone that censure fits,
Bade place his dear remains before him.

Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And—“Oh! my child, accept,”-he said,
"('Tis all that I can now bestow,)

XXI. THE SNAIL.
This tribute of a father's wo!"
Then, faithful to the twofold part,

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,

The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care.

As if he grew there, house and all

Together.
And formed at once a fellow pair.
His brow, with amber locks beset,

Within that house secure he hides,
And lips he drew, not livid yet ;

When danger imminent betides And shaded all, that he had done,

Of storm, or other harm besides To a just image of his son.

Of weather.

Give but his horns tho slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much

Displeasure.
Wherever he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Ah, whither shall I fly?

I hear the thunder roar; The law proclaims destruction nigh,

And vengeance at the door.
When I review my ways,

I dread impending doom;
But sure a friendly whisper says,

"Flee from the wrath to come."

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined)
If, finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

I see, or think I see,

A glimmering from afar; A beam of day that shines for me,

To save me from despair. Forerunner of the sun,

It marks the pilgrim's way; I'll gaze upon it while I run,

And watch the rising day.

THE CONTRITE HEART.

The Lord will happiness divine

On contrite hearts bestow; Then tell me, gracious God, is mine

A contrite heart or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain,

Insensible as steel ;
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain

To find I can not feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined

To love thee, if I could; But often feel another mind,

Averse to all that's good.

THIRSTING FOR GOD. I thirst, but not as once I did,

The vain delights of earth to share ; Thy words, Immanuel, all forbid

That I should seek my pleasure there. It was the sight of thy dear cross

First weaned my soul from earthly things, And taught me to esteem as dross

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings. I want that grace that springs from thee,

That quickens all things where it flows, And makes a wretched thorn like me,

Bloom as the myrtle or the rose. Dear fountain of delight unknown,

No longer sink below the brim : But overflow and pour me down

A living and life-giving stream. For sure, of all the plants that share

The notice of thy Father's eye, None proves less grateful to his care,

Or yields him meaner fruit than I.

My best desires are faint and few,

I fain would strive for more; But when I cry, “My strength renew,”

Seem weaker than before.

I see thy saints with comfort filled,

When in thy house of prayer; But still in bondage I am held,

And find no comfort there.

A TALE.*

Oh, make this heart rejoice or ache;

Decide this doubt for me; And if it be not broken, break,

And heal it if it be.

In Scotland's realm where trees are few.

Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,

Some better things are found.

THE SHINING LIGHT. My former hopes are dead;

My terror now begins;
I feel, alas! that I am dead

In trespasses and sins.

* This tale is founded on an an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Horald for Saturday, Juno 1, 1793, in the following words :

Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock,

[blocks in formation]

The mother-bird is gone to sea,

As she had changed her kind; But goes the male? Far wiser, he

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,

In the regions of pleasure and taste ; I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,

But have proved thee a vision at last.

Is doubtless left behind ?

and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the next but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hull for food.

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true Wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope

And the summit of all our desires.

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JUNE, 1788.

Peace may be the lot of the mind

The stream of pure and genuine love
That seeks it in meekness and love; Derives its current from above;
But rapture and bliss are confined

And earth a second Eden shows
To the glorified spirits above.

Where'er the healing water flows:
But ah! if from the dykes and drains

Of sensual nature's feverish veins,
SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON,

Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,

Impregnated with ooze and mud,
ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST

Descending fast on every side,
OF HOMER, 1793.

Once mingles with the sacred tide,
KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!

Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,

The banks that wore a smiling green,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, With rank defilement overspread,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.

Bewail their flowery beauties dead.
Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be The stream polluted, dark, and dull,
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to re- Diffused into a Stygian pool,
ward

Through life's last melancholy years
With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Is fed with ever-flowing tears:
Which others scorn: critics by courtesy.

Complaints supply the zephyr's part, The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

I lose my precious years now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale.

LINES Be wiser thou-like our foresather DONNE,

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.

ESQ. IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS

NEPHEW WILLIAM, OF WESTON.

FAREWELL! endued with all that could engage INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE

All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age! ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll’d

CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ. Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old; 1790.

In life’s last stage, (O blessings rarely found !) OTHER stones the era tell,

Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd; When some feeble mortal fell;

Through every period of this changeful state I stand here to date the birth

Unchanged thyself-wise, good, affectionate ! Of these hardy sons of earth.

Marble may flatter; and lest this should seem Which shall longest brave the sky, O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Storm and frost-these oaks or I?

Although thy worth be more than half suppressid,
Pass an age or two away,

Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.
I must moulder and decay;
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE
Spread its branch, dilate its size,

JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 1790.
Lift its summit to the skies.

Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
Cherish honour, virtue, truth,

Praising the Author of all good in man;
So shalt thou prolong thy youth. And, next, commemorating worthies lost,
Wanting these, however fast

T'he dead in whom that good abounded most.
Man be fix'd, and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
Stone at heart, and can not grow.

Famed for thy probity from shore to shore.
Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine,
As honest and more eloquent than mine,

I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be,
LOVE ABUSED.

The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. What is there in the vale of life

Thee to deplore, were grief misspent indeed; Half so delightful as a wife,

It were to weep that goodness has its meed, When friendship, love, and peace combine That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? And glory for the virtuous when they dic.

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,

TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD. Sweet as the privilege of healing wo By virtue suffer'd combatting below?

Our good old friend is gone, gone to his rest, That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means Whose social converse was itself a feast. To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, O ye of riper age, who recollect Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Both in the firmness of his better day, Thou hadst an industry in doing good,

While yet he ruled you with a father's sway, Restless as his who toils and sweats for food; And when impair'd by time and glad to rest, A varice, in thee, was the desire of wealth Yet still with looks, in mild complaisance drest, By rust unperishable or by stealth;

He took his annual seat, and mingled here And if the genuine worth of gold depend His sprightly vein with yours--now drop a tear. On application to its noblest end,

In morals blameless as in manners meek, Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, He knew no wish that he might blush to speak; Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. But, happy in whatever state below, And, though God made thee of a nature prone And richer than the rich in being so, To distribution boundless of thy own,

Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed And still by motives of religious force

At length from One, * as made him rich indeed. Impellid thee more to that heroic course; Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here, Yet was thy liberality discreet,

Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere,
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat, The brows of those whose more exalted lot
And, though in act unwearied, secret still, He could congratulate, but envied not.
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,

Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast, And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.

And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest ! Such was thy charity; no sudden start,

Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, After long sleep, of passion in the heart,

And not a stone now chronicles thy name.
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to th’ Eternal mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,

ON FOP,
To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY TIIROCKMORTON. This record of thee for the Gospel's sake;

AUGUST, 1792.
That the incredulous themselves may sce
Its use and power exemplified in thee.

Thorou once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders One whose bones some honour

claim.

No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

And though no hound, a martyr to the chase-
ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,
RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE,-1793.

Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he This record of his fate exulting view, found,

He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd 'Yes,' the indignant shade of Fop replies— With heavenly gifts, to Heathens not allow'd; "And worn with vain pursuit maņ also dies. In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, Thy locks were wet when others’ locks were dry.

• He was usher and under

master of Westminster near Heaven grant us half the omen-may we see fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was near Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

seventy, with a handsome pension from the king.

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