Poems, upon Several Subjects : electronic version.

%iso-lat1; %iso-lat2; %iso-num; %iso-pub;]> Poems, upon Several Subjects : electronic version. Mrs. Iliff. Electronic text encoded by Brenda Deely Electronic edition 150Kb University of California, Davis, General Library, Digital Initiatives Program Davis, Calif. 2007 ilifmpoems

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 166 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Poems, upon several subjects. Iliff, Mrs. by Mrs. Iliff Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe London 1808

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February 4, 2008 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Frontispiece]

A. Chalon delt. C. Turner sculpt.

Such shelter as my Cot affords be thine. Vide Sailor.

London Publish'd Jany. 1. 1808, by Vernor & Hood.

[Title Page]

POEMS, UPON SEVERAL SUBJECTS. BY MRS. ILIFF. EMBELLISHED WITH A FRONTISPIECE. Hail! Independence, hail! Heaven's next best gift, To that of life and an immortal Soul! The life of life! that to the banquet high And sober meal gives taste; to the bow'd roof Fair dream'd repose, and to the cottage charms. THOMSON. London: PUBLISHED AND SOLD FOR THE AUTHOR, BY VERNOR, HOOD, AND SHARPE, 31, POULTRY. 1808. W. Wilson, Printer, St. John's Square. CONTENTS. An Apology for writing Poetry 1 Address to Poverty 5 —— to Peace 9 —— to Content 12 The Cottager 14 The Mirror of Fancy 16 Virtue superior to Beauty 20 Hay-making 23 The Wreath 25 The Child and Thorn 27 The Night Cap 29 Address to Friendship 31 Sonnet to the Moon 34 —— to a Flower plucked by the Author 36 —— to Fortune 38 —— to Hope 40 —— to Love 42 England's Defenders 44 Address to the Rev. Mr. D—n, on his Farewell Sermon 46 An Epitaph 48 On re-visiting a former Habitation 49 Ode to Society 52 — to Joy 55 Emma 57 To Eliza 59 Lines addressed to Miss M— 61 Epistle to E. S. B. 64 —— T. S. B. 69 Absence 74 The Sailor 77 A Paraphrase on the Eleventh Chapter of Ecclesiastes 85 A Paraphrase from Zimmerman on Solitude 89 Invocation to the Shade of Thomson 91 Thoughts by Moonlight at the Sea Side 94 Address to the Princess of Wales 96 Lines on the Battle of Trafalgar 99 An Apology for Amusement 101 The Crazy Maid 119 Stanzas 128 Hymn, on the late plenteous Season 130 Parody from Rowe 133 Comal and Galvina 134 The Absent Soldier 141 To Miss Mary M—, on her wishing to procure some of the Author's Writings before they were designed for Publication 143 To Benevolence 145 ADVERTISEMENT.

TO inform the world that the trifles which compose this little Volume were not intended originally to meet the public eye, is an apology so trite and general, that it loses its effect in averting the censure of the Critic, or exciting the lenity of the candid reader; and, therefore, however applicable to the present work, the author declines a repetition of it; and more especially, as the generality of the Poems are too local to hazard even a supposition of their having been written for publication: they are, in fact, offered merely to give an opportunity to a generous public of aiding the exertions of a Mother, towards educating her children, during the anxious period of their Father's absence.

To the Subscribers to this Volume, she offers the warmest acknowledgments of a grateful heart; and trusts that a work, offered to the public under such circumstances, will either be considered by the Reviewers as too trivial for criticism, or as claiming that protection from them, which courtesy gives a female an indisputable right to expect from men of sense, when she assures them, that she has not laid aside her Needle, though she has occasionally taken up her Pen.

London, Feb. 12, 1808. [Subscriber's Names.] A. Mr. Timothy Addis, Pottersfield, Tooley Street. Mr. Adolphus, Warren Street, Fitzroy Square. Miss Adolphus, Ditto. Mrs. Aikin, Broad Street, London, 2 copies. John Allen, Esq. Mayor of Nottingham. Miss Allen, Nottingham. Mr. Allen, London. Mr. W. B. Allen, Merchant Tailors School. Rev. Mr. Alliott, Nottingham. Mr. Allsop, Ditto. Miss Allsop, Ditto. Mrs. Ardovin, Greenwich. Mr. Ashwell, Alderman of Nottingham. Mrs. Ashby, Barwell, Leicestershire. Mr. John Attwood, Corngraves. Miss M. Attwood, Ditto. Miss C. Attwood, Ditto. John Auldjo, Esq. Finsbury Square. Mrs. Ayscough, Islington. B. Honourable Mrs. Byron Nottingham. Mrs. Baines, Greenwich. Mr. J. P. Baker, Leicester. Mr. Baldwin, Northampton. Mr. S. Barber, Grove, Camberwell. Mrs. S. N. Barber, Denmark Hill, Ditto. Rev. J. S. Banks, L.L.B. Hemington Grey, Huntingdonshire. Mr. Barnes, London. Mr. Barnett, Nottingham. Miss Jane Baron, Manchester. Mr. G. Barry, Northampton. 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Mrs. Tomlin, Malkin Hill, Nottinghamshire. John Topott, Esq. Lamcote, Nottinghamshire. Mrs. Touissaint, Teddington. Mrs. Towle, Broxtowe, Nottinghamshire. Mrs. Trower, Clapton, Middlesex. Miss Trower, Ditto. Hutches Trower, Esq. Ditto. Robert Trower, Esq. Ditto. Miss Tupman, Nottingham. Mrs. Turner, Lambley, Nottinghamshire. Mrs. Turner, Stoke Cottage, Suffolk. Miss Turner, Ditto. Miss Tutin, Radford, Nottinghamshire. V. T. Vardon, Esq. Greenwich. Jasper Vaux, Esq. Camberwell, 2 copies. Miss Vertue, Knoddishall, Suffolk. Messrs. Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe, Booksellers, Poultry, 100 copies. W. The Right Hon. Sir John Borlase Warren, Bart. K. B. Stapleford Hall, Nottinghamshire. Lady Warren, Ditto. Sir George Wright, Bart. Lady Wright. Mrs. Gilbert Wakefield, Hackney, 4 copies. Samuel Wakefield, Esq. Ditto, 2 copies. Mr. Wakefield, Nottingham. Mrs. Wakefield, Ditto. Mr. Charles Wakefield, Ditto. Mr. Francis Wakefield, Ditto. Mrs. Wale, Peckham, 2 copies. Mrs. Walker, Charterhouse Square. Miss Walker, Ditto. Mrs. Walker, Stoke Newington. Francis Walsh, Esq. Islington. Miss Walsh, Ditto. Miss Sarah Walsh, Ditto. Benjamin Walsh, Esq. Clapton. Mrs. Benj. Walsh, Ditto. Mr. Joseph Walsh, Inner Temple. Mrs. Joseph Walsh, Ditto. Mrs. Walters, Nottingham, 4 copies. George Wansey, Esq. Camberwell. Miss Wansey, Ditto. Mr. Ward, Hinckley. Mr. George Ward, Ditto. Mrs. Austin Warrilow, Stratford-upon-Avon. Rev. J. Watson, Morden College, Blackheath. Mrs. Watson, Lenton, Nottinghamshire. Mr. Wattson, Greenwich. John Webb, Esq. Brownsend, Gloucestershire. Thomas Webb, Esq. Stratford-upon-Avon. Mrs. Webb, Ditto. Rev. Elias Webb, Sherborne, Warwickshire. Miss Webster, Nottingham. Mrs. West, Stratford-upon-Avon. Mr. Westhorpe, London. Mr. John Whately, Birmingham. Mr. Wheatley, Greenwich. Mr. R. Wheeler, Birmingham. Rev. John Whitmore, LLB. Stratford-upon-Avon. Mrs. Whitehurst, London. W. H. Wickey, Esq. Ditto. Mr. Wiggins, Ditto. Miss Wilkinson, Nottingham. Mrs. Willey, Willoughby, Leicestershire. Mr. Willoughby Willey, Ditto. Mr. John Willey, Ditto. —— Williams, Esq. Lewisham. Mrs. Williamson, Northampton. Richard Wilson, Esq. East Ham, Essex. Master Wilson, Houndsditch, London. Mrs. Wilson, Nottingham. Mr. Wilton, Dean Street, Soho, London. Mr. Wise, Nottingham. Mr. Wood, Hinckley. Rev. Philip Wren, M. A. Rector of Ippesley, Warwickshire. Miss Wright, Holme Pierrepont, Nottinghamshire. John Wright, Esq. Nottingham. Mrs. Wright, Ditto. Mrs. H. Wright, Ditto. Miss Wynter, Aldborough, Suffolk. Mr. P. Wynter, Merchant Tailors School. Y. Mrs. Yates, Sandy Brook, Derbyshire, 2 copies. A. Young, Esq. Greenwich. Mr. Young, Tewkesbury. SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES Which came too late to be inserted in their proper place. B. Thomas Biggs, Esq. London. C. William Clay, Esq. London. Felix Clay, Esq. Ditto. George Clay, Esq. Stockwell. James Clay, Esq. London. Miss Corsbie, at Mrs. Dowson's, Clapham. D. Mrs. Downman, Eltham. H. Wm. Holmes, Esq. Ditto. Mrs. Holmes, Ditto. Rev. William Holmes, London. Mr. John Huish, Nottingham. L. James Larkin, Esq. Blackheath. Mrs. James Lloyd, Birmingham. M. Mrs. Milne, Greenwich. O. Peter Ouvery, Esq. Westminster. P. Capt. Pearson, London. Mrs. Pearson, Ditto. Thomas Pinfold, Esq. Norfolk. S. Mr. J. Stupart, Greenwich. —— Suppinge, Esq. Ditto. T. Robert Thomson, Esq. Chepstow. Mrs. Turner, Warren Street, Fitzroy Square. W. Miss Wesey, Blackheath. Mr. Frederic Wilkes, Feversham. C. Woolrych, Esq. London. James Wright, Esq. Feversham. POEMS, &c. ANAPOLOGY FOR WRITING POETRY. IN vain against the Muse's charms I've try'd to interpose my will; She stole me from my nurse's arms, And holds me in her bondage still. What tho' she ne'er my humble head Crown'd with the laurel or the bay, Each simple flow'ret of the mead She twines around my rustic lay. The briar-rose wild, the primrose pale, The hair-bell, and the vi'let blue; The snowy lily of the vale, And woodbine sweet, she gives me too. These, o'er life's rugged path to fling, Is her delight, with lavish hand; Whilst Fancy, ever on the wing, Transforms them with her magic wand. Love is the briar-rose, wild and sweet, That in youth's gay and vivid morn, I gather'd, thoughtless of the cheat, Nor knew the flow'r conceal'd a thorn. The primrose pale, in sober vest, Fit emblem seems of prudence rare; Awhile I wore it on my breast, But, ah! not long retain'd it there. The hair-bell that with head reclin'd, Courts not the passing stranger's care; Calls modest merit to my mind, Sweet as the flow'r that scents the air. The lily gem'd with morning dew, That seeks its spotless form to hide; Thee, Chastity, presents to view, Woman's chief charm—her noblest pride. See round the elm the woodbines twine, And deck it with their fragrant charms; I am the elm, the woodbine's mine, Clasp'd in my children's circling arms. Vain then th' attempt to break my chain, For while my breast thus warmly glows, The Muse will o'er my reason reign, Nor leave me till my life shall close. TO POVERTY. OH! Poverty, relentless guest, That long hast shar'd my humble meal; Give to my wearied spirit rest, Nor longer on my comforts steal. Not for myself thy frowns I fear, But when my smiling babes I see, I feel the heavy chains I wear, And feel that they are forg'd by thee. Thy stern approach o'erspreads with care Those scenes where joy was wont to dwell; And hope is chang'd to keen despair, Where'er thou lay'st thy baleful spell. Then leave my cottage, and thy place Let Competence and Virtue share; And seek the sordid miser's face, Who dreads thee when thou art not near. How wilt thou e'er thy debt discharge, And leave me, as I wish to be, A friend to humankind at large, And from thy rugged grasp set free? Then, then in vain no woe shall stand, And claim from me the long arrear; But thou hast often check'd my hand, And fruitless made the pitying tear. Like the bleak North thy bitter blast Has many a tender plant laid low; But when the low'ring storm is past, And soft the southern breezes blow; Again the drooping plants revive, Again their verdure charms the eye; So may these infant scions thrive, Foster'd by kind humanity. Then hear a mother's fond request, And ably plead their cause and mine, When to the world, with fear opprest, These humble verses I consign. Oh! then with candid truth confess, That what was meant for friendship's eye, To make thy visit dreaded less, Is offer'd with a tear—a sigh. TO PEACE. HAIL best of blessings here below, Sweet peace, thou soother of our care! From thee our surest comforts flow, Thy presence shields us from despair. Say, dost thou seek the lowly bow'r, Where village hinds retire from toil; Or dost thou dwell with rank and power, And rest thee on the courtier's smile? Or dost thou fly from gilded state, And shun the glare of vain parade; To dwell with those whose better fate Has plac'd them in the tranquil shade? From poverty's uneven road, Too oft thy footsteps turn aside; Nor is the palace thy abode, For there dwell Luxury and Pride. Yet, ah! forgive, celestial maid, The wrong I offer to thy name; Thy smile at once adorns the shade, And fills the highest post of Fame. Nor lowly cot, nor lofty dome, Can claim thee as their owner's guest; Unless the quiet happy home Thy sister Innocence has blest. Where she resides, thy home is there, The virtuous heart thy regal throne; The high, and low, alike thy care, Who trust in God, and God alone. TO CONTENT. CELESTIAL visitant! oh deign To hear thy suppliant's pray'r; If thou wilt o'er my cottage reign, 'Twill be a palace fair. The rushy couch, at thy control, Shall be a bed of down; Touch'd by thy hand, the beechen bowl Shall flowing nectar crown. The little garden round my cot Fresh fruits shall yield for thee; And sweeter flowers shall deck the spot, If thou wilt dwell with me. THE COTTAGER. THE rich and the gay after pleasure may run, And in crouds may endeavour reflection to shun; But in vain they true happiness hope to acquire; Dissipation can never contentment inspire: Less enjoyment they'll find, who for happiness roam, Than the peasant whose happiness centres at home. When wearied and faint with the toils of the day, At eve he returns to his cottage of clay; If his wife bids him welcome, and smiling he sees The prattlers, that climb with delight on his knees, Unenvy'd by him pleasure's vot'ries may roam, He seeks not for happiness far from his home. Should the friends of his heart from his bosom be torn, Religion will teach him, 'tis folly to mourn; Perhaps for a while he may like to repair To bathe the lone spot where they rest, with a tear; Yet he soon will rejoice that, no more doom'd to roam, Their Maker has call'd them to Heav'n, their home. THE MIRROR OF FANCY,Suggested by a Conversation on the difference of Opinions in Beauty. IN the spring time of life after beauty I ran, Resolv'd the fair prize at all hazards to gain; But at twenty I ended just where I began, Pursuing her 'semblance, but finding it vain. One describ'd her as fair, another as brown, With eyes black and sparkling, or languishing blue; One, in shades, bid me seek her; another, in town; Till I knew not which way the fair nymph to pursue. At length by good fortune I met with a guide; 'Twas Love, who for ever makes beauty his care; He laugh'd at my folly in choosing a bride, As changeful as Iris, as fickle as air. But if, rejoin'd he, you're determin'd to gain her, With me to the region of Fancy repair; By becoming my vassal alone you'll obtain her, For none but my slaves have access to the fair. Tho' hard the conditions, I willingly vow'd, His yoke to accept, and my freedom resign'd; Then borne on his pinions I flew thro' the crowd, To the bower of Fancy, where beauty reclin'd. With rapture I saw a fair bevy collected, Of maidens more lovely than e'er I had seen; But doubting, and changing, not one was selected, And I sigh'd to discover of beauty the queen. Love saw my dilemma, and pointed his dart, His aim was so steady, his judgment so true; Light flew the wing'd arrow, and pierc'd thro' my heart, Whilst Fancy her mirror held up to my view. This treasure, she cry'd, is a gift from above, Where a lover sees beauty none else can descry; But for this all mankind but one face would approve, And all for one Helen would conquer, or die. I look'd, and discover'd most justly pourtray'd, The form of my Fanny, her dress and her air; Delighted, I hasten'd in search of the maid, And found her the fairest, where numbers were fair. To the world I return'd, and presented my bride, But none like myself could perfection discover; I pity'd their blindness, exulting with pride, At the taste and discernment bestow'd on a lover. Then think not of symmetry, feature, complexion, Oh ye who seek beauty bewilder'd like me; But take Love for your leader, and trust his direction, For none else can guide you, but Fancy, and he. VIRTUE SUPERIOR TO BEAUTY. YE maidens fair, and beauteous dames, The matchless boast of Britain's isle; Oh lend the Muse a gracious ear, Forgetting you are fair the while. 'Tis not the rose's glowing bloom, Contrasted with the lily's hue; 'Tis not the faultless form can charm, Unless the heart be faultless too. When beauty fades (as fade it will), In spite of all that art assumes; 'Tis then that Virtue lakes her place, And fairer, longer too, she blooms. Then pause awhile, ye young and gay, Who dance in pleasure's giddy maze; Nor think the splendid pride of dress Can bid your beauty brighter blaze. Look back at ancient Rome, and see What jewels claim'd Cornelia's care; They were indeed the "pearls of price," A British wife should proudly wear. Such gems a brilliant lustre give, If fairly set, and rightly worn; Nor can they fail, if polish'd well, The fairest female to adorn. HAY-MAKING. BRIGHT shone the sun, the morn was fair, When Jenny turn'd the new-mown hay; Young Henry labour'd by her side, And swiftly pass'd the toilsome day. Next morn again the task renew'd, The sun was bright, the morn was gay; Yet not like yesterday it seem'd, And slower pass'd the ling'ring day. No Henry in the field appear'd, To share her toil or smooth the way; Home to her cot at eve she went, And sigh'd to think how long the day. With joy next morn she heard him tell What forc'd him from her side to stray; So kind he seem'd, so full of care, And quickly pass'd that happy day. At eve his artless love he told, The kindling blush did her's betray; Soon Jenny was her Henry's bride, And happier each succeeding day. THE WREATH. IN youth I ne'er Parnassus' height With steps presumptuous sought to climb; But pleas'd I wander'd round its base, And pluck'd the pretty flowers of rhyme. Charm'd with their sweets, a wreath I wove, And plac'd it on my artless brow; And, flatter'd by my partial friends, I wear the chaplet even now. No leaf of bay is there entwin'd, But merely flow'rs of transient bloom; Design'd to deck my walk thro' life, Then fade, and wither on my tomb. THE CHILD AND THORN. I OFT say to my laughing boy, As round me, wild with joy, he plays; Improve thy time, enjoy the hours, In childhood are thy happiest days, Mama, he cries, these flowers have thorns, With which so prettily I play; But when I grow a man, mama, I'll throw these teazing thorns away, Ah me! my love, in manhood's path Will many a sharper thorn be thrown; And much thy tender heart will feel For others' woes, or for thy own. Yet hope as now to pluck the thorn From flowers of never-fading dyes; But know, my child, 'tis worth alone Can wear that wreath beyond the skies. THE NIGHT-CAP. An Impromptu—To Miss M........n. DEAR Julia, while these laughing girls Are on thy night-cap jesting, We'll moralize, and shew how well The subject bears contesting. We'll shew, that in this world of woe, A night-cap is a treasure, Which would, to many an aching head, Give comfort without measure. Full well we know, what small effects Can cause our joy, or sorrow; The heart which aches with grief to-day, Some trifle sooths to-morrow. Then let us, when the little cares Of life we treat with blindness, The night-cap to our minds recall, And sooth the heart with kindness. TO FRIENDSHIP. DELIGHTFUL charm that in my breast With soothing influence reigns; Which giv'st my wearied spirit rest, And hope sustains. Thy cheering light my path illumes, And sheds so bright a ray, That Poverty's unwelcome glooms Are chas'd away. When life was new, and wealth was mine, Thou wast but little known; But now in youth's and wealth's decline Thou art my own. Thy presence greets me in the smile Each old associate wears; And ever to reward my toil Thy form appears. Then let me hope, whilst sorrows spring, Life's joys to intertwine, Thy kindness still may comfort bring, Still thou be mine. And when the closing scene draws nigh, And Death asserts his pow'r, Do thou receive my parting sigh, In life's last hour. SONNET TO THE MOON. QUEEN of the silent hours of calm repose, How much I love thy shadowy light to see, When thy full orb its soften'd lustre throws O'er hill or valley, shrub or lofty tree. I love to watch thy quiv'ring beams that play, Reflected in the stream's pellucid breast, When Zephyr wafts the scent of new-mown hay, And the lone nightingale forsakes her nest; Charming the silence of the drowsy night, Plaintive she sings upon the pointed thorn; Till fainter grows thy pale reflected light, Extinguish'd by the brighter blaze of morn. That brighter blaze the sons of labor choose; But 'tis thy soften'd ray that charms the pensive Muse. SONNETTo a Flower plucked by the Author. AH! why fair flow'ret dost thou fade so soon? Why on my bosom hangs thy drooping head? Alas! my erring hand in life's gay noon, Relentless pluck'd thee from thy verdant bed. Sweet moralist! methinks in thee pourtray'd The transient bliss of human life I see; Too soon the fairy scenes of pleasure fade, And sorrow makes us droop, sweet flower like thee. Torn by the iron hand of ruthless fate, From those lov'd friends who sooth'd each anxious care; Or crush'd by stern misfortunes cruel weight, We fall, the hapless victims of despair. Yet ah! in this unlike, spring will restore Again thy youth, but ours returns no more. SONNET. CAPRICIOUS Fortune, in my earliest years, Wore expectation's young and sprightly air; How different now her alter'd form appears, The mien assuming of dejecting Care. Tho' doom'd by her along life's vale to tread, In narrow paths 'midst tangling briars be mine; Tho' dark the clouds impending o'er my head, And tho' to light those paths no sun shall shine; Yet can she never hold my ardent mind In abject bondage to her tyrant will; Yet will I seek some transient joys to find, And woo the Muse for my companion still. Tho' dark the path where Fortune points my way, Hope, Friendship, Fancy, still shall lend the cheering ray. SONNET TO HOPE. THOU fair enchantress, that in life's gay spring, Painted my prospects with thy vivid glow; Lent to old Time the Cygnet's downy wing, And gav'st my spirits all their happy flow; Whither, ah! whither hast thou led me on, Thro' deserts wild, 'mid storms and tempests drear; And when thou saw'st my resolution gone, Oft fled, and left me to the fiend Despair; Yet when my quivering lip, my streaming eye, And my clasp'd hands were rais'd to thee for aid, Thy tender breast has heav'd with pity's sigh, And thou hast back return'd, enchanting maid! Then fled Despair, and o'er the desert wild, Fair bloom'd the sweetest flow'rs when thou hast smil'd. SONNET TO LOVE. TELL me, intruder in the youthful breast, What is the secret magic of thy chain? That tho' thou robs th' enslaved heart of rest, Thy captives seek not freedom to regain? The sons of Britain, manly, generous, brave, Who other bondage would disdain to bear; Each yields himself to thee, a willing slave, Nor breaks the fetters which thou bid'st him wear. Full well I guess wherein consists thy pow'r; 'Tis that fair woman does the net entwine, With which thou tak'st the captives in thy bow'r, And binds them there, inglorious and supine. Yet ah! ye thoughtless maids, beware the while, Lest as you weave the web, Love take you in the toil. ENGLAND'S DEFENDERS. LET Bonaparte his legions boast, We tremble not with coward fears; Our tars shall keep the sea—our coast Be guarded by our volunteers. Then let the haughty tyrant try What courage British bosoms bears; He'll find those tars not apt to fly, Nor yet to run those volunteers. The hardy soldier, us'd to arms, Whose breast the scars of honor wears; More firmly train'd in war's alarms, Shall lead our youthful volunteers. This sea-girt-isle shall ne'er be won, Whilst vet'ran troops hold freedom dear; Whilst Neptune owns one gallant son, Or Britain boasts a volunteer. TO THE REV. MR. D∗∗∗∗∗N, On his Farewell Sermon. DID'ST thou not ask, when time should intervene, And we no more thy mild farewell should hear, That mem'ry still might linger on the scene, And worthy hearts retain thee in their pray'r. Tho', gentle pastor, thou art little known, That little in our hearts gives friendship birth; And when we raise our thoughts to Heavn's high throne, And ask for blessings on the sons of earth, Then will we join with pious Faith and love, Thy farewell precepts, and thy parting pray'r— That when thou giv'st thy great account above, Not one of all thy flock be wanting there. AN EPITAPH. STEP soft, ye youths; ye maidens hither bring The earliest treasures of the blooming spring; Let the blue vi'let, and the primrose pale, Deck the green turf, and scent the passing gale; For here at rest is laid, beneath this stone, A gentle youth, belov'd as soon as known; Heaven saw his virtues with a kind regard, And call'd him early to his blest reward. ON REVISITING A FORMER HABITATION. HOW chang'd to my fancy the spot, Which once could such pleasures bestow; Ah! why should I fly from my cot, Unless I could fly from my woe? No longer I join the gay throng, As they sportively dance on the green; No longer I carol the song, But pensively stray from the scene. On the rock that in majesty rude, Has rear'd its proud summit on high; Where no busy step can intrude, I wander, to muse and to sigh. Not a sound is there borne on the gale, Save the wood-pigeon's accent of woe; Or the river that glides thro' the vale, And murmurs majestic and slow. Congenial to me is the sound Of the mournfully murmuring stream; When the moon sheds refulgent around Her soft lustre, in beauty supreme. No more do the sweet warbling choir, Their melody pour on my ear; Nor the scene I was wont to admire, Again in its beauty appear. Yet when Time, the sure soother of grief, Shall my mind of its sorrows beguile; Resignation will yield me relief, And nature again wear a smile. ODE TO SOCIETY. SOCIETY, thy magic pow'r Giv'st comfort in affliction's hour; Thou can'st dispel the gloom of care, And soothe the horrors of despair. Languor and pain confess thy charms, When pillow'd on thy friendly arms. Health without thee would mere existence give, And man in Eden's bow'rs repining live. The captive, longing to be free, Looks round his cell and sighs for thee; And as the sentry walks his round, He hears thy footsteps in the sound; Thy form his very jailor wears; He sees him move—his step he hears, And feels a momentary gleam of joy, When the mute savage brings his scant supply. Then what unrivall'd charms are thine, When Liberty and Friendship join; To make thy presence doubly dear, The mutual intercourse to share; By winter's fire recite the tale, Or range in summer through the vale; Whilst free to rove, from lonely terrors free, The evening walk derives fresh charms from thee Oh come! and ever in my cot Do thou reside. Then be my lot To toil for bread from day to day, Or pass the hours at ease away. If thou, when wint'ry blasts blow keen, Circling my little fire art seen, Wealth may withhold her glittering stores from me, Be mine the humble meal with thee, Society. ODE TO JOY. TELL me, delightful goddess, where Thou hold'st thy gay and airy court? Is it where fashion's votaries are; Or where the rural train resort? In either oft is heard the sound Of noisy mirth, that mimics thee; But not in either have I found Thy lovely self, thou goddess free. Methinks on yonder verdant plain, The village school, releas'd to play, Hail thee! their queen, and bid thee reign, And crowns thy brows with flowers of May. No anxious cares for future store, Pain their young hearts, or damp their glee; Soon as their little griefs are o'er, They hail thee queen of infancy! EMMA. SWEET is the breeze that o'er the vale, Wafts the perfume of new-mown hay; And sweet to hear the nightingale, Chaunting her tender plaintive lay. Bright is the dew-drop on the rose, That gems with pearls the blushing flow'r; And bright the tints that Phœbus shows, After the gentle April show'r. But brighter far Compassion's tear, That trembles in my Emma's eye; And brighter tints her blushes are, Than April suns can e'er supply. And sweeter than the scent of hay, By Zephyr borne, is Emma's sigh; Sweeter than Philomela's lay, Her soothing voice that whispers joy. TO ELIZA. WHEN fair Eliza tempts my Muse, Again to plume her idle wing; The task were harder to refuse, Than 'tis her worth and charms to sing. If wit can please, if beauty warm; If taste and sense the Muse inspire; If ease and elegance can charm, These tempt her to resume the lyre. Sweet maid! as down the stream of time Thy little bark shall float along, Beware of Pleasure's tempting clime, Nor list to Flatt'ry's syren song. Let Prudence at the helm preside, Let Judgment tend the swelling sail; Then fear not every ebbing tide, But trust to Providence the gale. LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS ........ . TO the mind, which delights its instruction to draw, From the fair book of Nature, how ample her page; The fields are a volume of order and law, The guide of our conduct in youth or in age. If the vi'let, perfuming the air unperceiv'd, Or the daisy that humbly enamels the plain, Are moralists worthy of being believ'd, They bid us our modesty ever retain. The bright blushing rose, that doth beauty pourtray, Behold, lovely girl, how 'tis guarded with thorns; From it we may learn, that whilst youthful and gay, 'Tis Prudence that beauty protects and adorns. When the lily retiring, her snowy white vest Half conceals in her mantle of green; 'Tis to shew, tho' fair Charity glows in the breast, She should not in public be seen. When we raise the bent flow'r o'ercharged with dew, How careful and gently the hand is apply'd: So whenever the tears of affliction we view, 'Tis with tenderness only they ought to be dry'd. But how soon fade the flowers! how fragile their form! The evergreen thrives when the summer is fled; True emblem of Friendship, that lives in the storm, And charms when the blossoms of beauty are shed. AN EPISTLE TO E. S. B. THE Muse, my dear girl, which in life's early day, Oft tempted me over Parnassus to stray, I had long laid aside, as a fanciful toy, Unworthy my matronly thoughts to employ. But I find against Fate 'tis in vain to contend, For Poverty ever was Poetry's friend; And as Poverty still does my handmaid remain, She brings back the wandering Muse in her train. Too obscure to aspire to the laurel or bay, She plucks the wild flowers that spring in her way. Should you think them too much of the nondescript class, Call affection to aid, and allow them to pass; Nor throw with the hand of a critic away, The wreath which will wither itself in a day. Kind Morpheus has just, with his gentlest charm, Lull'd my sweet noisy prattlers from mischief and harm; Unconscious of care, health and innocence join To render their slumbers far sweeter than mine. Undisturb'd by a thought for to-morrows supply, How swiftly the hours of Infancy fly! Blest season of mirth, when in winter's dull hour, Assisted by Fancy's all magical power, With saddle, and bridle, (and rider of course,) Round my room in full gallop goes uncle B——'s horse; Whilst in the next minute, the hounds in full cry, Drive me (the poor hare) from the boisterous joy. When spring takes the lead, what new wonders appear! Enraptur'd, the daisy in triumph they bear; Descant for an hour on its beauties, and grieve O'er the ninety and nine, if the one they must leave. But why should I tell how they ransack each spray, To find the small lady-bird, spotted so gay; The butterfly follow, from flower to flower, Or catch the poor chaffer in evening hour? Why tell, how in summer they turn the new hay, Or bear the ripe produce of autumn away? These trifles my pen has no cause to explain, Since still in your mem'ry our place we retain; Not a walk that we take when the windmill's in view, But directly reminds us of Thomas and you; When the acorn presents us a saucer or ladle, We still are in want of Elizabeth's cradle; Of little Bo-peep the fam'd song we can tell, Nor have we forgotten the "Frog in the Well." Thus you see, my dear girl, how affection can strew With flowers the rough path we're ordain'd to pursue; In childhood they seem as if growing around, But as onward we walk the deception is found. Should the blast of misfortune blow keen o'er the plain, If we find but the evergreen, Friendship, remain, Contented, and grateful, a branch let us bear, Nor sigh for the blossoms, as transient as fair. Be it thine, as thou journiest, to keep by thy side Content, as thy handmaid, and Faith as thy guide. Companions like these, should thy fortune be true, Will teach thee with meekness her favors to view. Be she false, from their solace such comforts will flow As riches, without them, can never bestow. That the blessing of Heaven her smiles may impart, Is the wish, my dear girl, that proceeds from my heart. EPISTLE TO T. S. B. DEAR nephew, being just in a scribbling cue, I'm resolv'd to write nonsense to sister and you; As the only excuse for ridiculous rhyme, Believe me I do it to cheat father Time; Leaden-footed he walks by my cottage at eve, 'Tis only when past, that his wings I perceive. Since such are his tricks I'm determin'd to see, If I can deceive him, as he has done me. Retirement and cares, and the long winter's night, Too often sad thoughts and reflections invite; Then Fancy comes in with a long train of fears, And leaves me a prey to dejection and tears. To drive from my mind silly whimsies like these, I catch at each trifle that offers to please; With my work in my hand, and slate by my side, Betwixt profit and folly my hours divide; Then acting like most of the world that I view, Keep the former myself, send the latter to you. You ask if this village of late has been gay? Unrivall'd I think in the rustical way; For in knocking down pigs, and raising up pies, The neighbours have try'd which should bear off the prize. Grand routs have been given, and suppers not small, Such as you, more refin'd, a dinner would call; Where two hot plum-puddings the table have grac'd, Roast-beef, sparerib, pies, all that on could be plac'd. But I will not allow you to laugh at our state, It is you who are little, and we who are great; In London, in style, you at seven would dine, But far more in fashion, we sat down at nine. Your father desir'd, (to my boys a great treat,) That our Christmas-day pudding with him we would eat. The W-lt-rs also, and aunt S-w-ll were there; And to shew you how highly we thought of our fare, To hail the new year we again steer'd our course; But being unable to muster a horse, And fearing by chance we might stick on the road, My boys, before Richard, the donkey bestrode. Were I writing plain prose, I might further explain The delays that we met with, from wind and from rain; How too late we got there to see dinner set on, But haply arriv'd e'er the whole on't was gone. But enough on this subject; now let me enquire, How you spend your time round the Oakingham fire? Has health, the first blessing which Heav'n bestows, Again deck'd the invalid's cheek with the rose? Was the crutch laid aside, and the new commenc'd year, Welcom'd in with a happiness true and sincere? If such was the case, may its welcome remain, And succeeding ones give it again and again. My friendly regards to the circle impart, They all have the best that proceed from my heart. My boys give their love, and desire me to say, That they want cousin Thomas to racket and play, As sincere, tho' more solid, my wishes I join, That the blessing of Heav'n may ever be thine. ABSENCE. WHEN round the heart affection's tie Too close is bound for time to free; How oft is heav'd the painful sigh, Relentless power, at thought of thee. 'Tis thy delight the cords to part, Which Nature's hand has finely strung, Around the plighted lover's heart, On which his hope, his life is hung. When Friendship's pure exalted name, Two youthful mutual hearts have known; If thou hast rais'd the phantom Fame, To grasp the shadow, one has flown. Yet tho' to burning sands convey'd, Or doom'd to brave the northern pole, Thy influence never can pervade, Or change the temper of his soul. And trust me, in the lover's breast, More strong the cherish'd flame will burn; And warmer be the wish exprest, Fed by the hope of sweet return. Then lay thy cruel arts aside, Since vain and impotent they be; No more the faithful pair divide, Nor longer part my friend from me. THE SAILOR. DARK was the night, the wind blew cold, And fast came down the snow; What was it urg'd young Henry o'er The dreary moor to go. Five ling'ring years were past away Since Henry went to sea; His anxious parents inly mourn'd His unknown destiny. Full well he knew his natal day His tender mother kept; He wish'd, as fast it wan'd away, To see her ere she slept. Cold blew the wind, the moor was wide, And many a path was there; And not a star his steps to guide, His heart was chill'd with fear. With courage oft he'd danger fac'd In many a heavy gale; But now on land a coward grown, He felt his spirits fail. Could I, he cry'd, but reach our cot, And seat me by the fire; How would my mother's heart rejoice, How blest would be my sire! The aged pair, with daughters two, Around that fire were plac'd; Fair were the maids, but fairer far, Was one who both surpast. Lucy was there, the village boast, The love of every swain; Whose modesty excell'd her charms, Whom Henry hop'd to gain. For ever, in his boyish years, Was Lucy by his side; An orphan, whose lost parents' care His parents well supply'd. And now his letters, treasures dear, Were read with hope and pain; For he had said, he hop'd, ere long, To see them all again. The time he fixt, when Autumn leaves Before the gale should fly; That time was past, and anxious fears Embitter'd ev'ry joy. Oh! may I live my boy to see, His weeping mother cry'd. Oh! that he were but with us now Each echoing voice reply'd. Sudden a rapping at the door Fill'd ev'ry breast with fear; Few cross'd at night that dreary moor, By darkness made more drear. Who comes in such a night as this? Enquir'd the cautious sire. A voice reply'd, a stranger lost, Asks shelter at your fire. Stranger or friend, whoe'er thou art, Thou dost not ask in vain; Such shelter as my cot affords Be thine whilst night remain. A graceful youth, to manhood grown, In sailor's garb appears; And whilst each maid with ready zeal The homely meal prepares, Surprise, fear, hope, alternate seiz'd The anxious mother's breast; Gazing she stood, yet dare not tell The hope her heart confess. Why dost not stir, the father cries, And fetch a jug of ale; Were it our Henry how shou'dst fly; He saw the youth turn pale. Fond nature could sustain no more, He faulter'd out his name; Too swift th' impetuous tide of joy O'er each lov'd bosom came. Clasp'd in her trembling Henry's arms His fainting mother lay; But soon returning life and joy Chas'd fear and grief away. The happy mother, sisters, sire, By turns affection share; Nor did the blushing Lucy find Herself forgotten there. Ye parents, who an absent child Have hop'd again to view; And ye who such delight have known, I write this tale to you. A PARAPHRASEON THEELEVENTH CHAPTER OF ECCLESIASTES. THY bread upon the waters cast, And give a portion to the poor; For after many days are past It shall be found to bless thy store. Give unto seven, and to eight, The food which nature will sustain; So when afflictions thee await, Thou shalt find friends, nor ask in vain. On the earth's thirsty bosom see The clouds discharge the plent'ous rains: If north or southward falls the tree, Fixt where it falls it still remains. He that too much observes the wind Shall never till the fruitful plain; Or if to watch the clouds inclin'd, Shall never reap the golden grain. Thou knowest not the spirit's way, Or how thy bones increase and grow; Then never with presumption say, That thou the works of God dost know. When morning rises sow thy seed, And let not evening check thy hand; Thou know'st not which shall best succeed, Or whether both alike shall stand. Truly the light most sweet appears, And pleasant to the eyes the sun; But if a man live many years, Rejoicing in them as they run; Let him remember the approach Of darker days is drawing nigh; Many there be that will reproach His foolish hours of vanity. Oh! young man, in thy youth rejoice, Let thy heart cheer thee in its days; Walk in its paths, take its advice, And let thine eyes direct thy ways. But know thou that for all these things God will thee unto judgment call: Then dread his pow'r, 'tis he that brings Impartial justice to us all. Therefore cast sorrow from thy heart, And evil from thy flesh lay by; And learn this truth, whoe'er thou art, Childhood and youth are vanity. A PARAPHRASEFROM ZIMMERMAN ON SOLITUDE. HAPPY the man who tastes the tranquil joys Religious solitude alone supplies; Where every charm society bestows, More deeply rooted in his bosom glows; And every hour the practice of some kind, Some peaceful virtue occupies his mind. When faint and languid on the bed of death, And just preparing to resign his breath; Submissive, peaceful, at the closing scene, Tranquil the present, as the past has been. No cares for days mis-spent, with dread control, Usurp their empire o'er his fleeting soul; Unlike the sensualist, whose troublous life Presents one scene of tumult, noise, and strife. Past times he looks on, and with comfort sees, Pains borne with firmness, ills sustain'd with ease. And tho' Humility forbids to trust, Save in the Being, holy, pure, and just; Yet calmly tracing back the paths he trod, His soul, unfetter'd, flies to meet its God. INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. SHADE of my fav'rite bard! oh, that my Muse Could catch the inspiration of thy song! Painted by thee, the mild etherial spring; To my enraptur'd mind appears more fair, The glowing summer brighter beauty wears; The mellow autumn richer tints assumes, And even stern winter charms, describ'd by thee. Oh! come, and with thy tender touching strain, Teach me to sing; alike to me the theme. Be it of love; that, with a master's hand, Thy pen has pictur'd in thy closing Spring: Or soft compassion; that shall call the tear Of tender pity from the glist'ning eye, At recollection of Amelia's fate. Or resignation; that with sainted smile Awaits, with confidence, the sure reward Of patient virtue, suff'ring for a time, Like thy Livinia, lovely, young, and good. Or if not these will lure thee, much lov'd bard, Then come, array'd in Horror's gloomy garb, And I will meet thee still;—and learn of thee To freeze the spirits with a tale like thine, Of him who, wand'ring in the drifted snow, Saw death at hand, yet could not 'scape his power; And frantic with the thought of home, and life, Torn from his grasp, sunk in the snow entomb'd; Nor saw wife, children, or his cottage, more. But rather let me choose thy Winter; such As thou hast better drawn it at its close. When thy pure mind, amid'st the tempests drear That darken life, look'd, and beheld thy God Enthron'd in justice, wisdom, mercy, love: Th' unbounded Spring which thou hast there describ'd, Following the Winter of a well-spent life, Shall rather tempt my soul to rise to thee, And praise my Maker in a hymn like thine, Than call thee back to scenes of guilt and woe. THOUGHTS BY MOONLIGHT,AT THE SEA SIDE. AT this lone hour of undisturb'd repose, How sweet are Meditation's sober charms! "When not a breath disturbs the deep serene," Or breaks the stillness of the midnight air. Silence, how awful, undisturb'd by ought, Save by the gentle dashing of the wave, In broken murmurs on the rocky beach. Riding in peaceful majesty on high, Behold the silver moon, night's radiant queen, O'er the calm bosom of th' unruffled sea, The soften'd lustre of her beams she throws, And rivals all the splendors of the day. The solemn silence, and the tranquil scene Conspire, to sooth the troubled mind to peace, And bid the tear of anguish cease to flow. —But why should anguish o'er the soul have pow'r? Does not she still hold converse with her God? Sleeps He that form'd us? and assign'd our lot Prosp'rous or adverse as He judg'd the best? Creation sleeps; but the Creative Power (Before whose glory darkness turns to day) Unchang'd, and great, beyond our finite thought, Guards, rules, directs, supports, and watches all. TO THE PRINCESS OF WALES,On the late Testimony of Affection and Attachmentshewn her on his Majesty's Birth-Day. EXALTED stranger! may a Muse obscure Pay thee the tribute of affection pure; Thy virtues have endear'd thee to our isle, And Innocence has blest thee with her smile. Tho' Envy chose thee as a lofty mark, And strove to pierce thy bosom in the dark, Bright rose the Sun of Truth, his glorious ray Chas'd Envy and her howling fiends away. They fell—unable to sustain the light, Like Milton's legions, to the shades of night; Whilst Truth and Virtue, with their angel host, Hail'd thee! their triumph, and the nation's boast. Yes, my brave countrymen thy worth revere, Their manly hearts to thee allegiance bear; They see thee rise, try'd in affliction's fire, And pitying of thy woes, thyself admire. Else on that day when willing numbers meet, His people's father, and thy own, to greet, Why sprung from every tongue the glad acclaim? Why kindled every bosom at thy name? 'Till in one generous burst of grateful pride, Remembrance of thy rank was thrown aside. Yet while all hands in echoing plaudits join, Respect, love, admiration, all were thine. ON THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. WHEN Nelson fell, each poet try'd his lays, Each gave to valor the just meed of praise; But why were left unsung the brave who died, With equal courage fighting by his side? Britannia's tears were to the hero due, The nation mourn'd him, and I wept for you; Ye all had friends, within whose little sphere, Each was a Nelson to his country dear. Oh! that my Muse could hold ye up to fame, And from oblivion snatch each gallant name? But why that wish? within some faithful breast, Each name is treasur'd, and each form imprest. What tho' your bodies to the silent deep, Committed, till the last great day, shall sleep; When the last trumpet calls the dead to rise, And countless millions fill the vaulted skies; When ranks, distinctions, shall be laid aside, And only good and ill mankind divide. Justice to all th' impartial Judge shall give; The bad shall fall, the just for ever live. Then may his crews their gallant Nelson join, With him partake of joys immortal and divine. AN APOLOGY FOR AMUSEMENT,Suggested by reading a late popular Poem. WHEN with rash hand, her needle thrown aside, A female wields the pen with empty pride, Whom shall she dare invoke to lend her aid? Scorn'd by the poet, and th' industrious maid. If independency, not love of fame, Her only objects are, her only aim; Her cause she pleads, and trusts for its defence To female clemency, and manly sense. Arm'd by the power deriv'd from aids like these, She hopes for pardon, should she fail to please. Unus'd to roam, ne'er venturing on that sea, Which Gallia parts (my native isle) from thee; She to thy shores alone her verse confines, Nor asks when Bonaparte sleeps or dines. Yes, Britain, thou art blest with sterling worth, Thy fame is justly sounded round the earth; Nor shall thy sons the senate cease to grace, Nor wholesome laws to anarchy give place. Still shall thy authors wit and judgment guide; Thy merchants stem for thee th' advent'rous tide; Thy judges still th' impartial sentence give, Condemn the guilty, bid the virtuous live; Thy seamen hold their empire o'er the sea; Thy soldiers fearless bleed to keep thee free; Thy preachers teach immortal life to gain; And in his subjects' hearts thy monarch reign. Ne'er shall thy sons disgrace their father's name, But rank still foremost in the fields of fame; Whilst they who think that liberty expires, Shall see a Phoenix rising from her fires. Yet evils mingled with the good we own, The tares will flourish where the wheat is sown. True, on that day, when bounteous Heav'n decreed, The toil-worn beast should be from labor freed, Gives man the liberty to rest from care, And to the sinner opes the house of prayer. Amusement holds her court, and in her train Appears the young, the thoughtless, and profane; The off'ring of the heart from God she steals, And drags the victims at her chariot wheels. O'er all mankind at times her pow'r appears, "Grows with our growth, and strengthens" with our years. Yet not alike o'er all, that power extends, Virtue still lives, Religion has her friends; Else why with pious speed to thousands press, And teach the orphan babes their names to bless? Why crowd the chapel, where, from scornful pride, The blushing female seeks her shame to hide? Is it that Mathew with persuasive art, Attracts the multitude from every part? And whilst his manly sense, and pious zeal, With charm resistless aid his just appeal. In generous bosoms is it pity's claim, "To snatch from infamy a sinking name?" Or is it only that the charmed ear Delights the preacher's eloquence to hear? Ah! no, each equally attention draws, Repentance sues, but Mathew pleads her cause. Where the poor infants who no father's care, No mother's tenderness, are doom'd to share; Where they reside attend the wealthy train, Nor Hewlet asks, nor Printer sings in vain. Heav'n, to its creatures ever good and kind, Allows amusement to unbend the mind; And oft the stage instruction may impart, And whilst it charms the fancy, mend the heart. With diff'rent eyes the world each object sees, And what disgusts the one, the next will please. Some with delight on wond'rous Lambert gaze, Whilst others join in graceful Norval's praise; Some in sweet sounds, that o'er the senses steal, Feel extacy no language can reveal; Whilst others, list'ning with a leaden ear, Gape, yawn, and wonder what it is they hear; Alike to them the ass's hideous bray, Or the sweet tone that melts the soul away. Ye beaux, the butterflies of Britain's isle, That like that insect flutter for a while; And ye, fair belles, upon whose gentle breast, Sweet as the opening rose, the insects rest; Rouse, rouse, to arms, and round your idol stand, Fashion is lash'd by cruel Satire's hand: Oh! save your suff'ring queen, her rank restore, Employment dies when Fashion's reign is o'er. What tho' she ruin hurls on Folly's head, Still thousands gain by her their daily bread. For her are ply'd the labors of the loom; For her the flower distils its sweet perfume; Annual for her Siberia's desert shore, And rich Golconda's mines, their treasures pour; For her the ostrich yields its graceful plumes; For her are cull'd art's imitative blooms; For her eyes, arms, wigs, elbows, teeth, are made, And Fashion's body is a mass of trade. Nor is this all, where wide old ocean spreads, And people wish to let their vacant beds, Her fairy wand she waves: down flock the crowd, The sick, the rich, the pretty, and the proud. The first in search of health; the next of fame; The third a lover; and the fourth a name. Some will, perhaps, alledge that fashion rules, Where charity presides o'er infant schools; And that where Collyer's eloquence delights, The preacher, rather than the theme, invites. Forbid it, Heaven! that e'er the infant train Should raise their little hands to plead in vain; Strong is their influence o'er the human breast, And hard that heart which can resist the test. Tho' oft, alas! the hand, by need controul'd, Checks the warm heart that pants to offer gold; Yet in the treasury when with tearful eye, The widow casts her mite, and heaves a sigh; That sigh, that tear, shall not unnoticed fall, By the great Judge, who sees the hearts of all. And should the theatre allure the throng, And the heart melt at sorrows told in song; If sainted charity the soul refines, No matter where the bright effulgence shines. If to the tavern she will not repair, Let Ostentation take her vacant chair; She oft with useful emulation fires, And pleads the cause when Charity retires. But why, my Muse, do tears bedim thy eye? Why from thy bosom bursts th' indignant sigh? What scenes of national disgrace abound, For which no palliative can be found? Compassion pleads (where death is made a sport) For the poor brute, whose date of life is short. The bounteous God of all, at Nature's birth, Gave man dominion o'er the peopled earth; Gave the mute suff'rers for our food, our use, But never gave for brutal, base abuse; They feel, they suffer, agonize, and die, Their date is time, ours is eternity. Weigh well this thought, lest in the pain you give, Death which frees them, perhaps may bid you live, But not by cruelty to brutes alone, The soul polluted stands at Heav'n's high throne; Crimes of still deeper dye than these are found, A brother's blood cries from th' ensanguin'd ground. The phantoms of a weak disorder'd brain, Ideal honour, and her blood-stain'd train, When written in the awful book of fate, Read what they are, but read, alas! too late; No tears the guilty record can efface, No offer'd prayer can reach the throne of grace. From scenes like these the blushing Muse withdraws, Asham'd to yield, asham'd to plead her cause. Ye rich, ye noble, highly favor'd few, Whose bounty fosters like the falling dew; Whose title is the same your grandsires won, Whose large domain descends from sire to son. Rumour has whisper'd (but it is not true) That scenes like these are patroniz'd by you. That quite forgetful of illustrious birth, Your halls have echoed with th' intemperate mirth. Of wild confusion, and of uproar rude, Till health, and manly reason, were subdued; Vice and excess your welcome guests been made, Both friends of death, and partners in his trade; That Folly, enemy to Time, appears, Cards, and a dice-box, in her hands she bears, Shuffles and cuts, and for amusement's sake, Risks a few acres as a paltry stake; Then shakes the dice a nobler game to play, "And throws a goodly heritage away." Nor ends it here, for with the world at strife, The gamester stakes the heritage of life: The ills of time unable to sustain, He madly risks eternity of pain. Nor do the fair escape from Slander's tongue, Even them she taxes with a charge of wrong; Asserts that mothers lead unuseful lives, And lays domestic miseries to wives. This must be false; a mother's joy is home She cannot leave her infant charge to roam: Nor can a wife domestic woes create, Herself involving in her husband's fate. Reason denies the charge to both assign'd, Since wives and mothers cannot be so blind: 'Tis true they love to skim the idle page, And catch the living manners of the age, Oft by the skilful satirist well pourtray'd, And oft the vehicle of nonsense made; Where glorious Freedom holds her public court, Alike the vicious and the good resort; And where the fount to both alike is free, Instruction's stream will not untainted be. But not from books do serious evils flow, In minds well cultur'd vice can never grow; 'Tis true the seed corrupt a while may lie, But wanting proper soil will rot and die. Oh ye to whom the sacred task's assign'd, To cultivate and form the infant mind; The tender plant with early virtue feed, And round it sow religion's precious seed. Then with its growth the sure support shall grow, Shield from temptation, guard from misery's blow; Yield its sure solace when the spirits fail, Stem the rough tide, oppose the adverse gale; Steer the poor shatter'd bark, when almost lost, And fix its anchor on the Heavenly coast. This is the source whence happiness must rise, No matter whether in the head it lies, Or whether in the heart supreme it reigns, The search is little worth our thought or pain, Be it but ours in verity and truth, 'Twill comfort age, and check the heat of youth. Think not I mean religion's form severe, The garb which hypocrites delight to wear; That calls the young from mild amusement's way, Where innocence would lead, and virtue stay; Far be my thoughts from doctrines such as these, Th' Almighty giver meant His gifts to please; Fill'd Nature's lap with flowers profuse and fair, And bid us round our brow the garland wear; With fascinating charms deck'd Pleasure's form, But gave us Faith, a pilot in the storm; That when on Pleasure's sea, with prosp'rous gale, Too eagerly we croud the swelling sail, Nor guide the rudder with a steady hand, Regardless of the rocks or sinking sand. When the clouds blacken and the waves run high, And gathering storms remind us Death is nigh, If Faith we call, bid her the rudder guide, Reef the full sails, and stem the whelming tide: Ne'er call'd in vain, she comes at our request, And steers us to the haven of our rest. THE CRAZY MAID. IN yonder cot that skirts the vale, A lovely maiden once I knew; But now her beauteous cheek is pale, And dim her eyes of heavenly blue. Light as the bounding roe, her feet Were wont to trace the verdant plain; Gay as the lark, with notes as sweet, She carol'd forth the lively strain. But now no more her wood-notes wild Shall charm the list'ning stranger's ear; No more she roves sweet nature's child, Lovely as young, and good as fair. Ill fated maid! thy bridal day, Thy aged parents hop'd to greet; When death thy lover snatch'd away, And reason vacant left her seat. One were their hearts—for grief or joy, Nor either singly felt or knew; Childhood had form'd the social tie, And with their years affection grew. 'Twas on a fair September's morn, With joy to seek his destin'd bride, Young Allan rose at early dawn, And join'd his faithful Emma's side. Adieu! he cry'd, my gentle maid, I go to tend my fleecy care; At noon I'll seek the well known shade, With thee my humble meal to share. Sweet is to me the humble meal, Dress'd by thy hand, and shar'd with thee; And sweet from noontide heat to steal, Beneath our fav'rite spreading tree. Ah! hapless youth, thy race is run, No more shalt thou thy Emma see; Nor shelter more from noontide sun, Beneath the well-known shady tree. As o'er the field where lately grew The full ear'd corn (a pleasing sight); Alarm'd the whirring coveys flew, The levell'd tube arrests their flight. So Allan fell—the murd'rous hand That laid him low was, Raymond, thine; Yet friendship in her closest band, With Allan's did thy heart entwine. Oh! say then, why the fatal wrong, Was thine to part the plighted pair? But horror ties thy guiltless tongue, And on thy lip sits mute despair. Where yonder hedge-row parts the vale, His much-lov'd friend young Allan spied; Ran eagerly the bank to scale; The slipp'ry bank his wish deny'd. I cannot reach thy hand, he cry'd, As high above him Raymond stood; Hold out thy gun,—the youth comply'd, And Allan welter'd in his blood. Behind the parted bush conceal'd, Lurk'd Death—with aim for ever true; 'Gainst whom th' unequal spear we wield, Whom all must combat, none subdue. Not in terrific pomp array'd, As when on Egypt's hostile plain, Britons amidst unnumber'd dead, Saw gallant Abercrombie slain. But as to shew mankind how vain Were all their arts to 'scape his toils, The sceptre of his powerful reign Was the bent twig that back recoils. This to the trigger he applies, The loaded gun the touch obeys; Young Allan falls, he bleeds, he dies, Cropt in the dawn of manhood's days. 'Tis thus in life thro' every stage, Death's never-failing agent, Time, Stops not to cull the full of age, But mows the flow'rs of youthful prime. On his wan cheek the victor Death Triumphant rear'd his standard pale; Dim grew his eye, his short'ning breath, And flutt'ring pulse, began to fail. His frantic friend, with fear aghast, To stanch the wound his garments tore; The vital stream that flow'd so fast, Was doom'd, alas! to ebb no more. With falt'ring step and haggard eye, The victim to his home he bears; Where every art that skill could try, Was join'd to unavailing prayers. But hush; my Muse, let silence veil The lover's, parents', friend's distress; Words cannot paint the tragic tale, Each feeling heart will better guess. No tears have since down Emma's cheeks, With kind relief been seen to flow; But fixt she stands, with aspect meek, Like statue o'er the tomb of woe. In yonder cot that skirts the vale, When first the lovely maid I knew; Her beauteous cheek was never pale, Nor dim her eyes of heavenly blue. STANZAS. I LOVE to watch the kindling skies, When Phœbus wakes the blushing morn; To see the soaring lark arise, Whilst dew-drops glitter on the thorn. At noon to watch the wand'ring bee, Upon the fragrant wild-thyme rest; Or roving o'er the blossom'd tree, Sip honey from each fair flowers breast. I love at close of day to roam, When evening paints the West with gold; To hear the rooks returning home, Or see the shepherd penn his fold. At night to see the moon-beam pale, Shed its soft light o'er dale and hill; To hear the plaintive nightingale, When ev'ry song, save her's, is still. But chief of all I love to trace, His hand divine who form'd the whole; Morn, noon, eve, night, fair Nature's face, His pow'r proclaim from pole to pole. HYMN,ON THE LATE PLENTEOUS SEASON. ALMIGHTY Lord! thy lib'ral hand, Spreads plenty round this smiling land; Thy voice divine the sun obeys, And cheers all nature with his rays. Thou giv'st the word, the fruitful soil, Rewards the labourer's useful toil; With joy the golden grain we see, And raise our grateful hearts to thee. What tho' our clime no olives yields, Nor vines luxuriant deck our fields; Yet o'er our hills and fruitful plains, The corn, which chiefly life sustains, On earth's maternal bosom thrown, We hail! with transport, as our own; And bless Thy bounteous hand, that gives "A common feast to all that lives." Continue, Lord, o'er us thy care; Still raise our hearts in praise and pray'r: In praise, for blessings we possess; In pray'r, that Thou wilt always bless, And make Britannia's favor'd isle, With plenty, freedom, commerce smile; So shall we still Thy pow'r proclaim, And thousand voices bless Thy name. With vict'ry flush'd, with conquest vain, Should th' Usurper cross the main; Save, Lord, our country from the blow, And make the haughty tyrant know, The battle and the race belong Not always to the swift or strong; Britain may Fall at Thy decree, But spare her, Lord, to worship thee. PARODY FROM ROWE. OF all the various tides of human woe, How few from industry or prudence flow; Were we but less ambitious to be great; Did we but shun the useless glare of state; So many of our race would not in vain Of want and chilling penury complain. Whom Prudence guides may readily obtain, Of what is useful, necessary, plain, All things to comfort nature and sustain. COMAL AND GALVINA,From the Second Book of Fingal—Ossian's Poems. THY story is mournful, oh! son of the car, Said Carril, the bard of the times that are gone; Cuthullin, it sends my soul backward afar, To ages of old, to the days that are flown. The tale I've heard often of Comal, who slew The friend whom he lov'd, whom he sorrow'd for sore; Yet his steel was victorious, his enemies flew, Consum'd was the battle his presence before. A son of old Albion was Comal the brave, And chief of an hundred green hills that rose high; His deer in a thousand clear streams us'd to lave, A thousand rocks echo'd his dogs to reply. His face was the mildness of beautiful youth, His hand was the death of the heroes his foes; But one was his love—fair as virtue and truth, The daughter of Conloch the mighty arose. Like a sunbeam 'mongst women her beauty appear'd, And black as the wing of the raven her hair; Her dogs for the chase of the forest were rear'd, The sound of her bow-string oft rung on the air. Her soul fixt on Comal, and oft met their eyes; Their course in the chase of the deer was but one: And happy their words were when peace gave its joys, And they saw not the gath'ring storm coming on. But Gormal lov'd also the beautiful maid, Dark chief of the deep gloomy Ardven was he; He watch'd her lone steps o'er the heath as she stray'd, Thy foe, gentle Comal, unhappy for thee. One day, when fatigu'd with the chase of the deer, The grey mist concealing their friends from their sight; To Ronan's lone cave they for shelter repair, The haunt of young Comal when tir'd from the fight. Its sides all around with his armour were hung, An hundred broad shields of the warrior were there; An hundred steel helmets, which sounding had rung, When far back recoil'd the death aimed spear. Rest here, my Galvina, he said, without fear, Thou light of the dark cave of Ronan remain; On Mora's high brow I behold the wild deer, I go, but will quickly be with thee again. I fear to remain, said the white bosom'd maid, This cave is the haunt of dark Gormal, my foe; 'Mongst the arms I will rest, lest my peace he invade Return soon, oh Comal! my love, if thou go. He went to the deer he on Mora beheld, The daughter of Conloch his love thought to try; She cloth'd her fair sides with his armour, his shield, And strode from the cave with his helmet so high. He thought her his foe, and his heart at the sight Beat high with revenge, and his color swift fled; O'er his eyes swam the dimness of darkness and night, And swift from his bow-string an arrow he sped. In blood fell Galvina, his aim was too true, On the daughter of Conloch he call'd, but in vain; With steps full of wildness and terror he flew, The lonely rock answering his voice not again. Where art thou, my love? oh, appear to my view! At length he saw (all that fate left to him now) Her heaving heart beat round the arrow he threw, Oh! daughter of Conloch, he cry'd, is it thou? He sunk on her breast—by the hunters were found The pair, who so hapless, so constant did prove; A while with slow pace he the hill walk'd around, But many his steps to the tomb of his love. The fleet of the ocean at length call'd the brave, He fought, and the strangers gave way to his might; O'er the field he sought death, he wish'd for the grave, But who could slay Comal the valiant in fight? His shield of dark brown from his bosom he threw, No longer death strove the fond lovers to part; An arrow swift wing'd at the hero there flew, And deep was his manly breast pierc'd with the dart. And now where the noise of the surges resound, Which the mariner hears as he bounds o'er the wave; Where blows the bleak north wind, the green tombs are found, Where sleep fair Galvina and Comal the brave. THE ABSENT SOLDIER. A SOLDIER's life, how full of care! When call'd from all he holds most dear, As I from thee by fate severe, My lovely Betsy. But yet the hope that thou art true, Does every anxious thought subdue, And future bliss presents to view, With thee, my Betsy. If doom'd the hostile foe to meet, My heart with ardent hope shall beat, To lay my laurels at thy feet, My gentle Betsy. For should the trumpet cease to sound, And Peace be with her olive crown'd, What joy to meet, on British ground, My faithful Betsy. TO MISS MARY M....,On her wishing to procure some of the Author's Writings before they were designed for Publication. WHEN an enemy seeks the possession Of a fortress or city to gain; He does not resort to oppression, As the method his wish to obtain. But viewing the out-works all over, Tries where the attack may be made; Attempts the weak side to discover, Or bribes o'er some guard to his aid. So you, my dear Mary, supposing That to Pride was committed the keys, Sent Flatt'ry, while Judgment was dozing, And seiz'd on my treasures with ease. Should Judgment be try'd by court-martial, Not a word can in favor be said; The court surely this verdict impartial. Must give—"Lost through defect in the head." But as when a fortress has yielded, Some mercy the prisoners are shewn; Be my works by your clemency shielded, And not to the public made known. TO BENEVOLENCE. OH! thou that wipes, with friendly hand, The streaming tear from sorrow's eye; That soothes despair with accents bland, And bids the mourner cease to sigh. Benevolence! meek Nature's child, Thy silent step delights to stray, Where the pale cheek, or aspect wild, Would scare Indifference away. In the low cot where drooping lies, The widow with her orphan care; 'Tis thy delight to bid them rise To brighter scenes and prospects fair. E'en where the guilty suff'rer pleads, If Penitence prepares the way, Thy willing hand to comfort leads, Teaching the sinner how to pray. Soft as descends the fost'ring dew, Thy ready aid relief bestows; Yet ever screen'd from public view, None but thyself thy bounty knows. Conceal'd by delicacy's veil, Thou would'st my trusty spies elade; But such disguise will nought avail, Since not so blind is Gratitude. She sees that tho' resolv'd to bless, Thou would'st the noble deed disown; And whil'st thou giv'st the wish'd success, Impute it to desert alone. Ah! vain attempt, each generous name, With which this favor'd page is grac'd, Shall gratitude aloud proclaim, That thou alone hast in it plac'd. W. Wilson, Printer, St. John's Square.