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(As Homer's Epic shows,) Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Without the aid of sun or showers,

For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the


swain Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,

Till roused to toil again. What labours of the loom I see! Looms numberless have groan'd for me! Should every

maiden come To scramble for the patch that bears The impress of the robe she wears,

The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue!
This bright display of every hue

All in a moment fled !
As if a storm should strip the bowers
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers,—

Each pocketing a shred.
Thanks, then, to every gentle Fair,
Who will not come to peck me bare

As bird of borrow'd feather,
And thanks to one, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,

Who put the whole together.




Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating Worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
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,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee.
Thee to deplore were grief mispent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky,
And glory for the virtuous, when they die.

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, Sweet as the privilege of healing woe By virtue suffer'd combating below? That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Thou hadst an industry in doing good, Restless as his who toils and sweats for food; Avarice, in thee, was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable or by stealth; And if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end,

Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given.
And, though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impell’d thee more to that heroic course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat,
And though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.

Such was thy charity; no sudden start,
After long sleep, of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to the eternal mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,
To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, Love.

Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake;
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and power exemplified in thee.



Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind
While young humane, conversable, and kind;
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men.
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.



MAY, 1791.


“ I could be well content, allow'd the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"

Thus while grey evening lull’d the wind, and callid
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,
And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied:

“Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past ?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgements, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?"

I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass’d, and next consider'd, what is man?

Knows he his origin ? can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date ?
Slept he in Adam ? and in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born ?

Or was he not, till fashion’d in the womb ?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toil'd
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.

It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless, if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.


May, 1791.

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,

Of numerous charms possessid,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,

Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete,

Had both alike been mild ;
But one, although her smile was sweet,

Frown'd oftener than she smiled.

And in her humour, when she frown'd,

Would raise her voice and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground

The garland that she wore.

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