« PředchozíPokračovat »
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man !
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
And harder to withstand.
You cried_forbear !_but in
breast A mightier cried—proceed !'Twas nature, sir, whose strong behest
Impellid me to the deed.
Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break (As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
And panting press’d the floor ;
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.
obedience then excuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow;
If killing birds be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,)
With verse address'd to me?
STANZAS ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH,
BY MISS CATHARINE FANSHAWE,
IN RETURNING A POEM OF MR. COWPER'S, LENT TO HER ON CONDITION
SHE SHOULD NEITHER SHOW IT, NOR TAKE A COPY.
To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree ;
The press might sleep for me.
Of many a Grecian belle,
But never lodged so well.
SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA, ON HIS TRANSLATING THE AUTHOR'S SONG ON A ROSE INTO
My rose, Gravina, blooms anew;
And steep'd not now in rain,
Will never fade again.
ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.
The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM MR. HAYLEY.
Ост. 1793. .
I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain
AUTUMN OF 1793.
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Thy needles, once a shining store,
my sake restless heretofore,
My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently prest, press gently mine,
My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,
My Mary! And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,