But merely to remark, that ours, That seem'd to promise no such prize; And made almost without a meaning, That Solomon has wisely spoken; TO MRS. KING, ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR; A PATCHWORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING. [August 14, 1790.] THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all, Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, (As Homer's Epic shows,) Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which, in the scorching day, What labours of the loom I see! To scramble for the patch that bears And oh, what havoc would ensue ! All in a moment fled! As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowersEach pocketing a shred. Thanks, then, to every gentle fair And thanks to One above them all, SONNET. TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. [April 16, 1792.] THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Hope smiles, Joy springs, and, though cold Caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. From all the Just on earth, and all the Blest above TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. [May 26, 1792.] AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, And O! could I command the glittering wealth Were in the power of verse like mine to give, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. Friend of my friend!* I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. SONNET, TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. On his picture of me in Crayons, drawn at Eartham, in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792. [October, 1792.] ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone Thou hast so pencil'd mine that, though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. * Hayley. But this I mark-that symptoms none of woe Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; TO MRS. UNWIN. [May, 1793.] MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, And undebased by praise of meaner things, By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. |