If scorn of God's commands, impressed
On word and deed, imply
The better part of man unblessed
With life that cannot die:
Such want it, and that want, uncured
Till man resigns his breath,
Speaks him a criminal, assured
Of everlasting death.
Sad period to a pleasant course!
Yet so will God repay
Sabbaths profaned without remorse,
And mercy cast away.
FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.
PAUSE here, and think; a monitory rhyme
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to say-"Health here has long to reign ?"
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;
And many a time, like Hamilton's, aloud
Exclaims, "Prepare thee for an early shroud."
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose feet ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halo'.
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who nursed with tender care,
And to domestic hounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
Or pippin's russet peal,
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Slice carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round rolling moous
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
Hic etiam jacet,
Qui totum novennium vixit
Puss.
Siste paulisper,
Qui præteriturus es,-
Et tecum sic reputa-
Hunc neque canis venaticus,
Nec plumbum missile,
Nec laqueus,
Nec imbres nimii,
Confecere:
Tamen mortuus est—
Et moriar ego.
ON THE FIRST PUBLICATION OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. IN
To rescue from the tyrant's sword
Th' oppressed;-unseen and unimplored,
To cheer the face of wo;
From lawless insult to defend
An orphan's right- a fallen friend,
And a forgiven foe;
These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good,
The guardians of mankind;
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave
O, with what matchless speed, they leave
The multitude behind!
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth,
Derived from heaven alone,
Full on that favoured breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join
To call the blessing down.
Such is that heart :-but while the Muse
Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues,
Her feeble spirits faint:
She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an angel's song,
The hero, and the saint!
ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE
AND dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous heaven designed
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined—
Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and wo.
Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soe'er the verse complain,
Though Phoebus string the lyre.
Come then, fair maid, (in nature wise)
Who knowing them can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell.
In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.
With lenient balm, may Ob'ron hence
To fairy-land be driven;
With every herb that blunts the sense
Mankind received from Heaven.
"Oh! if my Sovereign Author please,
Far be it from my fate,
To live, unblest in torpid ease
And slumber on in state.
'Each tender tie of life defied
Whence social pleasures spring,
Unmoved with all the world beside,
A solitary thing-"
Some alpine mountain, wrapt in snow
Thus braves the whirling blast,
Eternal winter doomed to know,
No genial spring to taste.
In vain warm suns their influence shed
The zephyrs sport in vain,
He rears, unchanged, his barren head,
Whilst beauty decks the plain.
What though in scaly armour drest,
Indifference may repel
The shafts of wo-in such a breast
No joy can ever dwell.
"Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fixed by heaven's decree,
'That all the true delights of man
Should spring from Sympathy.
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