But when a poet takes the pen, Far more alive than other men, He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Derived from nature's noblest part, The centre of a glowing heart: And this is what the world, who knows No flights above the pitch of prose, His more sublime vagaries slighting, Denominates an itch for writing. No wonder I, who scribble rhyme To catch the triflers of the time, And tell them truths divine and clear, Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear; Who labour hard to allure and draw The loiterers I never saw, Should feel that itching and that tingling To your intrinsic merit true, When call'd to address myself to you. Mysterious are His ways, whose power Brings forth that unexpected hour, And marks the bounds of our abode. Peasants and children all around us, Not dreaming of so dear a friend, Say, Anna, had you never known The beauties of a rose full blown, 'An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of Cowper, which faced the market-place. 2 Lady Austen's residence in France. Could you, though luminous your eye, The works of man tend, one and all, As needs they must, from great to small; The monuments of human strength. That cleaves the yielding air unheard, Not that I deem, or mean to call That seem'd to promise no such prize; And made almost without a meaning, S. C.-9. Y Produced a friendship, then begun, And placed it in our power to prove, That Solomon has wisely spoken,— TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, MAY 28, 1782. SAYS the Pipe to the Snuff-box, I can't understand And I am so much fallen into disgrace. Do but see what a pretty contemplative air I give to the company,-pray do but note 'em,You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there, Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham. My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but sniveling and blowing of noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear. Then lifting his lid in a delicate way, And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging, The Box in reply was heard plainly to say,― What a silly dispute is this we are waging! If you have a little of merit to claim, You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed; And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, But of any thing else they may choose to put in us. THE COLUBRIAD. 1782. CLOSE by the threshold of a door nail'd fast At the three kittens cast a careless eye, Not much concern'd to know what they did there, Caused me to stop, and to exclaim "What's this?" A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Who having never seen, in field or house, Only projecting, with attention due, Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?" |