And fancies I fear they will seem

Poets' goods are not often so fine ; The poets will swear that I dream,

When I sing of the splendour of mine.

LINES,

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF

ASHLEY COW PER, ESQ.

IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH,

BY HIS NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON.

JUNE, 1788.

FAREWELL! endued with all that could

engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! In prime of life, for sprightliness enrollid Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ;

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!) Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd! Through every period of this changeful state Unchanged thyself-wise, good, affectionate!

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half supprest, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

SONG ON PEACE.

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THE REQUEST OF

LADY AUSTEN, WHO GAVE THE SENTIMENT.

Air—" My fond shepherds of late,” &c. No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue ;
O happiness! not to be found,

Unattainable treasure, adieu !
I have sought thee in splendour and dress,

In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,

But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope,

And the summit of all our desires.

Peace

may

be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined

To the glorified spirits above.

SONG.

ALSO WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN.

Air—" The Lass of Pattie's Mill."
When all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile!
Delights that never cease,

The live-long day beguile.
S. C.-9.

A A

From morn to dewy eve,
With
open

hand she showers
Fresh blessings to deceive,

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please ;
The mind that feels no smart

Enlivens all it sees,
Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,
And evening's closing eye

As peep of early day.
The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd
In nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd,
Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best;
It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.

JANUARY, 1785. HERE Johnson lies, a sage by all allow'd, Whom to have bred, may well make England proud ; Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; Whose verse may claim, grave masculine and strong, Superior praise to the mere poet's song;

Who many a noble gift from Heaven possess'd,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth, by glory in the skies !

TO

MISS C

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

1786.

How
many

between east and west,
Disgrace their parent earth,
Whose deeds constrain us to detest

The day that gave them birth!
Not so when Stella's natal morn

Revolving months restore,
We can rejoice that she was born,

And wish her born once more!

THE FLATTING-MILL.

AN ILLUSTRATION.

When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold

Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length, It is pass'd between cylinders often, and rolld

In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears

Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show, Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,

And warm’d by the pressure is all in a glow.

This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain

The thump-after-thump of a gold-beater's mallet, And at last is of service in sickness or pain

To cover a pill from a delicate palate.
Alas for the Poet, who dares undertake

To urge reformation of national ill!
His head and his heart are both likely to ache

With the double employment of mallet and mill. If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,

Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow, Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,

And catch in its progress a sensible glow.

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine

As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows, For truth is unwelcome, however divine,

And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,

Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,

Was still a wild Jack hare.