Some taste of comfort in a world of woe,
Then let the supercilious great confess
He serves his country, recompenses well

The state beneath the shadow of whose vine

He sits secure, and in the scale of life

970

Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.

The man whose virtues are more felt than seen
Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ;
But he may boast what few that win it can,
That if his country stand not by his skill,
At least his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite refinement offers him in vain

Her golden tube, through which a sensual world
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,

975

The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.

980

Not that he peevishly rejects a mode

Because that world adopts it. If it bear

The stamp and clear impression of good sense,

And be not costly more than of true worth,

He puts it on, and for decorum sake

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Can wear it even as gracefully as she.
She judges of refinement by the eye,

He by the test of conscience, and a heart

Not soon deceived; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling, and that vice,
Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed,
Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers,
Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care
Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved

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995

Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and so at last,
My share of duties decently fulfilled,
May some disease, not tardy to perform
Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke
Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,
Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

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1005

It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called
To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,
I played awhile, obedient to the fair,

ΙΟΙΟ

With that light task; but soon, to please her more,
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,
Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;
Roved far, and gathered much: some harsh, 'tis true,
Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,

But wholesome, well digested; grateful some

To palates that can taste immortal truth,

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Insipid else, and sure to be despised.

But all is in His hand whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,
If He regard not, though divine the theme.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime
And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,

To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
Whose approbation prosper—even mine.

1020

MINOR POEMS.

1. AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK ;

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

OH that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blessed be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:

5

IO

15

And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss : Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! It answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ?—It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

20

25

30

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

35

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled,

40

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learnt at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

45

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

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The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

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Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes

That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

70

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin

75

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

80

here?