INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE
AUTHOR'S GARDEN.

THIS cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to the last retreat.
May, 1793.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they

drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
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.

May, 1793.

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. ON HIS PRESENTING
ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold the fruit of thy regard,

The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:

Joy too and grief-much joy that there should be, Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn; critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,

Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. May, 1793.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO RAIN HAD

FALLEN THERE.

IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church, endow'd

With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;

In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry Heaven grant us half the omen-may we see Not drought on others, but much dew on thec ! May, 1793.

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING
A YOUNG BIRD.

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But

you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,

Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat
And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.

SIR, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

breast

You cried-Forbear!--but in my
A mightier cried—Proceed !--
'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet, much as nature I respect,

I ventured once to break

(As you perhaps may recollect)

Her precept for

your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor.

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,

I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let

my

obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow:

If killing birds be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,)

What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

DEAR architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!

O for permission from the skies to share,

Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequal'd birth!
But what his commentators' happiest praise?

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.
June 29, 1793.