صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

ON RECEIVING HALEY'S PICTURE.

IN language warm as could be breathed or penner,
Thy picture speaks th' original, my friend,
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind-
They only speak thee friend of all mankind;
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.

ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER.

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN SEAT.

THRIVE, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me,

And deck with many a splendid flower
Thy foliage large and free.

Thou cam'st from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honoured brows as they.

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crowned with virgin's bower?

TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NET-WORK PURSE, MADE BY HER

SELF.

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,

When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,
I thank thee for my purse.

Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love;-that gem's too dear
For richest rogues to win it;

I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they
drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or wo 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.

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 doomed hencefo th
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise ?

That he has furnished lights for other eyes
Which they, who need them use, and then lespise.

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 killed 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.

My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,

I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man?

BEAU'S REPLY.

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

You cried-forbear-but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed-
"Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest
Impelled 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 fluttered all his strength away,
And panting pressed the floor,

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kissed his ruffled wing,
And licked the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourselves 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 addressed to me?

TO MARY.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since our first sky was overcast,

Ah would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

grow

I see them daily weaker
"Twas my distress that brought thee low

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou playd'st the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art,

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

My Mary!

Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary;

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

« السابقةمتابعة »