But less to our grief, could we view And therefore this union of hands Since therefore I seem to incur life- SONNET. TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. On his picture of me in crayons, drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792. ROMNEY expert, infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every faceWith strokes that time ought never to erase, Thou hast so penciled mine, that though. I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. But this I mark-that symptons none of wo In thy incomparable work appear. Well I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Haley's guest, and sat to thee? ON RECEIVING HALEY'S PICTURE. IN language warm as could be breathed or penned, ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER. DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN SEAT. THRIVE, gentle plant! and weave a bower And deck with many a splendid flower Thou cam'st from Eartham, and wilt shade Some future day th' illustrious head Of him who made thee mine. Should Daphne show a jealous frown, Such honoured brows as they. Thy cause with zeal we shall defend, 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, Gold pays the worth of all things here; I, therefore, as a proof of love, TO MRS. UNWIN. MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new But thou hast little need. There is a book There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 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! But I am bankrupt now; and doomed henceforth That he has furnished lights for other eyes, ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you, But you have killed a tiny bird, Against my orders, whom you heard Nor did you kill that you might eat, For him, though chased with furious heat, Nor was he of the thievish sort, My dog! what remedy remains, I see you, after all my pains, BEAU'S REPLY. SIR, when I flew to seize the bird You cried-forbear-but in my breast Yet much as nature I respect, And when your linnet on a day, Had fluttered all his strength away, Well knowing him a sacred thing, Let my obedience then excuse Nor some reproof yourselves refuse If killing birds be such a crime, What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse addressed to me? |