FROM THE PAINTING BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE IN THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY
ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER
COWPER had sinned with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers,
He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers.
But male for female is a trope, Or rather bold misnomer, That would have startled even Pope When he translated Homer.
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, Esq.
THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious called Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralled From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-galled, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain! Thou hast achieved a part; hast gained the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause.
Hope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth and all the blest above.
BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER
HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind, While young, humane, conversable, and kind; Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, Now grown a villain and the worst of men ; But rather some suspect who have oppressed And worried thee, as not themselves the best.
TO DR. AUSTEN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON
AUSTEN! accept a grateful verse from me, The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind Pleasing requital in a verse may find; Verse oft has dashed the scythe of time aside, Immortalizing names which else had died.
And oh! could I command the glittering wealth With which sick kings are glad to purchase health, Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his heart with less, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.
Friend of my friend! I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
HAYLEY, thy tenderness fraternal, shown In our first interview, delightful guest! To Mary, and me for her dear sake distressed, Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown ; For threescore winters make a wintry breast, And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest Of friendship more, except with God alone. But thou hast won me: nor is God my foe, Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, My brother, by whose sympathy I know Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
Not more to admire the bard than love the man.
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY H. ROBINSON AFTER A DRAWING BY W. HARVEY OF THE ORIGINAL PORTRAIT BY GEORGE ROMNEY
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