ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world's gay busy throng;

With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course:
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes,
Pure bosom'd as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.

SONG ON PEACE.

AIR-" My fond shepherds of late," &c.

No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue;
O Happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true Wisdom inspires; "Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may

be the lot of the mind

That seeks it in meekness and love: But rapture and bliss are confined

To the glorified spirits above.

SONG.

AIR-" The Lass of Patie's Mill.”

WHEN all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile! Delights that never cease,

The livelong day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers
Fresh blessings to deceive
And sooth the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please;
The mind that feels no smart
Enlivens all it sees:
Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd
In nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill display'd,
Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best;

It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

ON THE

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Written when the News arrived,

SEPT. 1782.

To the March in Scipio.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last seafight is fought;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

SONNET TO WM. WILBERFORCE, ESQ.

1792.

THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the' enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.

Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd 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 Bless'd above.

SONNET TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

ON HIS EMPHATICAL AND INTERESTING DELIVERY OF THE DEFENCE OF WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes Legends prolix delivers in the ears [hard, (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's

peers,

Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.
Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head: and couldst with music
Of attic phrase and senatorial tone, [sweet
Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON.

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.

1793.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.