ΤΟ

MISS C, ON HER BIRTH DAY.

[1786.]

How many between east and west,

Disgrace their parent earth,

Whose deeds constrain us to detest

The day that gave them birth!
Not so when Stella's natal morn

Revolving months restore,

We can rejoice that she was born,
And wish her born once more!

GRATITUDE.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH.

[1786.]

THIS cap, that so stately appears,

With ribbon-bound tassel on high,

Which seems by the crest that it rears
Ambitious of brushing the sky:

This cap to my cousin I owe,

She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreath'd into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied.

This wheel-footed studying chair,
Contriv'd both for toil and repose,
Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,
In which I both scribble and dose,

Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,
And rival in lustre of that

In which, or astronomy lies,

Fair Cassiopeïa sat:

These carpets, so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride!

Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot,

Escap'd from a cross-country ride!

This table and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust,

At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust:

This moveable structure of shelves,

For its beauty admired and its use,

And charged with octavos and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce;

Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,
My poems enchanted I view,

And hope, in due time, to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too:

This china, that decks the alcove,
Which here people call a buffet,

But what the gods call it above,

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us as yet: These curtains, that keep the room warm Or cool as the season demands,

Those stoves that for pattern and form,

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands.

All these are not half that I owe

To One, from our earliest youth To me ever ready to show

Benignity, friendship, and truth; For time, the destroyer declar'd And foe of our perishing kind,

If even her face he has spar'd,

Much less could he alter her mind.

Thus compass'd about with the goods
And chattels of leisure and ease,

I indulge my poctical moods

In many such fancies as these;

And fancies I fear they will seem--

Poets' goods are not often so fine;

The poets will swear that I dream,

When I sing of the splendour of mine.

THE

FLATTING-MILL.

AN ILLUSTRATION.

WHEN a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.

Thus tortur'd and squeez'd, at last it appears Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show, Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears, And warm'd by the pressure is all in a glow.

This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain
The thump-after-thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill from a delicate palate.