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النشر الإلكتروني

TO MRS. KING,

ON

Her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work

Counterpane of her own making.

[AUGUST 14, 1790.]

THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,

Must sure be quicken'd by a call

Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a Lady fair

Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,

(As Homer's Epic shows)

Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs,

Without the aid of sun or show'rs

For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,

Is that which in the scorching day

Receives the weary swain

Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied "Till rous'd to toil again.

What labours of the loom I see!

Looms numberless have groan'd for me!

Should ev'ry maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears

The impress of the robe she wears,

The Bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue!
This bright display of ev'ry hue

All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bow'rs

Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs

Each pocketting a shred.

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle Fair

Who will not come to peck me bare

As bird of borrow'd feather,

And thanks to One, above them all,

The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,

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* Certain potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows:

PAY me my price, Potters! and I will sing.
Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm

Protect their oven; let the cups and all

*Note by the Editor.-No Title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a translation of one of the Enуpauμara of Homer, called O Kayivos, or the Furnace. The prefatory lines are from the Greek of Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him.

The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked

With good success, yield them both fair renown And profit, whether in the market sold

Or street, and let no strife ensue between us.

But, oh ye Potters! if with shameless front
Ye falsify your promise, then I leave

No mischief uninvok'd ť avenge the wrong.
Come Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes come,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape,
May ye lament to see confusion mar

And mingle the whole labour of your hands,

And may a sound fill all your oven, such
As of a horse grinding his provender,

While all your pots and flagons bounce within.
Come hither also, daughter of the sun,

Circe the Sorceress, and with thy drugs

Poison themselves, and all that they have made! Come also Chiron, with thy num'rous troop

L

Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath
The club of Hercules, as who escaped,
And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall
Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes
And howl to see the ruin of their art,
While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop
To peep into his furnace, may the fire
Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men
Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.

IN MEMORY

OF THE LATE

JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.

[NOVEMBER, 1790.]

POETS attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man, And, next, commemorating Worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most.

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