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, Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, (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! 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, * 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. 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 No mischief uninvok'd ť avenge the wrong. And mingle the whole labour of your hands, And may a sound fill all your oven, such While all your pots and flagons bounce within. 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 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. |