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And fancies I fear they will seem
Poets' goods are not often so fine;
COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF
ASHLEY COW PER, ESQ.
IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH.
BY HIS NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON.
FAREWELL! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! In prime of life, for sprightliness enrollid Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ;
In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!)
SONG ON PEACE. WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THE REQUEST OF
LADY AUSTEN, WHO GAVE THE SENTIMENT.
Air—“ My fond shepherds of late,” &c. No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue ;
Unattainable treasure, adieu !
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
But have proved thee a vision at last.
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.
Air-" The Lass of Pattie's Mill.”
The live-long day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,
With open hand she showers
And soothe the silent hours.
Gives nature power to please;
Enlivens all it sees,
Seem bright as smiling May,
As peep of early day.
So beauteously array'd
With wondrous skill display'd,
A dreary wild at best ;
And longs to be at rest.
EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.
January, 1785. HERE Johnson lies, a sage by all allow'd, Whom to have bred, may well make England proud ; Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; Whose verse may claim, grave masculine and strong, Superior praise to the mere poet's song ;
Who many a noble gift from Heaven possess'd,
Disgrace their parent earth, .
The day that gave them birth!
Revolving months restore,
And wish her born once more!
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 rolld
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. Thus tortured and squeezed, 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 achieved, 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.
Alas for the Poet, who dares undertake :
To urge reformation of national ill!
With the double employment of mallet and mill.
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow, Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,
And catch in its progress a sensible glow. After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows, For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
Was still a wild Jack hare.