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His pleasure, or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
P the centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once (and whọ but he ?)
The name for setting genius free,
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise,
And he by no uncommon lot
Was famed for virtues he had not ;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His highness may have taken huff,
So seldom sought with invocation,
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,
I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,
Than if I saw, through midnight vapour,
The glimmering of a farthing taper.
Oh, for a succedaneum, then,
To accelerate a creeping pen!
Oh, for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,
Et morbo jam caliginoso !
'Tis here ; this oval box, well fill'd
With best tobacco, finely millid,
Beats all Anticyra's pretences
To disengage the encumber'd senses.
Oh, Nymph of Transatlantic fame,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide,
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed,
Which, whether pulverized it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,

Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine.
Forgive the Bard, if Bard he be
Who once too wantonly made free,
To touch with a satiric wipe
That symbol of thy power, the pipe;
So may no blight infest thy plains,
And no unseasonable rains,
And so may smiling peace once more
Visit America's sad shore ;
And thou, secure from all alarms,
Of thundering drums, and glittering arms,
Rove unconfined beneath the shade
Thy wide expanded leaves have made;
So may thy votaries increase,
And fumigation never cease.
May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thine odoriferous rites,
While clouds of incense, half divine,
Involve thy disappearing shrine ;
And so may smoke-inhaling. Bull
Be always filling, never full.

THE COLUBRIAD. [The title is from coluber, a snake. The piece is a mock heroic recital of a real event. See Letter 108.] CLOSE by the threshold of a door nail'd fast Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast. I passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; Not much concern'd to know what they did there, Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, “ What's this ?” When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; Who laving never seen, in field or house,


The like, sat still and silent as a mouse :
Only projecting, with attention due,
Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, “ Who are you ?”
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe :
With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot,
To find the viper, but I found him not.
And turning up the leaves, and shrubs around,
Found only, that he was not to be found.
But still the kittens sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
“ I hope,” said I, “ the villain I would kill,
Has slipp'd between the door, and the door sill ;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard ;"
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
'Twas in the garden that I found him first.
Even there I found him—there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Filld with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat,
That was of age to combat with a rat;
With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door,



(SEPTEMBER, 1782.)

To the march in Scipio.

[On the 12th of August, 1782, the Royal George, being on the heel at Portsmouth, suddenly upset and went down, when all on board, including visiters, more than eight hundred souls, perished. Nine days afterwards the bodies of many of these unfortunate sufferers floated ; at Portsea thirty-five corpses were washed ashore, and buried in one grave, over which a marble monument has been erected detailing these particulars. The accident appears to have

been occasioned by an injudicious arrangement of the guns, which brought the centre of gravity and centre of buoyancy too near, and in the same vertical line. Hence, on the flowing of the tide, the ship fell over to one side, the lower parts filled, and she went down instantly. Had the upper deck guns been run out, instead of being braced right inwards, the accident would have been prevented— of such importance is general science to men in all situations. This noble lyric, composed at the suggestion of Lady Austen, was written in the September following. ]

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 sea-fight 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.





[For this inimitable poem the world is indebted to Lady Austen, as detailed in the Life of the poet. At the request of Mrs Unwin it was first published anonymously in the Public Advertiser. Gilpin's adventures immediately became exceedingly popular,— were copied into all the periodicals of the time, vended in the streets, represented in caricatures, and recited in public by Henderson. “ In short,” observes the author, “ I have but two rivals in the public estimation, Mrs Bellamy and the learned pig.” But while the fame of his production was thus universal, a few of his intimate friends only were in the secret, and on Cowper publishing the first authentic edition in his second volume, all were surprised, and some of the serious absurdly offended. Much representation has been hitherto entertained on this point, as if Cowper himself had been weak enough to have religiously lamented an innocent, though mirthful composition, and to have regarded as a deadly sin the publication of the following poem. Of this step he has, indeed, thought a vindication necessary, stating that he left it entirely to his publisher to insert the poem

At the same time, he repeatedly remarks to Newton, whose ill-timed officiousness intruded the defence upon him, that whatever tended to recommend the volume to notice would prove useful to truth and religion in the end.]

or not.

John GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he

Of famous London town.

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