But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat

And heaven and earth defied,
Big with a curse too closely pent
That struggled vainly for a vent,

He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgments of the skies,

But judgments plain as this,
That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,

'Tis hard to read amiss.

ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY

FROM SEA-BATHING,

IN THE YEAR 1789.

O Sovereign of an işle renown'd

For undisputed sway
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound

Her navies wing their way,

With juster claim she builds at length

Her empire on the sea,
And well may boast the waves her strength

Which strength restored to thee.

MORTUARY STANZAS FOR 1789.

- Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit.Virg. There calm at length he breathed his soul away.

“ O most delightful hour by man

Experienced here below,
The hour that terminates his span,
His folly, and his woe!

6 Worlds should not bribe me back to tread

Again life's dreary waste,
To see again my day o'erspread

With all the gloomy past.

“ My home henceforth is in the skies,

Earth, seas, and sun, adieu! All heaven unfolded to my eyes,

I have no sight for you.”

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd

Of faith's supporting rod,
Then breathed his soul into its rest,

The bosom of his God.

He was a man among the few

Sincere on virtue's side ; And all his strength from Scripture drew,

To hourly use applied.

That rule he prized, by that he fear’d,

He hated, hoped, and loved ; Nor ever frown'd or sad appear'd,

But when his heart had roved.

For he was frail, as thou or I,

And evil felt within :
But when he felt it, heaved a sigh,

And loathed the thought of sin.

Such lived Aspasio ; and at last

Call’d up from earth to heaven, The gulf of death triumphant pass'd,

By gales of blessing driven.

“ His joys be mine," each reader cries,

“ When my last hour arrives :" They shall be yours, my verse replies,

Such only be your lives.

ON THE RECEIPT OF
MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK ;

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. [The first notice of these verses occurs in a letter to Lady Hesketh, March 8, 1790. The portrait, of which an engraving accompanies this edition, is a miniature in oil by Heins, a German artist who practised in Norwich as a painter and engraver.] Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 6 Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !” The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own :
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall wave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dreain, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, .
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes.
I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !

But was it such ? - It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish’d, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we call’d the pastoral house our own.
Short lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd :
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen’d by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes ;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no— what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, (The storṁs all weather'd and the ocean cross’d,) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,” * And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But oh the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions riseThe son of parents pass'd into the skies.