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But vengeance hung not far remote,
And heaven and earth defied,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.
'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
But judgments plain as this,
'Tis hard to read amiss.
ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY
IN THE YEAR 1789.
O Sovereign of an işle renown'd
For undisputed sway
Her navies wing their way,
With juster claim she builds at length
Her empire on the sea,
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,
6 Worlds should not bribe me back to tread
Again life's dreary waste,
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,
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 :
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
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,
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, .
But was it such ? - It was. Where thou art gone,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
That once we call’d the pastoral house our own.
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
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.