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 I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Where thou art gone, But was it such? — It was. Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 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: Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, 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, Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, (The storms 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. * Garth. And now farewell-time unrevoked has run And, while the wings of fancy still are free, то MRS THROCKMORTON, ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE AD LIBRUM SUUM. [Two odes of Horace were discovered in one of the Roman libraries during the winter of 1788. Copies of them appear to have been sent to Weston House, which were transcribed by Lady Throckmorton into Cowper's Horace; upon the remaining blank leaf, in his own handwriting, with the date February 1790, are these verses, so happy in graceful compliment.] MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd What honour awaited his ode To his own little volume address'd, The honour which you have bestow'd; So elegant, even, and neat, He had laugh'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer, if you please, he had said, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle ; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well. INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, ESQ. 1790. OTHER stones the era tell, When some feeble mortal fell; Which shall longest brave the sky, I must moulder and decay, Cherish honour, virtue, truth, Stone at heart, and cannot grow. ANOTHER, FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR, 1790. READER! behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Anno 1791. |