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POSTHUMOUS POEMS OF MIDDLE AND LATER LIFE

A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT

WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY 1779

WHERE Humber pours his rich commercial stream
There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme;

In subterraneous caves his life he led,

Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread.
When on a day, emerging from the deep,

A Sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!)

The wages of his weekly toil he bore

To buy a cock whose blood might win him more;
As if the noblest of the feathered kind

Were but for battle and for death designed;

As if the consecrated hours were meant

For sport to minds on cruelty intent;

It chanced (such chances Providence obey)
He met a fellow-labourer on the way,

grace.

Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed;
But now the savage temper was reclaimed,
Persuasion on his lips had taken place;
For all plead well who plead the cause of
His iron heart with Scripture he assailed,
Wooed him to hear a sermon, and prevailed.
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew;
Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew.
He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,
To find a worse than he; but none he found.
He felt his sins, and wondered he should feel;
Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal.
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies!
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize.
That holy day was washed with many a tear,
Gilded with hope, yet shaded, too, by fear.

The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine

Learned, by his altered speech, the change divine!

Laughed when they should have wept, and swore the day
Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they.

"No," said the penitent,-" such words shall share
"This breath no more; devoted now to prayer.

"O! if Thou seest (Thine eye the future sees)

"That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these,
"Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel,
"Ere yet this heart relapses into steel:

"Now take me to that heaven I once defied,

Thy presence, Thy embrace!"—He spoke, and died!

ON THE TRIAL OF ADMIRal Keppel

KEPPEL returning from afar

With laurels on his brow

Comes home to wage a sharper war,
And with a fiercer foe.

The blow was raised with cruel aim,
And meant to pierce his heart,
But lighting on his well-earned fame
Struck an immortal part.

Slander and envy strive to tear
His wreath so justly won,

But truth, who made his cause her care,
Has bound it faster on.

The charge that was designed to sound

The signal of disgrace

Has only called a Navy round

To praise him to his face.

AN ADDRESS TO THE MOB ON OCCASION OF THE LATE RIOT AT

THE HOUSE OF SIR HUGH PALLISER

AND is it thus, ye base and blind
And fickle as the shifting wind,
Ye treat a warrior staunch and true,
Grown old in combating for you?

Can one false step, and made in haste,
Thus cancel every service past?
And have ye all at once forgot
(As whose deservings have ye not?)
That Palliser, like Keppel brave,
Has baffled France on yonder wave;

And when his country asked the stake
Has pledged his life for England's sake!
Though now he sink, oppressed with shame,
Forgetful of his former fame,

Yet Keppel with deserved applause
Proclaims him bold in Britain's cause,
And to his well-known courage pays
The tribute of heroic praise.
Go learn of him whom ye adore,
Whose name now sets ye in a roar,
Whom ye were more than half prepared
To pay with just the same reward,
To render praise where praise is due,
To keep his former deeds in view
Who fought and would have died for you.

THE BEE AND THE PINEAPPLE

A BEE, allured by the perfume
Of a rich Pineapple in bloom,
Found it within a frame enclosed,
And licked the glass that interposed.
Blossoms of apricot and peach,

The flowers that blowed within his reach,
Were arrant drugs compared with that
He strove so vainly to get at.

No rose could yield so rare a treat,
Nor jessamine were half so sweet.
The gardener saw this Much-Ado
(The gardener was the master too),
And thus he said: "Poor restless Bee!
I learn philosophy from thee.

I learn how just it is and wise,
To use what Providence supplies,

To leave fine titles, Lordships, Graces,
Rich pensions, Dignities, and Places-
Those gifts of a superior kind—

To those for whom they were designed.

I learn that comfort dwells alone

In that which Heaven has made our own,
That fools incur no greater pain

Than pleasure coveted in vain."

FRAGMENT

METHINKS I see thee decently arrayed

In long-flowed nightgown of stuff damask made,
Thy cassock underneath it closely braced
With surcingle about thy moderate waist,
Thy morning wig, grown tawny to the view,
Though once a grizzle, and thy square-toed shoe.
The day was when the sacerdotal race
Esteemed their proper habit no disgrace,
Or rather when the garb their order wears
Was not disgraced as now by being theirs.
I speak of prigs--

IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM

CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER EXORTAM

PERFIDA, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore,
Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit.
Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit
Undique privatas patriciasque domos.

Nequicquàm conata suâ, fœdissima sperat
Posse tamen nostrâ nos superare manu.
Gallia, vana struis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces,
Nam mites timidis supplicibusque sumus.

TRANSLATION

FALSE, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart,
France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part,
To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys,

Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze.
Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone,

She hires the worst and basest of our own.

Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease,
We always spare a coward on his knees.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WILLIAM NORTHCOT

Hic sepultus est
Inter suorum lacrymas

GULIELMUS NORTHCOT,
GULIELMI et MARIÆ filius
Unicus, unicè dilectus,

Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis,
Aprilis die septimo,

1780, Æt. 10.

Care, vale! Sed non æternùm, care, valeto!
Namque iterùm tecum, sim modò dignus, ero.
Tum nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros,
Nec tu marcesces, nec lacrymabor ego.

TRANSLATION

FAREWELL! "But not for ever," Hope replies;
Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies!
There nothing shall renew our parting pain ;
Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep, again.

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I AM just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told,
I am lawful, unlawful-a duty, a fault,-

I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought;
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON

ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE

THAT Ocean you of late surveyed,
Those rocks, I too have seen,
But I afflicted and dismayed,
You tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controlling steep
Saw stretched before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,
No longer such to you.

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