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Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, | I learned 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 wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known That once we called 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 cheek bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes 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 scorned 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 pricked 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 days 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.
Then, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened 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 reached the shore,
• Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,”
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet, 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 rise
The son of parents passed into the skies !
And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:
And, while the wings of fancy still are free
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left
The Dog AND THE WATER-LILY
The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphs * adorned with every grace
That spaniel found for me)
Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed
And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land ;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I returned ;
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discerned,
And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropped
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.
Charmed with the sight, “The world,” I cried,
- Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed :
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.”
• Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
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,
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 grace.
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;