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In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE,
But love of change, it seems, has place
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' useA drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there. Puss with delight beyond expression · Surveyed the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.
Awakened by the shock, cried Puss, “Was ever cat attended thus ! « The open drawer was left, I see,
“Merely to prove a nest for me. « For soon as I was well composed, “ Then came the maid, and it was closed. “ How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet! « Oh, what a delicate retreat! “ I will resign myself to rest “ Till Sol, declining in the west, “ Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, “ Susan will come and let me out.”
The evening came, the sun descended,
That night, by chance, the poet watching
But modest, sober, cured of all
Beware of too sublime a sense
ON THE REFUSAL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD TO SUBSCRIBE TO
his TRANSLATION OF HOMER
Could Homer come himself, distressed and poor,
TO THE NIGHTINGALE
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792
WHENCE is it that amazed I hear
From yonder withered spray,
The melody of May?
Of such a favour shown,
To witness it alone ?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Though not like thee in song ?
Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Of happier days at hand ?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing
And every season Spring.
To a Young Lady WHO STOLE A PEN FROM THE PRINCE OF
Sweet Nymph, who art, it seems, accused
Of stealing George's pen,
E'en give it him again.
The plume of his that has one scrap
Of thy good sense expressed
Worth more than all his crest.
WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS AND
SIGNATURES, MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE
In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,
EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TamE REDBREAST
A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS
And tears by Sally shed
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come
Picking his breakfast-crumb.
Alarmed she called him and perplext
She sought him, but in vain ;
Nor ever came again.
She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell or how
Nor where he moulders now.
Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,
Or haply never shed.
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame,
But always in a flame.
To Sir John FENN Two omens seem propitious to my fame, Your spouse embalms my verse, and you my name; A name, which, all self-fattery far apart, Belongs to one who venerates in his heart The wise and good, and therefore, of the few Known by those titles, sir, both yours and you.