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They best can judge a poet's worth

Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We therefore, pleased, extol thy song,

Though various, yet complete,
Rich in embellishment, as strong

And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,

Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would,—they must, at thine

But we, in mutual bondage knit

Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit

With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for thee,

Unworthy of his own.

ON HIS APPROACHING Visit to HAYLEY

THROUGH floods and flames to your retreat

I win my desperate way,
And when we meet, if e'er we meet,

Will echo your huzza.

AN EPITAPH

Here lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obeyed;
At his signified desire
Would advance, present, and fire.
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him;

And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he called; not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrowed land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

EPITAPH ON “Fop"

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON

THOUGH once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim;
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And, though no hound, a martyr to the chase.
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice!
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.

“Yes”—the indignant shade of Fop replies -
“ And worn with vain pursuit man also dies."

To George Romney, Esq.

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM IN THE SIXTY. FIRST YEAR OF MY AGE, AND IN THE MONTHS OF AUGUST AND

SEPTEMBER, 1792

Romney, expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvas not the form alone

And semblance, but, however faintly shown,
The mind's impression too on every face,
With strokes that time ought never to erase ;

Thou hast so pencilled mine that, though I own

The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
Yet this I mark,—that symptoms none of woe

In thy incomparable work appear.
Well; I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY's PICTURE ·

In language warm as could be breathed or penned
Thy picture speaks the original my friend;
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind,
They only speak thee friend of all mankind :
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.

To his Cousin, Lady HESKETH

REASONS WHY HE COULD NOT WRITE HER A GOOD LETTER

My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry;
Neither wit, common sense, nor ideas, have I.

EPITAPH ON MR. Chester, of CHICHELY

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who knew him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where CHESTER's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep;
And justly-few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

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Thrive, gentle plant! and weave a bower

For Mary and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flower

Thy foliage large and free.

Thou camest from Eartham, and wilt shade

(If truly I divine)
Some future day the illustrious head

Of him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,

And Envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown

Such honoured brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,

And with convincing power ;
For why should not the Virgin's Friend

Be crowned with Virgin's Bower?

To My Cousin, Anne BODHAM

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE MADE BY HERSELF

My gentle Anne, .whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,-

I thank thee for my purse.

Gold pays the worth of all things here ;
But not of love !—that gem's too dear

For richest rogues to win it:
I therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above

The best things kept within it.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to--the last retreat.

To Mrs. UNWIN Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things,

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