ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
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 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,
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.
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 by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd,-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O, 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 pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell!-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd 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 form of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r
In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!
Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day;
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy Sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear-but oh! impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.
For if vain thoughts the mind engage
Of elder far than we,
What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free?
Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines;
And be thy mercies shower'd on those
Who placed us where it shines.
HERE Jonnson lies-a sage by all allow'd,
Whom to have bred, may well make England proud;
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim-grave, masculine, and strongSuperior praise to the mere poet's song;
Who many a noble gift from Heav'n possess'd,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth-by glory in the skies!
How many between east and west,
Disgrace their parent earth,
Whose deeds constrain us to detest
The day that gave them birth!
Not so when Stella's natal morn
Revolving months restore;
We can rejoice that she was born,
And wish her born once more!
ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR-A PATCHWORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING.
THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a Lady fair
Who deigns to deck his bed.
A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime
(As Homer's Epic shows),
Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs,
Without the aid of sun or show'rs,
For Jove and Juno rose.
Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.
What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me!
Should ev'ry maiden come
To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON. 217
And oh what havoc would ensue !
This bright display of ev'ry hue
All in a moment fled!
As if a storm should strip the bow'rs
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs-
Each pocketing a shred.
Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle Fair
Who will not come to peck me bare,
As bird of borrow'd feather;"
And thanks to One, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,
Who put the whole together.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.
POETS attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore.
Thee, THORNTON! worthy in some page to shine,
As honest and more eloquent than mine,.
I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee:
Thee to deplore, were grief misspent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky,
And glory for the virtuous, when they die.
What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe
By virtue suffer'd combating below?
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means
T'illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
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