Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, But since, although well qualified by age One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme. TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792, WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear From yonder wither'd spray, And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favour shown, Am I selected from the crowd, To witness it alone? Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long Have practised in the groves like thee, Or sing'st thou rather under force Thrice welcome then! for many a long And joyless year have I, As thou to day, put forth my song But Thee no wintry skies can harm, Who only need'st to sing, To make even January charm, And every season Spring. LINES WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS AND SIGNATURES MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE. MARCH 6, 1792. In vain to live from age to age W. COWPER. EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVOurite of MARCH, 1792. THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears, And tears by Sally shed For absent Robin, who she fears One morn he came not to her hand Alarm'd she call'd him, and perplext She therefore raised him here a tomb, Had half a score of coxcombs died, Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, But Bob was neither rudely bold Nor spiritlessly tame, Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, But always in a flame. SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. EPIGRAM. (PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.) To purify their wine some people bleed Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. MAY 26, 1792. AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, And oh! could I command the glittering wealth Were in the power of verse like mine to give, I would not recompense his art with less, Friend of my friend! I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 1 Hayley. |