Chapter II: Part 2

Detested be their sword! abhorr’d their name,
And scorn’d the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,
Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course
Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well pleased:—For Fame can enter Heaven,
If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
She rises not above this earthy spot;
And then her voice, transient and valueless,
Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise
And worthier duty may She tend on Thee,
Follow thee still with honour, such as time
Shall never violate, and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOK.

I will not meditate in idle show
Of labour’d lines my sorrow to relate;
All artless as the tears my verse shall flow
That good men weep for his untimely fate.

The friends of peace and friends of human kind
To mourn thy loss, adventurous Chief, agree;
And all who love the bold or generous mind,
And all who science love must weep for thee.

By thee to soft Taheite’s sultry clime,
By thee to chill Kamschatzcha’s frozen zone,
And Isles ne’er view’d till George’s golden time
Britannia’s mighty name at length was known.

O how unlike Magellan! he who bent
His daring sail to untried winds, and first
The world encompass’d—save in sad event
Of timeless death by savage hands accurst.

The Arts of Peace He cared not to extend;
For gold th’ untravel’d sea his bark explored,
For lust of gold he rashly strove to bend
The free-born Indian to his lawless sword.

Not such the generous purpose of thy will;
With zeal untired and patient toil it strove
To make th’ untutor’d savage learn thy skill,
And the fierce-manner’d tribes embrace thy love.

For this thy vessel plough’d the stormy wave,
For this the pendent globe thrice circled round,
When the rude hand of some unconscious slave
With brutal fury dealt the fatal wound.

Hold! hold, Barbarian! shall the guilty strife
Provoke to mortal acts thy frantic hand?
Let fall thy stroke on some less-valued life;
But save, O! save the Chieftain of the band!

E’en hostile kings bade spare his honour’d head,
The bloodless trophies of his fame bade spare;
And Peace and Science wide their influence spread
To guard him from the wasteful rage of war:

In vain—he falls—he dies—behold him bleed—
Ah wretched Isle! ah murderous, murderous race!
The guilt, the memory of this ruffian deed
What pains can expiate, or what time efface?

Henceforth no ship shall spread her canvas wing
To visit that inhospitable strand;
Save that in after times if chance shall bring
Some bark storm driven near the hateful land;

Ev’n then the hardy mariner shall mourn;
And as he views it rising from the main,
Far from the inhuman shore his prow shall turn,
Cursing the murderous isle where Cook was slain.

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF DR. W. HAYES, PROFESSOR OF MUSIC IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

_Set to Music by his Son and Successor, P. Hayes._

SYMPHONY.

These sounds of grief, this solemn air,
To thee I sing, dear, honour’d shade!
Hear, spirit of my father, hear!
To thee these mournful rites are paid.

_Here followed an Organ Movement, being a Psalm Tune
of the Professor, Dr. Wm. Hayes._

Such the last strains by thee were tried,
Strains that to holy Choirs belong;
While Age, that wasted all beside,
Yet spared the sweetness of thy song.

So pass’d he: nor approved alone
In science; like his gentle art,
His life was Music, and in tone
With Virtue’s harmony his heart.

O! let thy tuneful Spirit, to hear
The melancholy strains we raise,
Now stoop from that celestial sphere
Where Music is the voice of Praise!

THE WORLD[16].

INTENDED AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT WRITING.

BY A LADY.

Wide Habitation of the Sons of Men,
Wherein the seeds of vice and virtue lie
Mix’d, like the undigested Elements
Ere Chaos lost his kingdom; where blind Chance
With Passion holds divided anarchy;
O! who can rightly scan thee, or describe?
Subject ill suited to a Virgin’s Muse,
That cannot praise, and is to blame untaught:
Wherefore from this unprofitable theme
She turns, leaving unsung its argument;
Save that with careless hand her lute she strikes
Lightly, nor hoping that the myrtle wreath
Shall crown her unpremeditated lay.

[16] This was among the subjects for a Prize Poem, given out by Sir John and Lady Miller at Bath Easton.

THE BRITISH THEATRE.

WRITTEN IN 1775.

When first was rear’d the British Stage,
Rude was the scene and weak the lay;
The Bard explored the sacred Page,
And holy Mystery form’d his Play.

Th’ affections of the mortal breast
In simple Moral next he sung,
Each Vice[17] in human shape he drest,
And to each Virtue[17] gave a tongue.

Then ’gan the Comic Muse unfold
In coarser jests her homely art:
Of Gammer Gurton’s[18] loss she told,
And laugh’d at Hodge’s awkward smart.

Come from thy wildly-winding stream,
First-born of Genius, SHAKSPEARE, come!
The listening World attends thy theme,
And bids each elder Bard[19] be dumb:

For thou, within the human Mind
Fix’d, as on thy peculiar throne,
Sitt’st like a Deity inshrined;
And either Muse is all thine own!

Yet shall not Time’s rough hand destroy
The scenes by learned Jonson writ;
Nor shall Oblivion e’er enjoy
The charms of Fletcher’s courtly wit:

And still in matchless beauty live
The numbers of that Lyric Strain
Sung gayly to the Star of Eve
By Comus and his jovial Train.

Here sunk the Stage:—and dire alarms
The Muse’s voice did overwhelm;
For wounded Freedom call’d to arms,
And Discord shook the embattled Realm.

But Peace return’d; and with her came
(Alas! how changed!) the tuneful Pair:
Thalia’s eye should blench with shame,
And her sad Sister weep to hear

How the mask’d[20] Fair, in Charles’s reign,
Her lewd and riotous Fancy fed
At Killigrew’s debauchful scene,
While hapless Otway pined for Bread.

Thus the sweet Lark shall sing unheard,
And Philomel sit silent by;
While every vile and chattering bird
Torments the grove with ribald cry.

And see what witless Bards presume
With buskin’d fools to rhyme and rage;
While Mason’s idle Muse is dumb,
And weary Garrick quits the Stage.

[17] Personification of the passions in the moralities.

[18] Gammer Gurton’s Needle is the oldest English comedy; the distress of it arises from the loss of the needle, which at last is discovered in her man Hodge’s breeches.

[19] There were no plays of any note before Shakspeare.

[20] The custom of that time, for fear of hearing indecencies, otherwise too gross to be supported.

ON TWO PUBLICATIONS, ENTITLED EDITIONS OF TWO OF OUR POETS.

When Critic Science first was known,
Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground
The PRUNING KNIFE OF WIT was thrown;
Not that which Aristarchus found:

That had a stout and longer blade,
Would at one stroke cut off a limb;
This knife was delicately made,
Not to dismember, but to trim.

With a short harmless edge a-top,
’Twas made like our prize-fighting swords;
Pages and Chapters ’twould not lop,
But cut off syllables and words.

Well did it wear; and might have worn
Full many an age, yet ne’er the worse;
Till Bentley’s hand its edge did turn
On Milton’s adamantine verse.

Warburton seized the blunted tool,
Scarce fit for Oyster-opening Drab:
For Critic use ’twas now too dull,
But tho’ it would not cut, ’twould stab;

Then Shakspeare bled, with every friend
That loved the Bard:—he threaten’d further;
And God knows what had been the end,
Had not Tom Edwards cried out “Murther!”

Confounded at the fearful word,
Awhile he hid the felon steel;
Now gives it Mason, lends it H—;
Ah! see what Gray and Cowley feel!

THE SPLEEN.

I am not of their mind who say
The World degenerates every day;
Nor like to hear a churl exclaim,
In rapture at Queen Bess’s name,
And cry, “What happy times were those
“When Ladies with the sun uprose,
“And for their breakfast did not fear
“To eat roast-beef and drink strong-beer!
“Then buxom health and sprightly grace
“Enliven’d every blooming face,
“Blooming with roses all its own;
“And rouge, tea, vapours, were unknown.”

Nature, still changing, still the same,
Hath so contrived this worldly frame,
That every age shall duly share
The good or ill that flows from Her.
Thus we, a spleenful race, are free
From magic and from sorcery;
While those who lived with good Queen Bess
(As they that know the truth confess)
Tho’ Spleen and Vapours there were none,
Had Imps and Witches many a one;
And he who, ’cause he has not seen,
Will not believe, hath ne’er, I ween,
With due attention mused upon
Thy page, O BRITISH SOLOMON!

Thus far in preface—Now I’ll tell
How Spleen arose, when Witchcraft fell.
By vengeful laws the Wizard brood
Long harass’d and at last subdued,
Their black Familiars all repair
Before the throne of Lucifer,
With sad petitions, setting forth
Their many grievances on earth,
What torments they were doom’d to bear
While tending on their Witches there:
Some drown’d, to prove their innocence,
Or, ’scaping, hang’d on that pretence;
Some burnt within their steeple hats,
Some nine times murder’d in their Cats:
Brief, they petition’d to enjoy
Some less adventurous employ,
Since witchcraft now was thought so common
They were not safe in an old woman.

Their suit was granted—up they came
New-liveried in sulphur flame,
With licence thro’ the realm to range;
But, with their pow’r, their name they change.
Magic no longer now is seen,
And what was Witchcraft once, is Spleen:
Yet still they most delight to vex,
As first they did, the female sex;
And still, like an old witch’s charm,
They tease, but have no power to harm.

Tho’ Doctors otherwise have told,
The tale is true that I unfold:
And with my system suits the name,
For Spleen and Vapours are the same;
And all the country people know
That these, ascending from below,
Are DEVILS of peculiar hue,
And from their colour call them BLUE.

LINES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN A LADY’S ALMANAC.

Go happy lines, yet fearful go,
To meet Louisa’s secret eye!
Tell what I wish her heart should know,
Yet, rather than declare, I die.

Perhaps she’ll scorn ye, and despise
The tribute of a heart so poor—
Too valueless to be the prize
Of Beauty, proudest conqueror.

Then tell her that her touch alone
Destroys your pencil’d forms with ease;
And say your fate is like my own,
To be or not, as she shall please.

But should her gentleness now spare,
Pass one short year, and ye are not!
A little year shall send you where
You’ll perish among things forgot;

Yet so, how envied should you be!
For who is he would not prefer
Before an immortality,
To live a year, a day with Her?

I fear she’ll turn ye all to jest:
Then let her know I’ve made my prayer,
That, when by beaux, smart beaux, carest,
She ne’er may feel a tender care!

But while they sigh, or kneel, or vow,
Think it all done in sport and play;
Or write love-rhymes (as I do now),
Laugh, but not trust a word they say.

TO A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN, WITH THOMSON’S SEASONS, DOUBLED DOWN AT THE STORY OF PALEMON AND LAVINIA.

Anna, when you shall read in this true tale
How young Lavinia from her lowly state
Was led to splendor, wealth, and dignity,
By generous Palemon wooed and won
To be his bride, (such happy fortune found
Her virtues, and deserved no less)—so think
Your beauty, temper’d with sweet bashful grace
Of modesty and native elegance,
So think these charms—not sparingly bestow’d
But in the pride and prodigality
Of liberal Nature, fashioning her work
To a rare excellence,—these shall inflame
Each generous heart with love, and the dear hope
To win your gentle favour, and possess
A lovelier Lavinia found in you.

SONNET.

Ah! where is hid, if still it may survive
The canker’d tooth of Age and Time’s despight,
Ah! where is hid that Orb of glass so bright,
That Merlin for King Ryence did contrive;
That wond’rous Orb so bright, wherein did live,
Or ever Time had brought them into light,
The forms of things unborn, which to the sight
Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!—
For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass,
Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind,
Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye,
That Reason’s self forgets her majesty
To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass,
And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind.

SONNET TO PETRARCH.

O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,
Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream
Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,
Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around
High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound
That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam
From some rich incense rising, to the extreme
Of desolate Hesperia did rebound,
And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,
Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like
In sad complaint of ill-requited love,
So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike
Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,
And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.

TO A LADY, WHO DESIRED SOME SPECIMENS OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.

Let not Eliza bid me now rehearse
The unvalued rhymes that long forgotten lie:
For all unfit is my rude-fashioned Verse
To meet the censure of her curious eye:

But for her sake a subject could I choose
To draw down fame and envy on the Bard,
Thy lovely Self should be my theme and Muse,
And thy sweet smile, Eliza, my reward.

EPITAPH ON A CHILD WHO DIED OF A SCARLET FEVER IN THE FIFTEENTH MONTH OF HIS AGE. 1802.

Though thou wert dear, for lovely was thy form,
And fair thy mind, and hopeful from thy birth;
Though sudden was the pestilential storm
That beat thy tender blossom to the earth;
For thee we grieve not; certain that the soul
Yet sinless, bursting from its earthy clod,
Is borne on angel wings beyond the pole,
Where infant innocence hath place with God.

EPITAPH ON SIR CHARLES TURNER, BART. IN THE FAMILY MAUSOLEUM AT KIRK LEATHAM, YORKSHIRE.

Beneath this hallow’d vault, this awful shade,
Amidst his generous Forefathers laid,
Lo TURNER sleeps, the latest of his race,
In prime of manhood given to Death’s embrace.
Heir of their name, and of their virtues heir,
His heart was liberal, courteous, brave, sincere.
Nor that his only praise; his patient mind,
Cheerful in grief, in agony resign’d,
Long bore the tedious hours of cureless pain,
Which Love and Friendship strove to soothe in vain.
Farewell, dear Consort of my happier days!
To Thee this duty thy THERESA pays,
Lamenting still for Thee, ’till fate shall join
Her kindred spirit and her dust with thine.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM, IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.

Wykeham, around thy venerable tomb
With fond affection still thy children come;
And tho’ no more the loud-voiced hymn they sing,
Still silent prayers and heartfelt wishes bring,
That thy departed Spirit, secure and blest,
May with the destined heirs of glory rest;
And, for thy pious bounty here bestow’d,
Treasure in Heaven may have, and joy in God!

TRANSLATION OF A GREEK INSCRIPTION UPON A FOUNTAIN[21].

Αγροτα συν ποιμυαις, κ. τ. λ. Vitruvius, Lib. 8. c. 3.

Shepherd, if thirst oppress thee, while thy flock
Thou lead’st at noon by this Arcadian spring,
Here freely drink thy fill, and freely bring
Around my Naïads all thy fleecy stock:

But in the water wash not, lest thou feel
Loathing, and strange antipathy to wine;
Such power it hath to make thee hate the vine,
E’er since my fount did Prœtus’ daughters heal;—
For here Melampus bathed them, here he cast
A spell to purge their madness off, and hold
The secret taint; what time from Argos old
To rough Arcadia’s mountain heights he past.

[21] There was a fountain in Arcadia, which had the reputation of creating an aversion to wine in whoever happened to bathe in it, although the water was innocent and wholesome to drink: and the tradition was, that it had received this singular property from Melampus, a celebrated physician of antiquity, when he made use of it to cure certain Arcadian princesses, the daughters of Prœtus, of a strange species of madness. These young ladies fancied themselves to be changed into cows. The story is frequently alluded to by the poets; both Ovid and Virgil mention it.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

sæpius olim
Religio peperit scelerosa.—Lib. I. v. 83.

Yet Superstition has of old brought forth
More impious wickedness; witness that time
In Aulis, when at Dian’s temple met
Th’ associate Princes, Chiefs, the prime of Greece,
And stain’d her altar with the virgin blood
Of Iphigenia: o’er her youthful locks
They bound the fillets; on her cheeks she felt
The dress of sacrifice: but when she saw
Beside the altar her dear father stand
In sorrow, and for his sake the ministers
Hiding their knife, and all the assembly round
Weeping at sight of her; when this she saw,
Struck mute with terror, on her knees she sunk.
Ah! then in vain she called upon her king,
Her father, urged him by a parent’s love
To save his wretched child; while ruthless hands
Bore her all trembling to the altar’s base;
Not for her nuptials, not for holy rites
Of Hymen, tended on with dance and song;
But for a foul and bloody sacrifice.
So fell this chaste and tearful victim, slain
Ev’n in her marriage hour; and all to free
Their wind-bound Navy from the fancied let
Of adverse Deities, to such a guilt
Could Superstition prompt a father’s heart.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

Suave, mari magno turbantibus.—Lib. II. v. 1.

Sweet is it, when the stormy winds have roused
The boisterous ocean, from on shore to view
The toiling mariner; not that the pain
Of others gives us pleasure, but for that
To see what ills we ’scape ourselves is sweet:
And it is sweet, when armies on the plain
Array’d for battle join in mortal strife,
To stand aloof from danger and look on:
But nothing sweeter is, than all serene
In the strong towers of wisdom high to dwell,
And thence look down upon the wandering race
Of men, that vainly seek the path of life;
Vying in genius, or nobility;
With unabated labour, night and day
Striving to rise supreme in wealth or power.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

Avia Pieridum peragro loca.—Lib. IV. v. 1.

Pierian heights, the Muses’ trackless haunts
And wilds untrodden erst by mortal feet,
O’er these I wander, haply there to find
New flowers and fountains new; I love to drink
Of the pure stream fresh-welling, and to cull
A wreath of orient hues and odours rare,
Whence never poet yet his chaplet wove.

PSALM LXXII. ABRIDGED, AND ADAPTED[22] TO A PARTICULAR TUNE.

Lord, to the King thy judgments give,
Give to his Son thy righteousness:
So shall thy people safely live,
So he thy chosen flock shall bless.

Great his dominion, large his sway
O’er earth and ocean shall extend:
Him shall remotest isles obey,
Him the wide sea from end to end.

War and the battle then shall cease,
Then righteous men in favour stand;
Peace shall return, a lasting peace;
Plenty again shall store the land.

While He, with choicest blessings crown’d,
Long on his throne shall sit sublime;
Honour’d by all the nations round,
Honour’d by Kings of every clime.

Blest be our God for these fair days,
These happy days that rise again!
O may his glorious name and praise
Fill all the earth! Amen, amen.

[22] By adapted, is here meant, partly, that the accented syllables in the verse coincide with the accented notes of the tune.

MIDNIGHT DEVOTION.

WRITTEN IN THE GREAT STORM, 1822.

When the storm’s increasing roar,
In the fearful hour of night,
And the blast that rives my door
Start the sleepers with affright;

While the fierce descending rain
And the warring winds of heaven
All embattled rush amain
On my fragile window driven;

I, for those who bide this pelting,
Breathe a prayer of charity,
And, my soul with pity melting,
Heavenly Father, call on Thee.

SILBURY HILL[23].

O thou, to whom in the olden time was raised
Yon ample Mound, not fashion’d to display
An artful structure, but with better skill
Piled massive, to endure through many an age,
How simple, how majestic is thy tomb!
When temples and when palaces shall fall,
And mighty cities moulder into dust,
When to their deep foundations Time shall shake
The strong-based pyramids, shall thine remain
Amid the general ruin unsubdued,
Uninjured as the everlasting hills,
And mock the feeble power of storms and Time.

[23] Silbury Hill is a Barrow of the largest size. It stands close by the road from London to Bath: 80 miles west from Hyde-Park Corner.

TO THE DAISY.

Gentle flower, young April’s pride,
Say not Nature hath denied
Thee her bounty or her grace,
Though thou lack the Rose’s face.

Where she spreads her carpet green
There thy maiden form is seen,
Drest in robes of purest white,
Ever constant in her sight,
But at will to wanton wild,
Like a playful darling child.

Thee she tends in summer days,
And the nibbling ewes that graze
Spare to crop her favourite:
And the Fairies, when by night
Their green paths they quaintly tread,
Walk not o’er thy sleeping head.

FRAGMENT.

King Richard in the gray Tower sate,
Captive of Austria’s haughty Lord,
In a strange land, unhonour’d, unexplored,
To felon durance changed his royal state.
Pale was his haggard eye,
And sunk his cheek, to stern captivity
In all—all but in his Lion heart subdued:
He sate in melancholy solitude,
And sadly gazed upon the setting sun,
As down the heavenly road,
That all with purple glow’d,
It wested toward his realm of Albion.

FROM PURCHASE’S PILGRIMAGE, VERSIFIED AND DESIGNED AS A MOTTO TO “VOYAGES FOR THE DISCOVERY OF A N. W. PASSAGE.”

How shall I admire
Your courage, ye marine Adventurers?
Worthies, beyond all names of worthiness!
Who can endure alike the Sun so long
Present or absent; and without a dread
Encounter foggy mist, tempestuous sleet,
Cold blasts, with snows and hail in th’ frozen air,
And those unequal seas which might amaze
All ears and eyes, yea, and make Neptune’s self
To quake with chilly fear when he beholds:
When his huge Monsters, Icy Isles, disdaining
His sovereignty, and the Sun’s hot violence,
Muster upon those watery plains, for war,
Continual war; and wheresoe’er they rush
Make winds and waves give back, till, in the shock,
Crashing and rending their congealed sides,
They split themselves with their own massiness.

FRAGMENT.

But who is He shall put his daring hand
To Love’s mysterious Harp, and with rude touch
Discordant violate the silver string
Whose note is sweeter than the balmy South
Impregn’d with soft Æolian harmony!
The Song of Love is like an Angel’s voice
Attuned to heavenly music; and once heard
On this Terrestrial; when the Bard of Thrace
Bewail’d his lost Euridice, it drew
The wild Inhabitants to hear his Lyre;—
Yea savage Beasts and Things inanimate
To listen to his dulcet melody:—
Such power is in the magic sounds of Love.

THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

O for the thousand flowers that erst did bloom
In that Sicilian Valley wild,
Where golden Ceres left her Child
Conceal’d from all the Sons of Jove,
So to elude th’ inevitable doom
Of Fate, and stronger Love!
In vain.—The grisly Monarch of the Dead,
Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head
Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap
Around old Ætna’s smould’ring top;
There, as the wandering Nymph he view’d,
Awhile in blank amaze he stood
Till Love to fury roused his blood.
He call’d his ebon Car and Steeds of fire:
They came, and with the headlong torrent’s speed
Down to the lily-spangled mead
They bore their mighty Sire:
Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took,
Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook.

SONNET.

O thou, to whom my heart (no longer mine)
Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued;
Fair goodly frame of Nature’s work divine
To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good,
Let not thy scorn pursue the Muse’s Son,
For gentle is his mind, and pure his flame,
And for thy love he shall inscribe thy name
Among those Fair whose peerless beauty won
Renown from ancient bards, on harp and lyre
So sweetly sounded, that the wondering Earth,
Thro’ all her climes, yet listens to the strain.
O meekly-blooming Flower, if on thy birth
Soft Pity shed her dew, quench not his fire,
Quench not his hallow’d fire with cold disdain.

SONG.

When PHŒBUS, for what crime unknown,
Was exiled from the Courts of Jove,
And to this earth came mournful down,
Of all things else bereft, but love;

(For that pure Fire feels not the storms
That shake or change this worldly frame;
Immortal as the soul it warms,
It burns in unextinguish’d flame—)

His fingers to the lyre he turn’d,
Then all with chords of sorrow strung;
The lost delights of heaven he mourn’d,
But more her loss, for whom he sung:

He sung so sweetly that the strain
Drew pity from the gods above;
They call’d the wanderer back again,
And gave the MUSE to crown his love.

SONG.

To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu!
And adieu to the roar of thy seas!
And adieu to the Girl, whose insensible heart
Is as hard and as sullen as these!

Forget the fond echoes you heard!
Forget my fond hope and my strain!
My strain is neglected and dead is my hope:—
But you never shall hear me complain——
To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu!

SONG.

Gentle Stream, whose wild meanders
Cheer the birds and feed the flowers,
While by thee Amelia wanders,
Wilt thou soothe her pensive hours?

If the world were at my bidding,
Music should her steps attend,
And where’er her feet were treading,
Flowers should bloom, and sweets ascend.

SONG.

TO A LADY GOING TO HER FAMILY IN IRELAND.

Will you go, Mary, from me?
Is it choice, or love or duty,
That you trust your worth and beauty
Upon the stormy Sea?

Can you hope, Mary, to find,
Tho’ you rove the wide world over,
Friends so true, so fond a Lover,
As you leave here behind?

TO THE SUN.

O Thou whose inextinguishable eye
Now sleeps beneath the ocean stream,
Whether the star of morn shall call thee forth
To pour thy rich and fiery beam
Through the wide arch of an unclouded sky;
Or whether the rude North
Shall o’er thy head his showery mantle cast,
Making the dank earth shiver at his blast;
Welcome alike to me! the genial day
That gave my fair Eliza birth
Needs not thy gaudy smile to make it glad:
Still cheer the spleeny race of earth
With the warm lustre of thy fostering ray;
On me in vain are shed
Thy beams and unregarded, while I prove
The dearer influence of Her smiles and love.

SONG.

Artless words of unfeign’d passion
With harmonious numbers join’d,
Soothly try your soft persuasion
On Eliza’s gentle mind!

For her ear alone intended,
Other censure nought regard:
If by her you are commended,
’Tis enough for your reward.

But why thus you seek to move her
Strive not further to explain!—
If her heart will not discover,
You or I should tell in vain.

TO A LADY, FORTUNE-TELLING WITH CARDS.

Dear Nancy, if you wish to know
What Fate reserves in store for you,
Ask not the idle cards to show,—
I’ll tell as wisely, and as true.

For I will take a magic Book
Of characters divinely fair;
Upon thy lovely Self I’ll look,
And read, dear Girl, thy fortune there.

By those love-darting Eyes I find
How many hearts their empire own;
I see the sweetness of thy mind
That keeps the hearts those eyes have won.

Yet none among so many hearts,
Nor any you shall yet subdue,
Should you join all their better parts,
Can make a heart to merit you.

Now, shall I look into your breast
And see what Heart is favour’d there?—
No,—be that fatal Truth suppress’d,
Lest I should sink in my despair!

EPIGRAM.

From two domestic acts of pious zeal
Learn what calamities sad mortals feel.
When Lord GEORGE GORDON of the Pope afeard,
(That was before he show’d a Jewish beard)
When he his Whiggish Mob had raised, they fly
On poor Lord MANSFIELD’S harmless Library.
Then were his legal Writings, precious store,
Burnt, or dispersed as Sibyl’s leaves of yore.
Twelve years elapsed from that disastrous tide,
And lo! another storm from t’other side!
In vengeance on their Presbyterian foes
The loyal Mob of Birmingham arose;
And as their zeal for _Church and King_ grew hot,
All PRIESTLEY’S books and papers went to pot.
Losses like these till then we never saw;
Priestley’s Divinity and Mansfield’s Law.

ON TWO ENGLISH POETS, WHO FLOURISHED IN THE FORMER HALF OF THE LAST CENTURY, AND PUBLISHED COMPLIMENTARY VERSES ON EACH OTHER.

Edward, thy Ode’s too long by half,
Stephen’s Reply might spare a quarter:
Now, in my judgment, Stephen’s song
Is as much better, as ’tis shorter.

Edward declares, though Milton’s lines
Rise to an unexampled height,
That, in heroics, Stephen shines
Like Milton, and almost as bright.

Stephen for quittance makes reply,
That nothing in the world could hinder
(Except his native modesty)
Edward from taking place of Pindar.

Stephen and Edward all this while
Are lying to each other’s face;
Edward can do ’t in bolder style,
But Stephen with a better grace.

VERSES TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED “NO POPERY” ON HIS PIES, &C.

I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺,
Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church,
Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot,
Starts from his counter, piping hot,
To warn us of the dire intent,
And, like himself, is eloquent.
Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread
Th’ alarm of danger widely spread;
Then quaking Custards join the cry,
And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!”

Defender of the Faith! rare Cook,
Who mak’st thy Pastry-shop a Book
As formidable, and much more read
Than that which our eighth HENRY made,
Whose Church-of-England oven bakes
Protestant Appletarts and Cakes!
Children that feed upon thy Pies
Grow in religion as in size;
While, often as their mouths they ope,
They chew destruction to the Pope.

Fame shall desert th’ ingenious Quaker
To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker;
Whose willing Pupils, apter far
Than all the school of Lancaster,
Shall read, and eat, his name enroll’d
On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold.

ON THE FUNERAL OF ⸺, IN A HEARSE AND SIX, FOLLOWED BY A MOURNING COACH AND FOUR.

What, SAVE-ALL in a Hearse convey’d!
And _six_ brave Nags to draw _the Dead_!
’Tis ruin!—Why, ’tis more by _five_
Than e’er convey’d him while _alive_.
And look, what follows!—more and more
Profusion, in a _Coach and Four_!

Such waste of what thou liv’dst to save,
Might break the quiet of thy Grave.
In what slow pomp the Rogues advance,
Courting, as ’twere, Extravagance!
O! the vast charge of every night!
They revel, and set nothing by ’t;
But give to have thee lie in state,
More than thou e’er paid’st there for meat.
What else?—their dead and useless load
They carry on the _Turnpike_ road,
Paying—but they care nothing, they,
How many Gates there be to pay.—
Plague on the Gates! how thick they are!
Five pounds will soon be squander’d here.
Another—and another yet!
And _Half-a-crown_ at every Gate;
Those Gates which thou didst alway shun,
To save thy _Pence_ from every one.
Alas! this needless cost is more
Than all th’ extravagance before!
To stop such charge, at least, arise
And show them—where the _Bye-way_ lies!

PARODY ON DRYDEN’S “THREE POETS,” &c.

Three Poets, born in different lands and ages,
Three different Heroes took to grace their pages:
The first, a Buonaparte, fierce to fight;
The next, a Methodistic Hypocrite:
No human character combined more evil,
So Milton for his Hero took the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

When first the Devil came in Milton’s view
A swindging Tail[24] upon his rump there grew:
But when in Pandæmomium he appears
How alter’d is his form! no tail he wears.
Such difference in that Personage is seen
As Milton by himself perceived, between
His full-grown Epic and his stripling Ode—
His tadpole Devil had become a Toad.

[24]

——th’ old Dragon—
——wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
_Ode on the Nativity._

AN EXPOSTULATORY SUPPLICATION TO DEATH, AFTER THE DECEASE OF DR. BURNEY.

Thou Trojan Death! thou worse than Trojan foe
To English Greeks, the best of Greeks we know!
In three we boasted; three we had of late,
Rare Burney, matchless Porson, and the great
ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ, props and pillars of our state;
Two thou hast ravish’d from us; and the land
Watches in anxious fear thy threat’ning hand.
Two thou hast ravish’d, but we can’t resign a
ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ yet awhile,—O spare ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ.

ON THE DECEASE OF HORNE TOOKE.

Horne Tooke is gone—rejoice and sing,
Ye Placemen, and ye Tools of a King!
He is gone!—then be his faults forgiven,
And let us hope he’s gone to Heaven.
That is a prayer you ought to make
If not for love, for interest’ sake;
For should he go to t’other place,
Think how he’ll plague your hireling race.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRANITE SARCOPHAGUS BROUGHT FROM ALEXANDRIA TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

This was the tomb of Alexander,
The Macedonian great Commander,
Who dealt about his killing blows
Alike among his friends and foes:
Who went on plundering, burning, stabbing,
Carouzing, catamiting, drabbing,
Kept a Castrato[25] for his punk,
And died[26] heroically drunk:
And if at last he went to hell,
I warrant he deserved it well;
Whate’er is said by flatt’ring Mitford,
Who thinks he is gone to heav’n, and fit for ’t.

[25] Q. Curt. b. x. c. 3. &c.

[26] Athenæus, b. 10. c. 9. p. 434. Αλεξανδρος λαβων (το ποτηριον) _εσπασε_ μεν _γενναιως_,——εκ τουτου νοσησας απεθανε. Alexander took the cup, and _pulled nobly_ at it.

Mem. It held near a gallon, and he had emptied it once already.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF FIELD-MARSHAL SUWOROW.

This was a Warrior of renown,
A Hero bred, and born to kill;
Who scrupled not to shed his own[27],
When he lack’d other blood to spill.
And often would he turn his arms
On those within his bosom bred,
And quell by fire the mighty swarms[28]
That with his life-blood he had fed.
His person, cover’d o’er with glory,
In truth was little clean or nice;
And ’tis a question in his story,
Whether he kill’d more men[29] or lice.

[27] It is related of him, that in his march to the attack of Oczakow, he proceeded with such rapidity at the head of his men, that they began to murmur at the fatigues which they endured. The marshal, apprised of the circumstance, after a long day’s march, drew up his men in a hollow square, and addressing them said, that “his legs had that day discovered some symptoms of mutiny, as they refused to second the impulses of his mind, which urged him forward to the attack of the enemy’s fortress.” He then ordered his boots to be taken off, and some of the drummers to advance and flog his legs, which was done till they bled very considerably. He then put on his boots very coolly, expressing his hope that his legs would in future better know how to discharge their duty. His army afterwards marched on without a murmur.

[28] Suworow affectoit beaucoup de simplicité et de rudesse. On le voyoit quelquefois ôter sa chemise au milieu des Cosaques, et la fain chauffer, en disant que c’étoit _pour tuer ses poux_. Vie de Catherine II. tome ii. p. 373.

[29] The number of men slaughtered by this hero was at the rate of more than thirty a week, reckoning from the day of his birth to the age of 69 years, according to the account given in the history of his campaigns, by Frederic Anthing.

ON FIELD-MARSHAL SUWOROW. A DIALOGUE.

_A._ This Hero, though delighting much in blood,
Was yet a tender-hearted creature.—_B._ Good.

_A._ Without remorse he slaughter’d Turk and Pole,
But still his nerves were very weak.—_B._ Poor soul!

_A._ And he became a prey to grief, for why,
His master frown’d upon him.—_B._ O fie! fie!

_A._ Unkindness did his gentle heartstrings crack,
And so the Hero came to an end.—_B._ Good lack!

_A._ That one so valiant and so meek, is’t fit he
Should go at last to the devil?—_B._ What a pity!

ON F. W. THE KING OF PRUSSIA’S INEFFECTUAL ATTEMPT ON WARSAW.

When Frederic, when the Usurper turn’d
With baffled arms and insolence abash’d,
From fearless Warsaw’s radiant walls,
(For, crested with the Sons of Liberty,
Then stood they fearless and secure,)
No less than was that mount in Israel once,
Where Angels rode in fiery guard
Around the Prophet[30]. Ever such defence
Be made for freedom, and usurpers
Abated and confounded in their pride,
As Frederic now! He, when he turn’d,
Thus gave mad utterance to his spleeny mood:—
This royal merchandise of war
That wont to bring towns, cities, provinces,
To kings for profit, is become
A losing trade, or only serves to enrich
My shrewder neighbours, they who fight
In quarrels not their own, and wisely sell
The lives, unprofitable else,
Of their obedient multitude: but I,
Cursed be the hour I did so, I
Who had the wealthiest of the world my dupe,
England, to pay me lavish hire
For service ne’er perform’d, must needs, O fool!
To this most perilous venture run
On mine own credit: therefore am I made
A very bankrupt; all my hopes
Of victory, dominion, fortune, fame,
All ruin’d, and my royal word,
My promises and threats alike held vile
As the vain Brunswick’s menaces,
Horrible once, now laugh’d at and despised.
For who now fears me, or believes?—
But let me from this ruinous assault,
With what is left me, safe retire,
And I will yet regain the credulous ear
Of Her, whose unexhausted wealth
Exceeds all measure but her easy faith,
Good England:——O that I were now
In England, with my royal Brother there,
Giving a false alarm in jest
To Weymouth town, and Buckinghamshire Captains[31].

[30] “And when the servant of the man of God was risen early, and gone forth, behold, an Host compassed the city both with horses and chariots. And his servant said unto him, Alas, my master! how shall we do? And he answered, fear not; for they that be with us are more than they that be with them. And Elisha prayed, and said, Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see. And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw: and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha.”—2 Kings, ch. vi. v. 15, &c.

[31] About the commencement of the war in 1793, the late king used to visit Weymouth for some weeks of the summer, when the Buckinghamshire militia attended his majesty as a guard of honour. It was during one of these visits that this military occurrence is reported to have taken place.

POLITICAL ADVICE TO THE MEMBERS OF THE FRENCH CONVENTION. A DIALOGUE.

“Messieurs of the Convention, Gentlemen!
“Hav’n’t ye rebell’d against your sovereign?”—“Stuff.”
“Deposed him?”—“Nonsense.” “Murder’d him?”—“What then?”
“Usurp’d his place and kingdom?”—“Like enough!”

“Hav’n’t ye bullied Princes far and near,
“Encroach’d upon your neighbours, ’gainst all Law?
“Without Religion, Honour, Faith, or Fear,
“Sworn and forsworn yourselves?”—“O, ça ira.”

“Nay, Gentlemen, I speak not to upbraid:
“Rather, I’d say, you seem to need a spur:
“Hav’n’t ye still some object of your dread,
“Some innocent young Prince, your prisoner?

“Poison him—stab him—put him out o’ th’ way—
“Is that so monstrous?—Nay, you have a pattern:
“Do as I bid you, then stand up, and say,
“We are now upon a par with Royal Kattern.”

WRITTEN WHEN BUONAPARTE WAS ALTERING THE GOVERNMENTS OF GERMANY.

The Madman thought that he did climb
Over the wall which bounds the universe;
And there he saw how father Time
Out of old Moons was busy cutting Stars.

Thus o’er our globe Napoleon,
As if old Time had lent him scythe and wings,
Speeds and destroys, and for his fun
From waning Emperors cuts out little Kings.

SUGGESTED BY READING DRYDEN’S BRITANNIA REDIVIVA,

_A Poem on the Prince, born on the 10th of June, 1688._

When James the Second took his second spouse,
The royal couple (as their Church allows)
T’ obtain a son and heir devoutly pray’d,
And call’d on many a popish saint for aid;
By costly gifts and vows they sued to gain
Th’ inestimable boon, nor sued in vain:
A son was given; and as the story ran,
Their saints convey’d the blessing in a warming-pan.

And now th’ expected babe, howe’er it came,
Was theirs; but living yet without a name.
Why to this Child of prayer, this boon of Heaven,
A name appropriate was not sooner given;
What moved the royal sire to make delay,
In such a case, ’tis difficult to say.

Dryden suggests—go, read him if you doubt it,
There was some brawl among the Saints about it.
Good gracious folks, they could not yet agree;
Each eager that the name his own should be:
He thinks some wanted—but I dare not, I,
Repeat what follows of the irreverend lie.
Yet since I have curtail’d that Flatterer’s fable,
I’ll piece it with another as I am able,
And tell you the result of this celestial squabble.

There stood an ancient One among the herd,
Who took no part, nor utter’d yet a word;
He seem’d not much acquainted with the rest;
His port was manly, simple was his vest,
And veil’d his head: but now he silence broke,
And thus in slow and sober tones he spoke.

“The Babe, your present care, shall have a name
That all his life will follow him with shame.
Both He, and whomsoe’er he shall engender,
Will be deem’d spurious, and be call’d Pretender.”

His words the saintly synod fill’d with rage,
Nor felt they reverence for his rank or age;
But with ungovernable fury big,
Call’d him Apostate, Protestant, and Whig.
Calm and composed, their cries awhile he bore,
Nor deign’d to make defence, nor utter’d more,
But, casting off his veil, naked he stood,
And TRUTH’s resplendent form abash’d they view’d.

SUCCESSION.

After a bad oft comes a worse;
Evil on evil, curse on curse:
So James to Charles succeeds, who fitter?
Of a French Popish mother’s litter
This was the next and favourite whelp;
He with Judge Jefferies’s help,
A fell-fang’d lurcher, hot for blood,
The gallant Algernon pursued;
Hamper’d him basely in a Coop,
Then ran him down, and cried whoo-whoop!
But though so fierce to treat this man ill,
His Jesuits used him like a spaniel;
Rated him soundly, or carest,
As served their ends and purpose best,
Which not long after to his cost
He felt, his crown and kingdom lost.
Ev’n then these Masters gave not o’er,
But taught him lessons as before;
How he might render Heaven his debtor,
And earn another crown and better:
Told him, ’twas highly meritorious
To exalt the Pope, and kill old Glorious:
That what he did t’avenge his Father,
He might do for himself, and rather.
So with his Priests and his Assassins,
By machinations, plots, compassings,
He struggled long against hard odds
To advance the Devil’s cause and God’s.
Hopeless at last, his means all spent,
He died a Murderer and a Saint.

EPIGRAM.

Ille Crucem sceleris pretium tulit, Hic Diadema.

Good people of England, ’tis fit you should note
What you get, or may suffer, for bribing a vote;
And for an example we’ll bring to your view
An Irish Lord and a Baronet Jew;
The Jew and my Lord in a similar case—
One pays a great fine, t’other holds a great place:
My Lord is bedeck’d with a Ribbon and Garter,
The Jew is in Jail for two years, lack a quarter.
And now we’ll compare, if you please to allow us,
The Jew in his Jail, with my Lord in the House:
The Jew is surrounded by Felons and Debtors,
And my Lord by some folks who are little their betters.

ON THE INCREASE OF HUMAN LIFE.

Fate deals out human life by seven-year spaces:
Time was you would be thought in her good graces
With nine of these; when David lived ’twas ten;
If more She gave, ’twas only now and then,
A few cold years of winter, and the last,
Tho’ charged with toil and sorrow, quickly past.
But in our age more bounteous Fate appears,
And often grants a dozen-fold seven years;
Nay, be but still and temperate like the Quakers,
Perhaps she’ll make your dozen up a baker’s.

ODE TO THE KING OF FRANCE. 1823.

What moves thee, Louis, to forego
The quiet of thy peaceful reign?
Why challenge a reluctant foe,
Rushing to war, war unprovoked, again?
Examine well thine own estate,
And check thy hostile march before it be too late.

When first thou wert an exile from thy home,
Unbroken was thy strength, thy health not wasted;
But couldst thou now endure to roam,
When both thy health and strength thou hast outlasted?
With peace and plenty to thy throne restored,
Perchance thou deem’st thyself adored:
Thou seest around thee subjects bending low;
But should misfortune now return,
Be sure thou soon shalt know
Thyself their hate, and all thy race their scorn.

Where are thy men-at-arms, they, once who moved
So lively at the warlike trumpet’s call?
And where their chiefs, thy mareschals all,
Heroes in many a glorious battle proved?—
In stern repose each warrior lies.
As flowers that all the darksome night
Close themselves up, until the day-star rise,
Then ope, and turn, as worshipping his light:
So these, in sullen slumber now reclined,
May soon awake, when thou shalt find
Their worship and their service turn’d and gone,
Toward their own day-star, the young Napoleon.

And darest thou, presumptuous, now demand
That Heaven shall speed thy mad career
To spoil an unoffending land?
And darest thou hope that Heaven will hear?
Believe it not:—but for thyself beware;
And learn to moderate thy prayer:
Pray that kind Heaven will condescend
To grant thee rest and safety till thine end;
And for the consummation of thy lot,
That old St. Denys will allow thee room
To sleep uncensured and forgot,
Among thy fathers in a silent tomb.

VERSES SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, AT THE INSTALLATION OF THE CHANCELLOR, LORD GRENVILLE, JULY 10, 1810, BY HENRY CROWE, A COMMONER OF WADHAM COLLEGE.

Still through the realms of Europe far around
Echoes the martial trump, the Battle’s sound:
There many a nation, now subdued and broke,
In sullen silence wears the Tyrant’s yoke:
There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there
Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war:
And, where he bids the din of arms to cease,
He calls the silent desolation—peace.

Yet what his prize of glory? What the gain
Of his wide conquest, of his thousands slain?—
His guilty seat on thrones subverted stands;
His trophies are the spoil of injured lands:
For his dark brow no comely wreath is twined,
But iron[32] crowns and blood-stain’d laurels bind.

Far other objects here around us rise,
The monuments of nobler victories.
This splendid dome, yon goodly piles behold,
This favour’d ground adorning, which of old
Our first great Chief, a patriot Hero, chose
“For Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes[33]:”
These are her honourable trophies; here
No spoils of plunder’d provinces appear.
Our hallow’d fanes, our lofty spires, were built
By pure and bounteous hands unsoil’d with guilt.
Pure also was the source: the bounty springs
From holy Prelates, from religious Kings;
Who in the peaceful walks of life pursued
Their godlike occupation, doing good;
And taught us, careless of a transient fame,
Like them to seek a worthier meed, and claim
Th’ immortal recompense that Heaven decrees
For charitable toils, and generous works of peace.

Is there, who nurtured in this happy seat,
Still loves the Mansion, Learning’s choice retreat?—
Who yet these groves will honour, where his youth
Was early train’d to Virtue and to Truth;—
Who liberal arts and useful Science wooes,
And by the Muse beloved, protects the Muse;
Whose patient labour and unabated zeal
Pursues that nobles tend, his Country’s Weal;—
Watchful, and resolute in her defence
With counsel sage, and manly eloquence?—
For Him fair Fame her clearest voice shall raise
Till her high trumpet labours in his praise.
He ’bove the Conqueror’s name shall be renown’d,
Him Glory still shall follow, and around
Laurels unstain’d, unfading palms, shall spread,
Such as are now prepared for GRENVILLE’S honour’d head.

[32] The iron crown of Italy.

[33] Johnson’s Prologue, spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane, 1747.

AD MUSAS.

Dulce sub Autumnum, venienti frigore, mane
Lacte novo relevare sitim; dulce oscula Nisæ
Præripere, in fœno cum semisupina recenti
Dormit, nuda sinu; sub vespere dulce vagari
Quà vigil effundit liquidam Philomela querelam:
At mihi dulcis amor Musarum ante omnia: vos O
Pierides, vestro, precor, aspirate poetæ.

Ηως
Εργων ἡγητειρα, βιου προπολε θνητοισιν.
Or. Hym.

Roscida purpureos induta Aurora colores
Ingreditur cœlo jam reseratque diem;
Victoresque agitans currus nigra agmina Noctis
Turbat, et ætherio dissipat astra polo.
Eja, agite O Pueri, clarum prævertite Solem,
Nec pigeat molles deseruisse toros.
Igniferos etenim quicunque, aspexerit ortus,
Ille levis facti præmia magna feret:
Qualia non tulerit populi Moderator Eoi,
Darius memori nobilitatus equo;
Cui jubar exoriens primo vidisse suorum
Persarum quondam regna superba dedit.
Illi namque novo firmabit membra vigore,
Lætaque componet lumina diva Salus.
Tum validæ crescent generoso in pectore vires
Stabit et ingenuo plurimus ore decor.
Illum, seu tendit pellucida propter Ichini
Flumina, sive jugum per, Catharina, tuum,
Naiades excipient venientem ultroque juvabunt,
Dum ciet ad prædam subsequiturque canes.
Omnis ager suaves Illi spirabit odores,
Illi dulce melos concinet omne nemus.
Ille (licebit enim) Musas siquando vocârit,
Inveniet faciles in sua vota Deas:
Phœbo et gratus erit; neque Phœbus amicior ulli est
Quam sua qui primo numina mane colit.

JEPTHÆ VOTUM.

Jam Voti reus infausti de Marte redibat
JEPTHA; procul dulces emicuere Lares.
Non litui sonus auditur, nec classica spirant;
Corde dolens mutas Dux præit ipse manus.
Ecce egressa foras venientem Nata salutat!
Terruit aversum vox bene nota patrem;
Filia! tene mori! (vocem primo abstulit angor,)
Vota miser feci non revocanda Deo.
At Virgo, pietas cui pectora confirmavit,
Immota aspiciens retulit ore patrem;
O Pater, O belli sævis defuncte periclis,
Jeptha, vel in nòstro funere victor, Ave!
Debita solve Deo, me, me in tua vota paratam,
Filia non dubito pro Genitore mori.

PALMYRA.

Has moles murorum, has, O Palmyra! columnas
Gens magna et fortes incoluere viri,
Te dominam, metuere urbes, to cœrula ponti,
Eöique tibi dona tulere Duces.
Jam non ulla tuas hominum vox personat arces,
Vastâ, urbe in medià, strage Ruina sedet.
Sæpe etiam, nullo ventorum turbine pulsa,
Immani subitò saxa fragore ruunt.
Circum infinitus se pandit campus arenæ,
Sibilat ambusto Dipsas anhela solo.
In domibus sævi stabulant impunè Leones,
Informesque Apri, noctivagæque Tigres.
Obscænæ strident per putrida fana volucres,
Et Stygius circum Bubo cubile struit.
Humana instabili versantur cardine fata:
En, Roma in Gothicum quanta caduca rogum!
Invida det Fortuna diem, quo mens pia flebit
Heu! mersam exitio te, Rhedycina, pari.

AD HYACINTHUM. 1791.

Quis primo te mense, quis impulit, O Hyacinthe,
Ut tepidum Floræ desereres gremium?—
Num forte audisti Volucrem, quæ, nuntia Veris
Nunc vespertinum concinit ore melos?—
Num Zephyri molles dulcique Favonius aura
Lene susurrantes surgere te faciunt?
Ah! ne te lædat Boreas! neu cana pruina
Incidat in collum purpureumque caput!
En (quod ego possum) hâc vitreâ te casside dono,
Quæ gelido noctis tempore tegmen erit.
Acceptum tibi enim refero, quod Thestilis hortum
Non dedignetur visere sæpe meum.
Tum pulchros laudat flores et laudat odorem;
Et Dominus partem et tu quoque laudis habes.
Ergo ferens puros in te fundam ipse liquores,
Si mox defuerit fertilis imber aquæ.
O multùm salve mihi, Floscule, semper amate;
Et cito cum venias gratior ipse Rosis.

ROMULUS.

SCRIPTUS 1803.

Rex ille Romæ Conditor, Remi frater,
Unde unde natus, in latrociniis certe
Nutritus, aptos possideret ut cives,
Suisque moribus simillimum cœtum,
Id nobile aperuit viris receptaclum
Quod nuncupant Asylon, hoc volens nempé
Ut seminario sibi novæ gentis
Sentinam haberet urbium propinquarum.

Huc undique ingens ut confluxerat turba,
Statim parabat quos honoribus summis
Augeret ex his, imperîque consortes
Haberet, homines maxime fide claros,
Virtutibusque præ sociis adornatos.
Ergo, coactis civibus, legit centum
Qui consulant populo velut pater proli,
Vocatque Patres, plurimisque eos rebus
Ornat, facitque Concilium Sacrosanctum.

His constitutis, laude floruit multa
Multos per annos, victor omnium late;
Stupro, rapinis, cædibusque agens vitam,
Et cuncta miscens; conniventibus Divis,
Ea quippe magni vindicant sibi Heroes,
Victoriarum jure parta tanquam sint,
Aut, merita propter, atque facta præclare,
In præmiorum parte habenda, sed parva.