TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious, called Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th'enthrall'd

1792.

From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wronged, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not, lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;

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.

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteeem and love

From all the just on earth, and all the bless'd above.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 1793.

Dear architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!

O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays:
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise.

VERSES

SENT TO LADY AUSTEN, DURING THE TIME OF A

FLOOD, AUGUST, 1782.

To watch the storms, and hear the sky
Give all our almanacs the lie;

To shake with cold, and see the plains
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains;
'Tis thus I spend my moments here,
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer;
I then should have no need of wit:
For lumpish Hollander unfit!
Nor should I then repine at mud,
Or meadows deluged with a flood;
But in a bog live well content,
And find it just my element:
Should be a clod, and not a man ;
Nor wish in vain for sister Ann,
With charitable aid to drag
My mind out of its proper quag;
Should have the genius of a boor,
And no ambition to have more.

SONG ON PEACE.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN, 1783.

No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue :
O happiness! not to be found.
Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendor and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope, And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love

But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.

SONG,

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF LADY AUSTEN.

WHEN all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile!

Delights that never cease,

The livelong day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,
With open hands she showers
Fresh blessings to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please;
The mind that feels no smart,
Enlivens all it sees;

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd
In nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill display'd,
Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best ;

It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, Esq.

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT
EARTHAM. 1792.

Romney, expert infallibly to trace
On chart or canvass, 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 pencill'd mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
But 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
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM, ON RECEIVING

HER A PURSE.

1793.

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.

EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.

JANUARY, 1785.

Here Johnson 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 stron
Superior praise to the mere poet's song;
Who many a noble gift from heaven 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!

THE BIRD'S NEST, A TALE.

1793.

This Tale is founded on an anecdote which the Author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1st, 1793, in the following

words:

Glasgow, May 23.-In a block or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a Chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food.

IN Scotland's realm, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;

But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found!

For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefiled,

And false ones are as rare almost,
As hedge-rows in the wild.

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare,
The history chanced of late-

This history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd :

They paired and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.

The heaths uncovered and the moors,

Except with snow and sleet,

Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores

Could yield them no retreat.