But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."*
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to graco his native islə
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dar'd profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heav'd the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones,
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts the dead.
* Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri Fronde comas...At ego secura pace quiescam. Milton in Maasa
Her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work Coun terpane 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 Epick shows)
Compos'd 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 sithe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till rous'd 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.
And oh, what havock would ensuc '
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.
* Certain Potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as fol lows:
PAY me my price, Potters! and I will sing
Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm
Protect their oven; let the cups and all
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked
With good success, yield them both fair renown
*Note by the Editor. No title is prefixed to this piece: but it appears to be a translation of one of the Eriyρappara of Homer, called 'O Kapivos, or the Furnace. The prefatory lines are from the Greek of Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him
And profit, whether in the market sold,
Or street, and let no strife ensue between us,
But, oh, ye Potters! if with shameless front,
Yo falsify your promise, then I leave
No mischief uninvok'd t' avenge the wrong.
Come Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes come,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread,
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape,
May ye lament to sec confusion mar
And mingle the whole labour of your hands,
And may a sound fill all your oven, such
As of a horse grinding his provender,
While all your pots and flagons bounce within.
Come hither also, daughter of the sun,
Circe the Sorceress, and with thy drugs
Poison themselves, and all that they have made
Come also, Chiron, with thy num'rous troop
Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath
The club of Hercules, as who escaped,
And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall
Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes.
And howl to see the ruin of their art,
While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop
To peep into his furnace, nay the fire
Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men
Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.
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 mispent 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 board, Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing wo
By virtue suffer'd combating below?
That privilege was thine; Heav'n gave thee means
Tillumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn,
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food:
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