Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms,
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold,
Warp'd into tough knee-timber,* many a load !
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days
Oaks fell not, hewn y thousands, to supply
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time
The task was left to whittle thee away
With his sly scythe, whose ever nibbling edge,
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more,
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv`d,
Achiev'd a labour, which had far and wide,
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root. Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.

So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulveriz'd of venality, a shell

Stands now, and semblance only of itself!

Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them

off

Long since, and rovers of the forest wild

* Knee-Timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, oy reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.

With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have

left

A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white;
And some, memorial none where once they grew.
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth
Proof not contemptible of what she can,
Even where death predominates. The spring
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood,
So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv'd
Half a millennium since the date of thine.
But since, although well qualified by age
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice
May be expected from thee, seated here
On thy distorted root, with hearers none
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perforin
Myself the oracle, and will discourse
In my own ear such matter as I may.

One man alone, the father of us all,
Drew not his life from woman; never gaz'd,
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,
Nor ow'd articulation to his ear:
But, moulded by his Maker into man
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assigned
To each his name significant, and, fill'd
With love and wisdom, rendered back to Heav'n
In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excus'd the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand

With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind
With problems. History, not wanted yet,

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 amaz'd I hear

From yonder wither'd spray,

This foremost morn of all the

The melody of May?

year,

And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shown,

Am 1 selected from the crowd,

To witness it alone?

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long

Have practis'd in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?

Or sing'st thou rather un der force
Of some divine com nand,
Commission'd to presage a courso
Of happier days at hand?

Thrice welcome, then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,

As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.

But thee no wintry skies can harm,

Who only need'st to sing,

To make ev'n January charm,

And ev'ry season Spring.

LINES,

Written for insertion, in a collection of hand-writings and signatures made by Miss Patty, sister of Hannah More.

[March 6, 1792.]

In vain to live from age to age

While modern bards endeavour,

I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.

W. COWPER

EPITAPHI

ON

A free but tame Redbreast, a favourite of
Miss Sally Hurdis.

[March, 1792.]

THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed

For absent Robin, who she fears,

With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast crumb.

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd

She sought him but in vain,

That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.

She, therefore, raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,

Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold,

Nor spiritlessly tame;

Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.

SONNET

ΤΟ

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.

[April 16, 1792.]

THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd
Fanatick, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd
From exile, publick sale, and slav'ry's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.