There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
May, 1793.
TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.
On his presenting me with an antique bust of Homer.
Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold the fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:
Joy too and grief—much joy that there should be,
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
May, 1793.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
On his arriving at Cambridge wet when no rain had fallen there.
If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the church, endow'd
With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry:
Heaven grant us half the omen—may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!
May, 1793.