LEWESDON HILL.

LEWESDON HILL,
WITH
OTHER POEMS.

BY
THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE,
PUBLIC ORATOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Χαιρ’ ω πεδον αγχιαλον,

Και μ’ ευπλοιᾳ πεμψον αμεμπτως

Ενθ’ ἡ μεγαλη μοιρα κομιζει,

——χῳ πανδαματωρ

Δαιμων, ος ταυτ’ επεκρανεν.

SOPH.

Farewell thy printless sands and pebbly shore!

I hear the white surge beat thy coast no more,

Pure, gentle source of the high, rapturous mood!—

—Where’er, like the great Flood, by thy dread force

Propell’d—shape Thou my calm, my blameless course,

Heaven, Earth, and Ocean’s Lord!—and Father of the Good!

***

A CORRECTED AND MUCH ENLARGED EDITION, WITH NOTES.

LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
1827.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Hill which gives title to the following Poem is situated in the western part of Dorsetshire. This choice of a subject, to which the Author was led by his residence near the spot, may seem perhaps to confine him to topics of mere rural and local description. But he begs leave here to inform the Reader that he has advanced beyond those narrow limits to something more general and important. On the other hand he trusts, that in his farthest excursions the connexion between him and his subject will easily be traced. The few notes which are subjoined he thought necessary to elucidate the passages to which they refer. He will only add in this place, from Hutchins’s History of Dorsetshire, (vol. i. p. 366), what is there said of Lewesdon (or, as it is now corruptly called, Lewson): “This and Pillesdon Hill surmount all the hills, though very high, between them and the sea. Mariners call them the Cow and Calf, in which forms they are fancied to appear, being eminent sea-marks to those who sail upon the coast.”

To the top of this Hill the Author describes himself as walking on a May morning.

TO THE
RIGHT REV. FATHER IN GOD JONATHAN,
LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH,
WHO, IN A LEARNED, FREE, AND LIBERAL AGE,
IS HIMSELF MOST HIGHLY DISTINGUISHED
BY EXTENSIVE, USEFUL, AND ELEGANT LEARNING,
BY A DISINTERESTED SUPPORT OF FREEDOM,
AND BY A TRULY CHRISTIAN LIBERALITY OF MIND,
THIS POEM,
WITH ALL RESPECT, IS DEDICATED
BY HIS LORDSHIP’S MOST OBLIGED
AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT,

THE AUTHOR.

Jan. 1788.

CONTENTS.

LEWESDON HILL.

Up to thy Summit, Lewesdon, to the brow

Of yon proud rising, where the lonely thorn

Bends from the rude South-east with top cut sheer

By his keen breath, along the narrow track,

By which the scanty-pastured sheep ascend

Up to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb,—

My morning exercise,—and thence look round

Upon the variegated scene, of hills

And woods and fruitful vales, and villages

Half hid in tufted orchards, and the sea

Boundless, and studded thick with many a sail.

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaled

From earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the morn

Ascend as incense to the Lord of day,

I come to breathe your odours; while they float

Yet near this surface, let me walk embathed

In your invisible perfumes, to health

So friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,

Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!

Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath

And russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloak

To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains

Of chill December, and art gaily robed

In livery of the spring: upon thy brow

A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck

Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick

Of golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woods

Adown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,

The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops

Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts

In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath:—

So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up

Against the birth of May: and, vested so,

Thou dost appear more gracefully array’d

Than Fashion’s worshippers, whose gaudy shows,

Fantastical as are a sick man’s dreams,

From vanity to costly vanity

Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,

From sad to gay returning with the year,

Shall grace thee still till Nature’s self shall change.

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene

At each return of spring: yet some[1] delight

Rather to view the change; and fondly gaze

On fading colours, and the thousand tints

Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf:

I like them not, for all their boasted hues

Are kin to Sickliness; mortal Decay

Is drinking up their vital juice; that gone,

They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise

Such false complexions, and for beauty take

A look consumption-bred? As soon, if gray

Were mixt in young Louisa’s tresses brown,

I’d call it beautiful variety,

And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spy

A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes

The yellow Autumn and the hopes o’ the year

Brings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraise

The pure and spotless form of that sharp time,

When January spreads a pall of snow

O’er the dead face of th’ undistinguish’d earth.

Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,

And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends

My reed-roof’d cottage, while the wintry blast

From the thick north comes howling: till the Spring

Return, who leads my devious steps abroad,

To climb, as now, to Lewesdon’s airy top.

Above the noise and stir of yonder fields

Uplifted, on this height I feel the mind

Expand itself in wider liberty.

The distant sounds break gently on my sense,

Soothing to meditation: so methinks,

Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world,

Could I wear out this transitory being

In peaceful contemplation and calm ease.

But Conscience, which still censures on our acts,

That awful voice within us, and the sense

Of an Hereafter, wake and rouse us up

From such unshaped retirement; which were else

A blest condition on this earthly stage.

For who would make his life a life of toil

For wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares;

Or power, which base compliance must uphold;

Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves;

Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;

Who for such perishable gaudes would put

A yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,

And gall himself with trammels and the rubs

Of this world’s business; so he might stand clear

Of judgment and the tax of idleness

In that dread audit, when his mortal hours

(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)

Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,

And to remove, according to our power,

The wants and evils of our brother’s state,

’Tis meet we justle with the world; content,

If by our sovereign Master we be found

At last not profitless: for worldly meed,

Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.

From this proud eminence on all sides round

Th’ unbroken prospect opens to my view,

On all sides large; save only where the head

Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon’s lofty Pen:

So call (still rendering to his ancient name

Observance due) that rival Height south-west,

Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.

There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen

Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade

Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields

Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine

Returning with their milky treasure home

Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills

The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now,

Since that the Spring has deck’d anew the meads

With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun

Their foggy moistness drain’d; in wintry days

Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks

Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin

To drench the spungy turf: but ere that time

The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,

Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath[2]

In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields

Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named

Of the White Horse, its antique monument

Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth

Might equal, though surpassing in extent,

This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon’s base

Extended to the sea, and water’d well

By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,

Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side

Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip

Adown the valley, wandering sportively.

Alas, how soon thy little course will end!

How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself

In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow

To name or greatness! Yet it flows along

Untainted with the commerce of the world,

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;

But through sequester’d meads, a little space,

Winds secretly, and in its wanton path

May cheer some drooping flower, or minister

Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb:

Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure

As when it issued from its native hill.

So to thine early grave didst thou run on,

Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,

Thine innocent and playful infancy

Was swallowed up in death, and thy pure spirit

In that illimitable gulf which bounds

Our mortal continent. But not there lost,

Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,

Who can talk much and learnedly of life,

Who know our frame and fashion, who can tell

The substance and the properties of man,

As they had seen him made,—aye and stood by

Spies on Heaven’s work. They also can discourse

Wisely, to prove that what must be must be,

And show how thoughts are jogg’d out of the brain

By a mechanical impulse; pushing on

The minds of us, poor unaccountables,

To fatal resolution. Know they not,

That in this mortal life, whate’er it be,

We take the path that leads to good or evil,

And therein find our bliss or misery?

And this includes all reasonable ends

Of knowledge or of being; farther to go

Is toil unprofitable, and th’ effect

Most perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure,

Where freedom is not, there no virtue is:

If there be none, this world is all a cheat,

And the divine stability of Heaven

(That assured seat for good men after death)

Is but a transient cloud, display’d so fair

To cherish virtuous hope, but at our need

Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,

Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,

Were it not better to be born a beast,

Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scape

The aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breast

With sore anxiety of what shall be—

And all for nought? Since our most wicked act

Is not our sin, and our religious awe

Delusion, if that strong Necessity

Chains up our will. But that the mind is free,

The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,

Is feelingly convinced; nor to be moved

By subtle words, that may perplex the head,

But ne’er persuade the heart. Vain argument,

That with false weapons of Philosophy

Fights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature’s strength!

See how the Sun, here clouded, afar off

Pours down the golden radiance of his light

Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship

Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,

But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,

When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,

That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,

Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eye

With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3].

Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm

Shatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,

She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,

To gain the port within it, or at worst

To shun that harbourless and hollow coast

From Portland eastward to the Promontory[4],

Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.

But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,

In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:

And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffs

Dash’d piteously, with all her precious freight

Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws

Swallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden ship

Of spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sent

To the Philippines o’er the Southern main

From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,

Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,

And Beauty, and high Courage undismayed

By mortal terrors, and paternal Love

Strong, and unconquerable even in death—

Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour!

Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bare

With ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and track

Of many indenting wheels, heavy and light,

That in their different courses as they pass,

Rush violently down precipitate,

Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep.

Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,

From Shipton’s[5] bottom to the lofty down

Winds like a path of pleasure, drawn by art

Through park or flowery garden for delight.

Nor less delightful this—if, while he mounts

Not wearied, the free Journeyer will pause

To view the prospect oft, as oft to see

Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived

By fancy, or choice, but of necessity,

By soft gradations of ascent to lead

The labouring and way-worn feet along,

And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,

Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,

O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,

Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench

Invites to short refreshment, and to taste

What grateful beverage the house may yield

After fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’d

The Traveller’s Rest. Welcome, embower’d seat,

Friendly repose to the slow passenger

Ascending, ere he takes his sultry way

Along th’ interminable road, stretch’d out

Over th’ unshelter’d down; or when at last

He has that hard and solitary path

Measured by painful steps. And blest are they,

Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pause

After a march of glory: yet not such

As rise in causeless war, troubling the world

By their mad quarrel, and in fields of blood

Hail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earth

Kings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high Heaven

Thieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:

Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to thee

Belongs such rest; who in the western world,

Thine own deliver’d country, for thyself

Hast planted an immortal grove, and there,

Upon the glorious mount of Liberty

Reposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade.

And Thou, not less renown’d in like attempt

Of high achievement, though thy virtue fail’d

To save thy little country, Patriot Prince,

Hero, Philosopher—what more could they

Who wisely chose thee, Paoli, to bless

Thy native Isle, long struggling to be free?

But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou repose

After thy glorious toil, secure of fame

Well-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France,

Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle,

Enjoys not rest or glory; with her prey

Gorged but not satisfied, and craving still

Against th’ intent of Nature. See Her now

Upon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,

Plying[6] her monstrous labour unrestrained!

A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,

With towery shape and height, and armed heads

Uprising o’er the surge; and these between,

Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rock

Projected many a mile to rear her wall

Midst the deep waters. She, the mighty work

Still urging, in her arrogant attempt,

As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,

‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid

‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound

‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes in

A space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,

Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strength

Than in dimensions, giant-like in both,—

On each side flank’d with citadels and towers

And rocky walls, and arches massy proof

Against the storm of war. Compared with this

Less[7] and less hazardous emprize achieved

Resistless Alexander, when he cast

The strong foundations of that high-raised mound

Deep in the hostile waves, his martial way,

Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.

Nor[8] aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,

At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont,

Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,

Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from Salamis

Flying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,

Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.

Nor[9] yet that elder work (if work it were,

Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,

(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,

A thousand ships behind the vasty mole

All shelter’d) could with this compare, though built

It seem’d, of greatness worthy to create

Envy in the immortals; and at last

Not overthrown without th’ embattled aid

Of angry Neptune. So may He once more

Rise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,

Urged on to fury by contending winds,

With horned violence to push and whelm

This pile, usurping on his watry reign!

From hostile shores returning, glad I look

On native scenes again; and first salute

Thee, Burton[10], and thy lofty cliff, where oft

The nightly blaze is kindled; further seen

Than erst was that love-tended cresset, hung

Beside the Hellespont: yet not like that

Inviting to the hospitable arms

Of Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the sign

Of danger, and of ambush’d foes to warn

The stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward bound

From Havre or the Norman isles, with freight

Of wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,

Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quell

Many a light skiff and well-appointed sloop

Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behind

Some curved promontory, in hope to seize

These contraband: vain hope! on that high shore

Station’d, th’ associates of their lawless trade

Keep watch, and to their fellows off at sea

Give the known signal; they with fearful haste

Observant, put about the ship, and plunge

Into concealing darkness. As a fox,

That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ din

Runs crafty down the wind, and steals away

Forth from his cover, hopeful so t’ elude

The not yet following pack,—if chance the shout

Of eager or unpractised boy betray

His meditated flight, back he retires

To shelter him in the thick wood: so these

Retiring, ply to south, and shun the land

Too perilous to approach: and oft at sea

Secure (or ever nigh the guarded coast

They venture) to the trackless deep they trust

Their forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,

Together link’d upon their cable’s length,

And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixt

By stony weights; till happier hour arrive

To land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d.

But what is yonder Hill[11], whose dusky brow

Wears, like a regal diadem, the round

Of ancient battlements and ramparts high,

And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not—

Thou hast no name, no honourable note,

No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,

To testify what once thou wert, how great,

How glorious, and how fear’d. So perish all,

Who seek their greatness in dominion held

Over their fellows, or the pomp of war,

And be as thou forgotten, and their fame

Cancell’d like thine! But thee in after times

Reclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited,

And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’d

Of Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sire

Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard

Has with his gentle witchery so wrought

Upon our sense, that we can see no more

Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,

And purple robes of state with royal blood

Inhospitably stain’d; but in their place

Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,

Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.

Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tell

Of rural innocence and village love;

Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,

Who bosom’d in the vale below dost look

This morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,

Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.

There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—

I fable not, nor will with fabled names

Varnish a melancholy tale all true,—

A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,

Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,

Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leaves

As in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweet

Above the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad,

And play with every wanton breath of Heaven.

Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eye

Of a young villager, whose vows of love

Soon won her easy faith: her sire meantime,

Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought,

Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen,

(Dian first rising after change was not

More delicate) betray’d her secret act,

And grew to guilty fulness: then farewell

Her maiden dignity, and comely pride,

And virtuous reputation. But this loss

Worse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreck

Of what was left her yet of good, or fair,

Or decent: now her meek and gentle voice

To petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attire

To sluttish tawdry: her once timid eye

Grew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with those

It look’d on. Change detestable! For she,

Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house,

Became a grievous darkness: but his heart

Endured not long; all in despair he went

Into the chambers of the grave, to seek

A comfortless repose from sorrow and shame.

What then befell this daughter desolate?

For He, the partner of her earliest fault,

Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislike

Of her light carriage. What could then befall,

What else, but of her self-injurious life

The too sad penance—hopeless penury,

Loathsome disease unpitied, and thereto

The brand of all-avoided infamy

Set on her, like the fearful token o’er

A plague-infested house:—at length to death

Impatient and distract she made bold way.

Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hail

The ground where Hollis[12] lies; his choice retreat,

Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he lived

To generous Virtue, and the holy love

Of Liberty, a dedicated spirit;

And left his ashes there; still honouring

Thy fields, with title given of patriot names,

But more with his untitled sepulchre.

That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight,

Which, passing o’er thy place north-east, looks on

To Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains,

The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwells

Inviolate, and fearless of thy curse,

War-glutted Osmund,[13] superstitious Lord!

Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody life

Madest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more

Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt,

And darest bid th’ Almighty to become

The minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,

So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fell

With sacred vengeance pointed on the head

Of many a bold usurper: chief on thine

(Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall),

Accomplish’d[14] Raleigh! in that lawless day

When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset

With crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,

While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;

And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,

Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.

How is it vanish’d in a hasty spleen,

The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now

I saw the hoary pile cresting the top

Of that north-western hill; and in this Now

A cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulk

Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot

Which the strain’d vision tires itself to find.

And even so fares it with the things of earth

Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud

That shall infold them up, and leave their place

A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken

Reaches too far, when all that we behold

Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,

Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings

(Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth)

Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem

To foster what they touch, and mortal fools

Rejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!

For in that indefatigable flight

The multitudinous strokes incessantly

Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all

His secret injury; on the front of man

Gray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on

Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat

With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,

Till all the creatures of this nether world

Are one wide quarry: following dark behind,

The cormorant Oblivion swallows up

The carcasses that Time has made his prey.

But, hark! the village clock strikes nine—the chimes

Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make

False-measured melody on crazy bells.

O wond’rous Power of modulated sound!

Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shape

Thou makest thy slave), canst subtilly pervade

The yielded avenues of sense, unlock

The close affections, by some fairy path

Winning an easy way through every ear,

And with thine unsubstantial quality

Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;

All, but some cold and sullen-temper’d spirits,

Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

Yet what is music, and the blended power

Of voice with instruments of wind and string?

What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?

’Tis past: and all that it has left behind

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,

A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.

But ill accords my verse with the delights

Of this gay month:—and see the Villagers

Assembling jocund in their best attire

To grace this genial morn. Now I descend

To join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,

To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,

That lift th’ expanded heart above this spot

To heavenly musing, these shall pass away

(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)

Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.

So passeth human life—our better mind

Is as a Sunday’s garment, then put on

When we have nought to do; but at our work

We wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:

To-morrow for severer thought; but now

To breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

NOTES.

[Note 1, page 4, line 10.]

At each return of spring: yet some delight, &c.

An adventitious beauty, arising from that gradual decay, which loosens the withering leaf, gilds the autumnal landscape with a temporary splendor superior to the verdure of spring, or the luxuriance of summer. The infinitely various and ever-changing hues of the leaves at this season, melting into every soft gradation of tint and shade, have long engaged the imitation of the painter, and are equally happy ornaments in the description of the poet.—Aikin’s Essay on the Character of Thompson’s Seasons, prefixed to his edition of them, 1791.

[Note 2, p. 10, line 7.]

Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath.

To coath, Skinner says, is a word common in Lincolnshire, and signifies, to faint. He derives it from the Anglo-Saxon coðe, a disease. In Dorsetshire it is in common use, but it is used of sheep only: a coathed sheep is a rotten sheep; to coath is to take the rot. Rechasing is also a term in that county appropriated to flocks: to chase and rechase is to drive sheep at certain times from one sort of ground to another, or from one parish to another.

The author having ventured to introduce some provincial and other terms, takes this occasion to say, that it is a liberty in which he has not indulged himself, but when he conceived them to be allowable for the sake of ornament or expression.

[Note 3, page 16, line 4.]

With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss.

The distressful condition of the Halswell here alluded to is thus circumstantially described in the narrative of her loss, p. 13.

“Thursday the 5th, at two in the morning, the wind came to the southward, blew fresh, and the weather was very thick; at noon Portland was seen, bearing N. by E. distance two or three leagues; at eight at night it blew a strong gale at S. and at this time the Portland lights were seen bearing N. W. distance four or five leagues, when they wore ship, and got her head to the westward; but finding they lost ground upon that tack, they wore again, and kept stretching on eastward, in hopes to have weathered Peverel-point, in which case they intended to have anchored in Studland Bay: at 11 at night it cleared, and they saw St. Alban’s-head a mile and a half to the leeward of them; upon which they took in sail immediately, and let go the small bower anchor, which brought up the ship at a whole cable, and she rode for about an hour, but then drove; they now let go the sheet anchor, and wore away a whole cable, and the ship rode for about two hours longer, when she drove again. They were then driving very fast on shore, and might expect every moment to strike!”

[Note 4, page 16, line 10.]

From Portland eastward to the Promontory.

“Not far from this (Encombe) stands St. Aldene’s Chapel; which took name from the dedication to St. Adeline, the first bishop of Sherbourne in this shire: but now it serves for a sea-mark.”—Coker’s Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 47.

“Near the sea is the high land of St. Aldhelm’s, commonly called St. Alban’s, a noted sea-mark. The cliff here is 147 yards perpendicular. On this promontory, about a mile south of Worth, stands a chapel of the same name.” Hutchins’s Dorsetsh. vol. i. p. 228. But this headland is not marked by name in Hutchins’s map. “The very utter part of St. Aldhelm’s point is five miles from Sandwich (Swanwich).”—Lel. Itin. vol. iii. p. 53.

[Note 5, page 18, line 6.]

From Shipton’s bottom to the lofty down.

Shipton is a hill, which, according to common report, is so called from its shape; the top of it being formed like a ship with the keel upwards. It stands three miles from Bridport on the road towards London; which road passes by the foot of it to the North.

[Note 6, page 22, line 1.]

Plying her monstrous labour unrestrained.

The works now carrying on at Cherburgh, (A. D. 1787) to make a haven for ships of war, are principally the following. Of these however it is not intended to give a full description; but only to mention some particulars, from which an idea may be formed of the greatness of the scheme.

In the open sea, above a league from the town, and within half a mile west of a rock called L’isle Pelée, a pier is begun, with design of conducting it on to the shore somewhat beyond Point Hommet, about two miles westward of Cherburgh. In order to this, a strong frame of timber-work, of the shape of a truncated cone, having been constructed on the beach, was buoyed out, and sunk in a depth of water; which at lowest ebb is 35 feet, and where the tide rises near 20 feet. The diameter of this cone at bottom is about 60 yards, its height 70 feet; and the area on its top large enough to receive a battery of cannon, with which it is hereafter to be fortified. Its solid contents are 2500 French toises; which, in our measure (allowing the French foot to be to the English as 144 to 135), will amount to 24,250 cubic yards nearly. Several other cones, of equal dimensions, are sunk at convenient distances from each other, forming the line of the pier: their number, when complete, it is said, will be forty. As soon as any one of these is carried to its place, it is filled with stones, which are dug from mount Rouille and other rocks near the coast, and brought on horses to the shore: whence they are conveyed to the cones in vessels of forty, sixty, or eighty tons burden. In like manner, but with much greater labour and expense, the spaces between the cones are filled up with stones thrown loosely into the sea, till the heap is raised above the water. On this mass, as on a foundation, a wall of masonry-work is to be erected. The length of the whole is near five miles. On L’isle Pelée and Point Hommet before-mentioned large fortifications are constructed bomb-proof, to defend the haven and pier. It is the opinion of some persons that this stupendous mole may be injured or destroyed by what is called a ground-sea, i. e. a sea when the waters are agitated to the bottom: and this happens when a strong wind, after having put the waves in motion, suddenly shifts to the opposite quarter. The description given in the Poem of this vast undertaking closes with an allusion to this opinion.

[Note 7, page 23, lines 5 and 6.]

Less and less hazardous emprize achieved

Resistless Alexander.

Quint. Curt. lib. 4, cap. 2, 3.

[Note 8, page 23, line 10.]

Nor aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful.

——creditur olim

Velificatus Athos—

Densa cadavera prora.

Juv. Sat. x. v. 173. 186.

[Note 9, page 24, line 2.]

Nor yet that elder work.

——τειχος εδειμαν,——

——αμαλδυνηται Αχαιων.

Hom. Il. vii. v. 436. 463.

Ὡσ ὁ μεν εν κλισιησι,—

——καλλιροον ὑδωρ.

Il. xii. v. 1, 33.

[Note 10, page 25, line 3.]

Thee, Burton, and thy lofty cliff.

Burton is a village near the sea, lying S. E. from Lewesdon, and about two miles S. of Shipton hill before mentioned. The cliff is among the loftiest of all upon that coast; and smugglers often take advantage of its height for the purpose related in the poem.

[Note 11, page 27, line 11.]

But what is yonder Hill, whose dusky brow.

“Eggardon Hill is a very high hill, and gives name to the hundred. Mr. Coker says it is uncertain whether it takes its name from Edgar, king of the West Saxons, or from Orgarus, earl of Cornwall: and indeed this last derivation is the truest; there being little reason to doubt that it is the old Orgarestone. The camp on the brow of this hill is a large and strong fortification, and seems to be Roman.”—Hutchins’s Dorset, vol. i. p. 289; where there is an engraving of this camp. But Hutchins has misrepresented Mr. Coker, who indeed prefers the derivation from Orgar. His words are these: “That it takes name from Edgar, the West Saxon king, I dare not affirm, having nothing to prove it but the nearnesse of the name. It better likes me to think this the place which in Doomsday-book is called Orgareston; but whether it take name from Orgareus, earl of Cornwall, I know not; though I think I should run into no great error to believe it.”—Coker’s Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 26.

[Note 12, page 33, line 2.]

The ground where Hollis lies; his choice retreat.

“Mr. Hollis, in order to preserve the memory of those heroes and patriots for whom he had a veneration, as the assertors and defenders of his country, called many of the farms and fields in his estate at Corscombe by their names; and by these names they are still distinguished. In the middle of one of those fields, not far from his house, he ordered his corpse to be deposited in a grave ten feet deep; and that the field should be immediately ploughed over, that no trace of his burial-place might remain.”—Memoirs of Thomas Hollis, Esq. vol. i. p. 481.

[Note 13, page 34, line 1.]

War-glutted Osmund, superstitious lord!

Of the strange curse belonging to Shireburne-Castle. From a MS. of the late Bishop of Ely (Bishop John More) now in the Royal Library at Cambridge.

“Osmund, a Norman knight, who had served William Duke of Normandy from his youth, in all his wars against the French king, and the duke’s (William’s) subjects, with much valour and discretion, for all his faithful service (when his master had by conquest obteyned the crown of England) was rewarded with many great gifts; among the which was the earldome of Dorsett, and the gift of many other possessions, whereof the castle and baronie of Sherburne were parcell. But Osmund, in the declyninge of his age, calling to mynde the great effusion of blood which, from his infancie, he had shedd; he resolved to leave all worldly delights, and betake himself to a religious life, the better to contemplate on his former sinnes, and to obteyn pardon for them. And, with much importunitie, having gotten leave of the kinge (who was unwilling to want the assistance of so grave and worthy a counsellor) to resign his temporal honors; and having obteyned the bishoprick of Sarum, he gave Sherburne, with other lands, to the bishoprick. To which gift he annexed this curse:—

“‘That whosoever should take those lands from the bishoprick, or diminish them in great or in small, should be accursed, not only in this world, but also in the world to come; unless in his life-time he made restitution thereof.’ And so he died bishop of Sarum.”

Those lands continued in the possession of his successors till the reign of King Stephen, who took them away: “whereupon (says this account) his prosperity forsook him.” King Stephen being dead, “these lands came into the hands of some of the Montagues (after earles of Sarum), who whilest they held the same, underwent many disasters. For one or other of them fell by misfortune. And finally, all the males of them became extinct, and the earldome received an end in their name. So ill was their success.”

After this the lands were restored to the bishoprick; but were taken away a second time by the Duke of Somerset, in the reign of Edward VI.; “when the duke, being hunting in the parke of Sherburne, he was sent for presently unto the kinge (to whome he was protector) and at his coming up to London, was forthwith committed unto the Tower, and shortly after lost his head.” The lands then, in a suit at law, were adjudged to the Bishop of Sarum; and so remained, “till Sir Walter Raleigh procured a grant of them; he afterwards unfortunately lost them, and at last his head also. Upon his attainder they came, by the king’s gift, to Prince Henry; who died not long after the possession thereof. After Prince Henry’s death, the Earle of Somerset (Carr) did possesse them. Finally, he lost them, and many other fortunes.”—Peck’s Desid. Cur. Lib. 14. No. 6.

[Note 14, page 34, line 11.]

Accomplish’d Raleigh! in that lawless day.

“How Dr. John Coldwell, of a physitian, became a bishop, I have heard by more than a good many; and I will briefly handle it, and as tenderly as I can; bearing myself equal between the living (Sir Walter Raleigh) and the dead (Bishop Coldwell). Yet the manifest judgements of God on both of them I may not pass over with silence. And to speak first of the knight, who carried off the Spolia opima of the bishoprick. He, having gotten Sherborne castle, park, and parsonage, was in those days in so great favour with the queen, as I may boldly say, that with less suit than he was fain to make to her, ere he could perfect this his purchase, and with less money than he bestowed since in Sherborne (in building, and buying out leases, and in drawing the river through rocks into his garden), he might, very justly, and without offence of either church or state, have compassed a much better purchase. Also, as I have been truly informed, he had a presage before he first attempted it, which did foreshow it would turn to his ruin, and might have kept him from meddling with it, Si mens non læva fuisset: for, as he was riding post between Plymouth and the court (as many times he did upon no small employments), this castle being right in the way, he cast such an eye upon it as Ahab did upon Naboth’s vineyard. And, once above the rest, being talking of it (of the commodiousness of the place, of the strength of the seat, and how easily it might be got from the bishoprick), suddenly over and over came his horse, that his very face (which was then thought a very good face) plowed up the earth where he fell. This fall was ominous, I make no question; and himself was apt to construe it so. But his brother Adrian would needs have him interpret it as a conqueror, that his fall presaged the quiet possession of it. And accordingly, for the present, it so fell out. So that with much labor, cost, envy, and obloquy, he got it habendum et tenendum to him and his heirs. But see what became of him. In the public joy and jubilee of the whole realm (when favor, peace, and pardon, were offered even to offenders), he who in wit, in wealth, in courage, was inferior to few, fell suddenly (I cannot tell how) into such a downfall of despair, as his greatest enemy would not have wished him so much harm, as he would have done himself. Can any man be so willfully blind as not to see, and say, Digitus Dei hic est!”—Harrington’s Brief View, p. 88.

To these Notes are added the following, taken from Æschylus, to show the resemblance between the expressions of that author and certain passages in this poem.

——Let me walk embathed

In your invisible perfumes.—[P. 2, v. 16.]

Τις οδμα προσεπτα μ’ αφεγγης; Prom. Vinc. 115.

——For worldly meed,

Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.—[P. 8, v. 98.]

ου δ’ αινειν ειτε με ψεγειν θελεις,

Ομοιον. Agam. 1412.

The aguish fear that shakes th’ afflicted breast

With sore anxiety of what shall be—

And all for nought.—[P. 14, v. 179.]

ματαιος εκ γυκτων φοβας

Κινει, ταρασσει, και διωκεται πολεως

Χαλχηκλατῳ πλαστιγγι λυμανθεν δεμας. Choeph. 286.

To shun that harbourless and hollow coast.—[P. 16, v. 204.]

μολοντες αλιμενον χθονα

Ες νυκτ’ αποστειχοντος ἡλιου, φιλει

Ωδινα τικτειν νυξ χυβερνητῃ σοφῳ. Supplices, 775.

——the promontory

Where still St. Alban’s high-built chapel stands.—[P. 16. v. 205.]

Την αιπυνωτον αμφι Δωδωνην, ινα

Μαντεια θωκος τ’ εστι Θεσπρωτου Διος. Prom. Vinct. 829.

Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws

Swallow’d up quick.—[P. 17, v. 211.]

ενθεν εκραγησονταιν ποτε

Ποταμοι πυρος δαπτοντες αγριαις γναθοις. Prom. Vinct. 367.

Alas! they perish’d all: all in one hour!—[P. 17, v. 220.]

In the Persæ the Chorus demand of Xerxes what was become of his friends the Nobles; he answers, “I left them wrecked on the shores of Salamis:” they ask farther, “Where is Pharnuchus and Ariomardus? Where is the royal Sebalces?” &c. Xerxes replies,

Ιω, ιω, μοι μοι

παντες

Ενι πιτυλῳ,

(Ε, ε, ε,) τλαμονες

Ασπαιρουσι χερσῳ. 978.

——flank’d with citadels and towers,

And rocky walls, and arches massy-proof

Against the storm of war.—[P. 23, v. 292.]

Συ δ’ ωστε νηος κεδνος διακοστροφος

Φραξαι πολισμα, πριν καταιγισαι πνοας

Αρεος. Sept. cont. Theb. 62.

With horned violence to push and whelm

This pile.—[P. 24, v. 319.]

ἁι δε, κερωτυπουμεναι βιᾳ

Χειμωνοτυφῳ, συν ζαλῃ τ’ ομβροκτυπῳ. Agam. 664.

Χειμωνοτυφῳ; so I read the passage, instead of Χειμωνι, τυφω, κτλ.

In the Supplices of this author there is a similar phrase on a similar subject,

Πεμψατε ποντονδ’, ενθα δε λαιλαπι

Χειμωνοτυπῳ, βροντη στεροπη

Τ’, ομβροφοροισι τ’ ανεμοις αγριας

Αλος αντησαντες ολοιντο. 34.

In the Clouds of Aristophanes, A. 1. S. 4, this word occurs, ἑκατογκεφαλατυφω, and the Scholiast says, in τυφων or τυφως the first syllable is long.

To generous Virtue, and the holy love

Of liberty, a dedicated spirit.—[P. 33, v. 433.]

In the Eumenides the Fury calls Orestes

δαιμοναν σκια

Εμοι τραφεις τε και καθιερωμενος. 303.

So fares it with the things of earth

Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud

That shall enfold them up.—[P. 35, v. 466.]

Ιω βροτεια πραγματ’· ευτυχουντα μεν

Σκια τις αντρεψειεν. Agam. 1336.

The multitudinous strokes incessantly

Bruise all, &c.—[P. 36, v. 478.]

There is a singular similarity in the length of the words here, and in the following passage of the Choephori, where Electra speaks of the murder of her father; intending, perhaps, to express the multitude of wounds by the polysyllabic term;

πολυπλαγκτα δ’ ην ιδειν

Επασσυτεροτριβη τα χερος ορεγματα. 423.

POEMS.

INSCRIBED BENEATH THE PICTURE OF
AN ASS.

Meek animal, whose simple mien

Provokes th’ insulting eye of Spleen

To mock the melancholy trait

Of patience in thy front display’d,

By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray’d,

To character the sorrows of thy fate;

Say, Heir of misery, what to thee

Is life?—A long, long, gloomy stage

Through the sad vale of labour and of pain!

No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine age,

Nor in the vasty round of this terrene

Hast thou a friend to set thee free,

Till Death, perhaps too late,

In the dark evening of thy cheerless day,

Shall take thee, fainting on thy way,

From the rude storm of unresisted hate.

Yet dares the erroneous crowd to mark

With folly thy despised race,

Th’ ungovernable pack, who bark

With impious howlings in Heaven’s awful face,

If e’er on their impatient head

Affliction’s bitter show’r is shed.

But ’tis the weakness of thy kind

Meekly to bear the inevitable sway;

The wisdom of the human mind

Is to murmur and obey.

ODE
TO THE LYRIC MUSE.
SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT THE INSTALLATION OF LORD NORTH, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

STROPHE I.

Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre,

Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove

Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove,

List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire;

The ling’ring sounds that yet respire

Waked by the breezes of the Western main;

And bring some high and solemn strain,

Such as was heard that solemn day

When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey

On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty

Struck on the magic harp her dying song.—

Dealing vengeance on her foes,

The mortal Genius of battle rose,

And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along.

STROPHE II.

O, Muse divine! whene’er thy strain

Devotes the tyrant head to shame,

The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train;

And Glory hears the loud appeal;

And thou, unconquerable flame,

First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal:

Thou in the dark and dreary hour

When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread,

And Sloth a sullen influence shed,

And every coward Vice that loves the night

Revell’d on Corsica’s ill-fated shore;

Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame,

Lo, Paoli, father of his country, came,

And with a giant-voice

Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race

That slept in Slav’ry’s dull embrace;

Roused at the sound, they hail’d thy glorious choice,

And ev’ry manly breast

Shook off the unnerving load of rest;

And Virtue chasing the foul forms of night,

Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light.

ANTISTROPHE I.

But, ah! how sunk her veiled head,

Untimely dimm’d by Gaul’s o’ershadowing pow’r—

And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?

Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:

Thy gallant virtues all are fled;

Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.

O Gaul, Oppression’s blood-stain’d heir,

Let me not tell how, taught by thee,

England’s rude sons smote Liberty

On Vincent’s sable rock, her Indian throne:—

Not unavenged; for in her cause the sky

Storms and fiery vapours pour’d,

While Pestilence waved wide his tainted sword

To smite[15]...

EPODE.

Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shell

Wake the lofty sounds that swell

With rapture unreproved the patriot breast!

Robed in her many-colour’d vest

On Isis’ banks shall Science stand,

Waving in her bounteous hand

A wond’rous chaplet; high reward

Of toils, by public virtue dared:

And while to claim the envied meed

Fair Fame her vot’ries leads, thy voice,

O Muse, shall join th’ applauded choice

That fix’d the glorious wreath on Frederick’s honour’d head!

[15] The remainder of this, and the whole of the second antistrophe, were not repeated in the theatre, having been suppressed by the academical authorities, on account of their political sentiments, and subsequently lost.

VERSES
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE TO THE DUKE OF PORTLAND, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, IN THE YEAR 1793.

In evil hour, and with unhallow’d voice,

Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,

Did he begin to sing, He, first who sung

Of arms and combats, and the proud array

Of warriors on th’ embattled plain, and raised

Th’ aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown

By deeds of violence!—For since that time

Th’ imperious victor oft, unsatisfied

With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares

To challenge fame and honour; and too oft

The poet, bending low, to lawless pow’r

Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought

Streams clearest of th’ Aonian fount to wash

Blood-stain’d Ambition. If the stroke of war

Fell certain on the guilty head, none else,

If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,

And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,

Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight

To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow;

Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell

The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on

Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!

That undistinguishing and deathful storm

Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent,

And they that stir its fury, while it raves,

Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth

Unto the mortal ministers that wait

To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards

The widow’s tears, the friendless orphan’s cry,

And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes

That follow at the dogged heels of War?

They, in the pomp and pride of victory

Rejoicing, o’er the desolated earth,

As at an altar wet with human blood,

And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,

Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,

O’er the destruction of his gracious works!

Hymns to the Father, o’er his slaughter’d sons!

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.

Verum Iste tandem morte plectitur digna,

Serasque dat Senatui suo pœnas:

Credo quod impius hisce Patribus sanctis

Cœpit videri, aut forte iniquior paulo

Quam ferre sane didicerant Senes justi.

Decrevit itaque Concilium sacrosanctum,

“Patres viderent ne quid hinc caperent damni

Ipsi,” suoque supplicium Duci poscunt.

At vero, ut ista in fabula mulier quondam

Ex fele facta, pristinos tenuit mores,

Sic hi recurrunt proprium ad ingenium quisque

Notas per artes ut struant viro mortem,

Pretiumque mortis immortalitatem dent.

Ergo, advocata concione, Rex Romæ

Cum sustineret grande nescio quod munus,

Et rite staret medius in globo Patrum,

Ecce inter inclytos Sicarios quidam,

Princeps Senatus, confodit latus ferro;

A tergo adortus, dexter artifex cædis,

Et cui nefas fuit, aut piaculum quemquam

Jugulare, ni mactâsset simplici plaga.

Spoliat jacentem Prædo nobilis Regem,

Antehac Asyli, nunc at Curiæ lumen,

Lingua manuque præter cæteros audax.

Jam proximi adsunt mos quibus fuit raptim

Surrepta pecora dissecare secreto:

Hi mortuum dispertiunt minutatim,

Celeriter, ut solebant quum timendum esset

Ne turpiter prehenderentur in furto.

Hæc terminata pars; operique succedit,

Quæ dissipandum curet clanculum corpus,

Exercita olim callida manus fraude,

Nec artis expers qua crumena tollatur

Haud sentienti furis improbam dextram:

Atqui profecto illius agminis Patres

Tanto fuerunt numero quantum adæquare

Concisa frustillatim membra vix possent,

Ut quisque Laticlavius suam partem

Haberet auferendam sub toga furtim.

Ast interim tumultu fremere vesano,

Et concitari suspicata fraudem Plebs:

Regem reposcunt, nec abiisse adhuc credunt

Sublime raptum turbine, hoc licet Patres

Uno ore prædicent miraculum cuncti.

Productus ergo Testis est, gravisque auctor

Mendacii, prioris qui notam vitæ

Pensare sanctitate visus est summa:

Perjurioso facta est sic fides tandem,

Sic Romulus datur Deus Indiges cœlo.

Ecquando erit quum talis exitus vitæ

Tibi parari possit, O decus nostri

Et gloria ævi! solus omne qui belli

Pacisque jus tibi arrogas, per Europen

Late tyrannus, Buonaparte, Gallorum

Patiens vocarier Consul, Dominus cum sis?

O magne Corse, tempus jam satis longum

Heros fuisti, quin fias abhinc Divus.

HELENA INSULA.

Avia Nereidum peragro loca, saxaque vasto

Circumfusa mari, sævis objecta procellis

Undique, et Australi sub sidere dissita longè.

Insula parva quidem est, latuitque incognita quondam,

Donec Ulyssipolis navale Tagique fluenta

Linquentes Nautæ, post dira pericula ponti

Vix tandem incolumes tenuerunt: tum, quia festo

Visa die est Helenes, Helenæ de nomine Terram

Dixerunt; nunc est productum nomen, Helēna.

Insula parva quidem, et nullos habitura colonos,

Ni procul a terris aliis, penitusque remota,

Opportuna foret lassis succurrere nautis,

Et requiem præbere brevem; namque omnia circum

Aspera sunt, nulloque hominum subigenda labore,

Sed tetra aspectu, et nigrantibus horrida saxis.

Utque Giganteo certamine credere fas est

Montesque scopulosque, quibus conscendere cœlum

Tentabant, Jovis irati sub fulmine et igne

Disjectos, jacuisse atrâ informique ruina;

Sic etiam hæc convulsa adeo confusaque Tellus

Stat, veluti ostendens dirupti rudera mundi.

Hæc Terræ est facies, Pelagi neque mitior ora,

Vix uno portu modicis adeunda carinis:

Cætera, præcisis saxis circumundique cincta,

Navibus accessum negat, exitiumque minatur.

At quamvis sit triste solum, sit inhospita circum

Ora maris, tamen omnino contemnere nolis;

Quippe coercendis Captivis non magis aptus

Est locus, aut toto custodia tutior orbe.

Non tali regione fuit, neque carcere septus

Ille, Tomitano qui flebilis Exul in agro

Fœmineas misera fundebat voce querelas:

Nec tam munito latebrosa Siberia claustro

Constringit Sontes, qui, propter crimina missi

Exilium in durum, per devia lustra ferarum

Errantes victum quærunt, multoque labore

Sollicitam tolerant vitam, quamvis ibi circum

Sepserit acris Hyems altæ nivis aggere terram,

Captivosque premat glaciali indagine cinctos.

Et certè nullo nec tempore nec regione

Vir talis tantusque severo carcere vixit

Inclusus, qualem nunc insula claudit Helēna;

Carcer captivo, et Captivus carcere dignus.

Illic Cyrneii Proles vesana parentis

Felix Prædo jacet, Bonaparte, haud utile mundo

Editus exemplum, terras tot posse sub uno

Esse viro. Cyrni fines, latebrasque suorum

Deseruit, fatale malum, fulmenque quod omnes

Percuteret pariter populos, et sidus iniquum

Gentibus, et monstrum non aversabile votis.

Quinctiam Oceano classes inferre parabat;

Isset in occasus, mundi devexa secutus,

Ambissetque polos: victrixque Britannia solùm

Hunc potuit finem vesano ponere Regi.

Ergo nunc tempus lætos agitare triumphos,

Tristia quandoquidem cessarunt bella per orbem;

Et, bello cessante, redit Pax optima terris,

Et secura Quies, jamtandem Pace reducta,

Salvaque Libertas, domito occlusoque Tyranno.

In this Poem ten lines together (a few words excepted) are taken from an eminent Latin classic; which the writer mentions to avoid the imputation of plagiarism, but presumes not to point them out to the learned reader.

ON
CAPT. SIR M. MURRAY,
WOUNDED AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION.

Quem neque Mars potuit, neque mox Neptunus in undis,

Illisa scopulo nave, domare virum,

Hunc ignota manus vulnusque ignobile stravit

Tentantem offenso sistere se populo.

Quid tibi cum populo tali in certamine, Nauta?

Horridior Marte est, surdior est scopulis.

At qui Te immeritum posuit discrimine tali,

Quam vellem Is tali vulnere concideret!

AMNESTIA INFIDA.

Heus Tu, tyrannica aucte nunc potentia!

Adverte mentem, et memineris quid dixerit,

Orator, olim commonens Antonium[34].

“Judicia non times; ob innocentiam

“Si non times, hoc laudo; sin quod es potens,

“Nec lege vinctus non times, nescis ei

“Quid sit timendum, illo modo qui non, timet?”

Id crede dictum his qui sibi prætenderint,

Crudeliter quod egerint, Amnestiam,

Et facta iniqua lege iniqua munient.

[34] Cic. Phil. 2. § 45.

PSALM CXIV.

Ægypti terram linquens Domus Israelis

Haud sine divino numine carpit iter.

En Pontus fugit aspiciens, Jordanus et ipse

Ad fontem versis usque recurrit aquis.

Tum quoque, ut exsultant agni prolesve caprarum,

Sic scopuli et montes exiliere loco.

Cur tu, Ponte, fugis? cur tu, Jordane, recurris?

Cur scopuli et montes exiliere loco?

Omniparens mater Tellus, tun’ quo duce nescis

Insolitum hæc faciat gens iter? Ipsa treme,

Præsentemque agnosce Deum, qui flumen arenis

Edidit, et silices fundere jussit aquam:

Cui placuit populum loca per deserta regenti

Tandem in promissa sede locare suum.

PSALM CXXXIII.

Quale sodalitium fraternos inter amores

Ducere sollicitæ jucunda oblivia vitæ!

Gratius unguento est, quo summi incana madescens

Barba Sacerdotis late diffundit odores.

Talis ab arce tua, Sion, diffunditur aura,

Sacro thure gravis, siquando roscidus Hermon

Verticibus depasta suis armenta gregesque

Mittit adurandos excelsa ad Templa Jehovæ,

Unde salus terris promissa ac vita perennis.

PSALM CXXXVII.

Jam pridem captiva altum Babylonis ad amnem

Turba sedebamus fixa dolore gravi;

Ad salices juxta pendebant cymbala nostra,

Et fractæ chelyes, et sine voce lyræ;

Dum ferus illudens Victor cantare jubebat,

Eja Sionæum jam resonate melos.

Quî terra procul a patria cantabimus ægri?

Possumus hic nostrum jam resonare melos?

O Solymæ suaves, O nomen dulce Sionis,

Si quando vestrûm non memor esse velim,

Tum mea lingua, precor, sit muta et fixa palato,

Fiat et ad solitos dextera inepta modos!

At Tu crudelis Babylon, quæ duriter in nos

Nunc sævis, nostris læta feroxque malis,

Haud impune feres: O sit, precor, ille beatus

Qui caput in vestrum hoc triste rependet opus:

Qui natos aut ense tuos sine more trucidet,

Aut duro illidat membra tenella solo.

IN OBITUM SENIS ACADEMICI,
THOMÆ PRYOR, ARMIGERI.

Ουδ’ Οδυνης βελος οξυ δαμασσε νιν, ουδε νοσημα

Λυσιμελες κατετηξε ταλαιπωρῃ διασηψει·

Ηλθε δε δη Θανατος μαλακῳ εικασμενος ὑπνῳ

Ομματα και θελξας, την ψυχην εξεκλοπευσεν.

IN OBITUM J. N. OXONIENSIS,
1783.

Πολλα ποθ’ ὑβρισθεις, και σκωμματα πολλ’ υπομεινας,

Ως ατοπως διαγων τον βιον, ηδ’ αλογως,

Ωλετ’ Ιωαννης θειῳ χειμωνι νοσησας·

Ουκετ’ ονειδιζειν κειμενον, αλλ’ ελεειν.

Bene est cui Deus dederit

Parca quod satis est manu.

Hor. Lib. 3. Od. 16.

Οικον μεν τινα ναιω

Στεινον, πηλοδομον, καλαμοστεφη,

Ω κ’ επιβριθονται

Παντοιων ανεμων θυελλαι,

Ομβρος τε, βροντη τε Διος,

Εκπαγλως φθεγξασα

Χειμεριαις εν ωραις·

Εγγυς τε ποντος,

Επιβρεμων επακτιαις πετραισιν,

Ασπετον ηχον ορωρει·

Εγω δ’ ὁμως εκηλος ωδε παρμενω

Συν φιλοισι τεκεσσι,

Μουσῃ τε φιλῃ.

January, 1791.

ΕΙΣ ΚΟΣΣΥΦΟΝ.

Αντι τεου μελεος, φιλε Κοσσυφε, ποικιλοτραυλου

Ισθ’ εν εμῳ κηπῳ, παντοσε καρποφαγος.

Ατρεμας εσθε, ξεινε, τα μεν κομαρα δροσοεντα,

Και συκους θερινους, πορφυρεοντε βοτρυν.

Αλλα ποθεις ταχ’ εκεινα τα μηλα (φερ’, ως καλον οζει)

Και ταδε σαυτῳ εχοις, σφηκας απωσαμενος.

Των δ’ αυ των κερασων περιφειδεο, πειναλεος περ,

Τηρησας γαρ εχω Φυλλιδι δωρα ταδε.

Ει δ’ αρα τωνδε φαγης, τοδε δεινοτατον σοι απειλω,

(Οιδα γαρ εν δαφναις τεκνα σα κευθομενα)

Ταυτα γε παντ’ αφελων, καλιης αμα, Φυλλιδι δωσω,

Αντ’ εδανων καρπων δωμα νεοσσοκομον.

Αλλα συγ’, ω δυστηνε, κινυρομενος περι παιδων,

Φωνησεις τι κυκνων ἡδιον οιχομενων.

INSCRIPTIO IN HORTO AUCTORIS
APUD ALTON IN COM. WILT.

M. S.
GULIELMI CROWE,
SIGNIF. LEG. IV.
QUI CECIDIT IN ACIE,
8 DIE JAN. A.D. 1815. ÆT. S. 21.

Hanc Ego quam felix annis melioribus Ulmum

Ipse manu sevi, Tibi, dilectissime Fili,

Consecro in æternum, Gulielme; vocabitur Arbos

Hæc Tua, servabitque Tuum per sæcula nomen.

Te, generose Puer, nil muneris hujus egentem,

Te, jam perfunctum belli vitæque labore,

Respexit Deus, et cælestibus intulit oris.

Me tamen afflictum, me consolabitur ægrum,

Hoc Tibi quod solvo, quamquam leve, pignus amoris.

Quinetiam assidue hic veniam, lentæque senectæ

De Te, dulce Caput, meditando, tempora ducam:

Sæpe Tuam recolens formam, moresque decentes,

Dictaque, tum sancto et sapienti corde profecta,

Tum festiva quidem, et vario condita lepore.

Id mihi nunc solamen erit dum vita manebit.

Tu vero, quicunque olim successeris Hæres

Sedibus his, oro, mœsti reverere Parentis;

Nec tu sperne preces quas hac super Arbore fundo.

Sit tibi non invisa, sit inviolata securi,

Et, quantum Natura sinet, crescat, monumentum

Egregii Juvenis, qui sævo est Marte peremptus,

Fortiter ob patriam pugnando: sic Tibi constans

Sit fortuna domus, sit nulli obnoxia damno;

Nec videas unquam jucundi funera Nati.

EPICEDIUM.

HENRICUS CROWE, GEORGII FILIUS, AUCTORIS NEPOS
MORTUUS EST IN AFRICA, JUXTA CARTHAGINEM,
A.D. 1826. ÆT. S. 2.
BREVI POST MORTEM EJUS MATER ENIXA EST FILIAM
MATILDAM.

Talis eras Henrice, ut non mage pulcher Julus

Ille fuit, quem Diva Venus[35] (modo credere fas sit)

Raptum ex hisce locis olim longeque remotum

Idalio in luco mollique recondidit umbra;

Illius inque locum dulcem submisit Amorem,

Ne pater amissum graviter lugeret, at ipsum

Falleret assimilis nato forma atque figura:

A nobis Te, chare Puer, sic Fata tulerunt,

Inque vicem dederunt pulchram dulcemque Matildam,

Quæ Te, Henrice, refert oculis atque ore venusto.

[35] Vid. Virg. Æn. 1.

DE SEIPSO
MANDATUM AUCTORIS.

Hoc ubicunque cadet jaceat (modo sede sacrata)

Magno nec luctu dignum neque funere corpus.

Nec tumuli sit cura mei, neque carmina posco

Quæ poterunt nomenque meum famamque perennem

In tumulo servare; quid autem fama juvabit

Posthuma, terrarum quamvis impleverit orbem?

Spiritus alta petens cœli de vertice terras

Despiciet, curasque hominum ridebit inanes.

THE END.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.