TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

JUNE 29, 1793.

DEAR architect of fine CHATEAUX in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear;
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee, (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!

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

ON

A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,

KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

JULY 15, 1793.

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,

Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.

But

you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,

Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that

you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man!

BEAU'S REPLY.

SIR, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

You cried-forbear !—but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed!-
'Twas nature, sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,

Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor;

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,

I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,)
What think you, sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me?

ANSWER

ΤΟ

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH,

BY MISS CATHARINE FANSHAWE,

IN RETURNING A POEM OF MR. COWPER'S, LENT TO HER ON CONDITION SHE SHOULD NEITHER SHOW IT, NOR TAKE A COPY.

1793.

To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;

And did the few like her the same,
The press might sleep for me.

So Homer, in the memory stored
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved—a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.

TO THE

SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,

ON HIS TRANSLATING THE author's sonG ON A ROSE INTO ITALIAN VERSE.

1793.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew;
And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,

Will never fade again.

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

SEPT. 1793.

THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.

ON RECEIVING

HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM MR. HAYLEY

Ост. 1793.

I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain,
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I received him as a gift from thee.

TO MARY.

AUTUMN OF 1793.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow ;—

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,

And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

My Mary!

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!