For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!

Hail! honour'd land! a desert, where
Not even birds can hide;

Yet parent of this loving pair,

Whom nothing could divide,

And ye, who rather than resign
*Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine,
In company with man.

To whose lean country, much disdain
We English often show;
Yet from a richer, nothing gain
But wantonness and wo.

Be it your fortune, year by year,
The same resource to prove;
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!

"THE FOUR AGES.

[A BRIEF FRAGMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED POEM.]

"I COULD be well content, allow'd the use Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd

VOL. I.

From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"

Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk I mus'd,
And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied.

"Could'st thou in truth? and art thou taught at length

This wisdom, and but this from all the past?

Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,

Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsaf'd to err
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?"

I heard, and acquiesc'd; then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd-What is Man?

Knows he his origin ?-can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? and in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destin'd moment to be born?
Or was he not till fashion'd in the womb?

Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen much have toil'd

T'unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.

It is an evil incident to man,

And of the worst, that unexplor'd he leaves
Truths useful, and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solv'd, and useless if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE,

Which the Author heard sing on New-Year's day, 1792.

WHENCE is it, that amaz'd I hear
From yonder wither'd spray,

This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May.

And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shewn,

Am I selected from the crowd,

To witness it alone!

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

Have practis'd in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee in song?

Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?

Thrice welcome, then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.

But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing,

To make e'en January charm,
And every season spring.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

On his arrival at Cambridge wet, when no rain had fallen there.

IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found,
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd
With heavenly gifts, to heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet, when other locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen! may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

231

Weston, June 20, 1793.

DEAR architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand forever if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!

Oh for permission from the skies to share, Much to thy 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.

TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM,

On receiving from her a Net-work Purse made by herself.

MY gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,