Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men.
But rather some suspect, who have oppreff'd
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR.

LLOYD,*

Spoken at the Westminster Election next after
his Deceafe.

BIIT fenex! periit fenex amabilis !
Quo non fuit jucundior.

Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior
Senem colendum præftitit,
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus
Firmoque fretus pectore,

Florentiori vos juventute excolens
Curâ fovebat patriâ ;

Seu quando fractus, jamque donatus rude,
Vultu fed ufque blandulo,

I make no apology for the introduction of the following lines, though I have never learned who wrote them. [They were written by Dr. Vincent, Dean of Westminster.] Their elegance will fufficiently recommend them to perfons of claffical taste and erudition, and I fhall be happy if the English verfion that they have received from me be found not to dishonour them. Affection for the memory of the worthy man whom they celebrate alone prompted me to this endeavour.-W. COWPER.

Mifcere gaudebat fuas facetias
His annuis leporibus.

Vixit probus, purâque fimplex indole,
Blandifque comis moribus,

Et dives æquâ mente-charus omnibus,
Unius* auctus munere.

Ite tituli! meritis beatioribus

Aptate laudes debitas!

Nec invidebat ille, fi quibus favens
Fortuna plus arriserat.
Placide fenex! levi quiefcas cefpite,
Etfi fuperbum nec vivo tibi
Decus fit inditum, nec mortuo
Lapis notatus nomine.

THE SAME IN ENGLISH.

UR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest,

Whofe focial converfe was itself a feast. ye of riper age, who recollect

How once ye loved and eyed him with respect,
Both in the firmness of his better day,

While yet he ruled you with a father's sway,
And when, impair'd by time and glad to reft,

*He was usher and under master of Westminster near fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was near seventy, with a handsome penfion from the King.

Yet still with looks in mild complacence dreft,
He took his annual feat and mingled here
His sprightly vein with yours-now drop a tear.
In morals blameless as in manners meek,
He knew no wish that he might blush to speak,
But, happy in whatever state below,

And richer than the rich in being fo,

Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed
At length from one,* as made him rich indeed.
Hence, then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here,
Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere,
The brows of those whofe more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

Light lie the turf, good senior! on thy breast, And tranquil as thy mind was be thy rest! Though, living, thou hadst more defert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

On her beautiful Tranfcript of Horace's Ode,
"Ad Librum fuum."

ARIA, could Horace have gueff'd
What honour awaited his ode

To his own little volume addreff'd,
The honour which you have beftow'd;

* See the note in the Latin copy.

Who have traced it in characters here,

So elegant, even, and neat,

He had laugh'd at the critical fneer

Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

And fneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph fhall hereafter arise

Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;

And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written fo well.

Feb. 1790.

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT,

On which I dined this day, Monday, April 26,

1784.

HERE haft thou floated, in what feas pursued

Thy paftime? When waft thou an egg

new spawn'd,

Loft in the immenfity of ocean's waste?

Roar as they might, the overbearing winds

That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe

And in thy minikin and embryo state,

Attach'd to the firm leaf of fome falt weed,
Didst outlive tempefts, fuch as wrung and rack'd
The joints of many a ftout and gallant bark,
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss.
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou waft a voyager on many coafts,
Grazing at large in meadows fubmarine,
Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps
Above the brine-where Caledonia's rocks
Beat back the furge-and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.
-Wherever thou haft fed, thou little thought'ft,
And I not more, that I fhould feed on thee.
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good
fish,

To him who sent thee! and fuccefs, as oft
As it defcends into the billowy gulf,

To the same drag that caught thee!—Fare thee well!

Thy lot thy brethren of the flimy fin

Would envy, could they know that thou waft doom'd

To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.