BEAU'S REPLY.

IR, when I flew to feize 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 fake;

And when your linnet on a day,
Paffing his prifon door,

Had flutter'd all his ftrength away,
And panting preff'd the floor,

Well knowing him a facred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiff'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers fmooth.

Let my

obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,

Nor fome reproof yourself refuse

From your aggrieved bow-wow:

If killing birds be fuch a crime
(Which I can hardly fee),
What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verfe addreff'd to me!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

EAR 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 permiffion from the fkies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not fubject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!

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

June 29, 1793.

ANSWER TO STANZAS ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH,

By Mifs Catherine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor take a Copy.

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

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

So Homer, in the memory ftored
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preferved-a richer hoard,
But never lodged fo well.

1793.

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

HE fuitors finn'd, but with a fair excufe,
Whom all this elegance might well se-
duce;

Nor can our cenfure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, flew them all.

TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA, on his Tranflating the Author's Song on a Rofe into Italian Verfe.

1793.

Y rofe, Gravina, blooms anew,
And, fteep'd not now in rain,
But in Caftalian ftreams by you,
Will never fade again.

TO MARY.

HE twentieth year is well nigh past
Since firft our sky was overcaft;

Ah would that this might be the last!

Thy fpirits have a fainter flow,

I fee thee daily weaker grow ;

My Mary!

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my fake restless heretofore,

Now ruft disused, and shine no more;

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldft fulfill
The fame kind office for me ftill,
Thy fight now feconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dft the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expreffions seem

My Mary!

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy filver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my fight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What fight worth feeing could I fee?
The fun would rife in vain for me,

Partakers of thy fad decline,

My Mary!

Thy hands their little force refign;
Yet gently preff'd, prefs gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two; yet ftill thou lovest,
My Mary!