TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.-OCT. 1780.
THAT Ocean you have late survey'd,
Those rocks I too have seen,
But I, afflicted and dismay'd,
You tranquil and serene.
You from the flood-controlling steep
Saw stretch'd before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,
No longer such to you.
To me, the waves that ceaseless broke
Upon the dangerous coast,
Hoarsely and ominously spoke
Of all my treasure lost.
Your sea of troubles you have pass'd,
And found the peaceful shore;
I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last,
Come home to port no more.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO
RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE.-1793.
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 others' locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen- -may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!
TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
UNWIN, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay
As ever Friendship penn❜d,
Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.
A union form'd, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, nor in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,
And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.
The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produced by Nature there.
Not rich, I render what 'I may,
I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first essay,
Lest this should prove the last.
"Tis where it should be-in a plan
That holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blazed by art.
No Muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.
BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,
BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.
So then the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile
Then ever Roman saw !
And MURRAY sighs o'er Pope and Swift,
And many a treasure more,
The well-judged purchase and the gift,
That graced his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,
The loss was his alone;
But ages yet to come shall mourn
The burning of his own.
WHEN Wit and Genius meet their doom
In all-devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.
O'er MURRAY's loss the Muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.
There Memory, like the bee, that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,
The quintessence of all he read
Had treasured up before.
The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The flowers are gone-but still we find
The honey on his tongue.
PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.
TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP
OF ENGLAND.
ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
Fair Science pour'd the light of truth,
And Genius shed his rays.
See with united wonder cried
The experienced and the sage,
Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age!
Discernment, eloquence, and grace
Proclaim him born to sway
The balance in the highest place,
And bear the palm away.
The praise bestow'd was just and wise;
He sprang impetuous forth,
Secure of conquest, where the prize
Attends superior worth.
So the best courser on the plain
Ere yet he starts is known,
And does but at the goal obtain
What all had deem'd his own.
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