THE CONTRITE HEART. THE Lord will happiness divine On contrite hearts bestow; Then tell me, gracious God, is mine A contrite heart or no? I hear, but seem to hear in vain, If aught is felt, 'tis only pain 1 sometimes think myself inclined To love thee, if I could; But often feel another mind. My best desires are faint and few, I see thy saints with comfort filled, When in thy house of prayer; But still in bondage I am held, And find no comfort there. Oh, make this heart rejoice or ache; THE SHINING LIGHT. My former hopes are dead; THIRSTING FOR GOD. I THIRST, but not as once I did, It was the sight of thy dear cross First weaned my soul from earthly things, And taught me to esteem as dross The mirth of fools and pomp of kings. I want that grace that springs from thee, A living and life-giving stream. A TALE.* IN Scotland's realm where trees are few. Nor even shrubs abound; But where, however bleak the view, Some better things are found. This tale is founded on an an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words : Glasgow, May 2 In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The next was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, Peace may be the lot of the mina To the glorified spirits above. SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON, ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER, 1793. KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me! When I behold this fruit of thy regard, The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee. Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn: critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather DONNE, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVA AXS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ. 1790. OTHER stones the era tell, Which shall longest brave the sky, Cherish honour, virtue, truth, LOVE ABUSED. WHAT is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, When friendship, love, and peace combine 'I'o stamp the marriage-bond divine? The stream of pure and genuine love LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!) Marble may flatter; and lest this should seem O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half suppress'd, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 1790. POETS attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man; And, next, commemorating worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most. Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine, I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore, were grief misspent indeed; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat, To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, love. TO A YOUNG FRIEND, TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD. OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest, How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, And richer than the rich in being so, Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast, And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest! Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name. ON FOP, A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. AUGUST, 1792. THOUGH оnce a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders One whose bones some honour claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race, ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, RAIN HAD FALLEN there,-1793. Your haunts no longer echo to his voice; Ir Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he This record of his fate exulting view, While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. 'Yes,' the indignant shade of Fop replies'And worn with vain pursuit man also dies.' He was usher and under-master of Westminster near fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was noor seventy, with a handsome pension from the king. P 2 HAVING promised to write to you, I make haste to be as good as my word. I have a pleasure in writing to you at any time, but especially at the present, when my days are spent in reading the Journals, and my nights in dreaming of them;* an employment not very agreeable to a head that has long been habituated to the luxury of choosing its subject, and has been as little employed upon business as if it had grown upon the shoulders of a much wealthier gentleman. But the numskull pays for it now, and will not presently forget the discipline it has undergone lately. If I succeed in this doubtful piece of promotion, I shall have at least this satisfaction to reflect upon, that the volumes I write will be treasured up with the utmost care for ages, and will last as long as the English constitution: a duration which ought to satisfy the vanity of any author who has a spark of love for his country. O! my good cousin! if I was to open my heart to you, I could show you strange sights; nothing, I flatter myself, that would shock you, but a great deal that would make you wonder. I am of a very singular temper, and very unlike all the men that I have ever conversed with. Certainly I am not an absolute fool; but I have more weaknesses than the greatest of all the fools I can recollect at present. In short, if I was as fit for the next world as I am unfit for this, and God forbid I should speak it in vanity, I would not change conditions with any saint in Christendom. what do you think will ensue, cousin? I know what you expect, but ever since I was born I have been good at disappointing the most natural expectations. Many years ago, cousin, there was a possibility I might prove a very different thing from what I am at present. My character is now fixed, and riveted fast upon me; and, between friends, is not a very splendid one, or likely to be guilty of much fascination. I Adieu, my dear cousin! So much as I love you, wonder how the deuce it has happened I was never in love with you. Thank heaven that I never was, for at this time I have had a pleasure in writing to you which in that case I should have forfeited. Let me hear from you, or I shall reap but half the reward that is due to my noble indifference. Yours ever, and evermore, DEAR JOE, TO JOSEPH HILL, Esq. W. C. Huntingdon, June 24, 1765. THE only recompense I can make you for your kind attention to my affairs during my illness, is to tell you, that by the mercy of God I am restored to perfect health both of mind and body. This I believe will give you pleasure, and I would gladly do any thing from which you could receive it. I left St. Alban's on the seventeenth, and arrived that day at Cambridge, spent some time there with my brother, and came hither on the twentysecond. I have a lodging that puts me continually in mind of our summer excursions; we have had many worse, and except the size of it (which how My destination is settled at last, and I have ob-ever is sufficient for a single man) but few better. tained a furlough. Margate is the word, and I am not quite alone, having brought a servant with me from St. Alban's, who is the very mirror The writer had been recently appointed Clerk of the Jour. of fidelity and affection for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy says, he kept no ser nals in the House of Lords. |