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The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins.
“ Come, neighbours, we must wag,” The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
“ A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear : But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear."
O why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine ? A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum Without the clowns that
ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.
On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of
Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.
COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears
(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.
Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.
LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
AUTHOR OF “THE BOTANIC GARDEN."
Two Poets, (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree,)
Conspire to honour thee.
They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
By labours of their own.
Though various, yet complete,
And learned as 'tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
They would—they must at thine.
Of friendship’s closest tie,
With an unjaundiced eye; * Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.
And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,
Unworthy of his own.
ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.
hue To dress a room for Montagu.
The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move, Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove— Imagination scattering round Wild roses over furrow'd ground, Which Labour of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smileWit flashing on Religion's side, Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, The gem, though luminous before, Obtrude on human notice more, Like sunbeams on the golden height Of some tall temple playing bright Well tutor'd Learning, from his books Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks, Their order on his shelves exact, Not more harmonious or compact Than that to which he keeps confined The various treasures of his mindAll these to Montagu's repair, Ambitious of a shelter there. There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, Their ruffled plumage calm refit, (For stormy troubles loudest roar Around their flight who highest soar,) And in her eye, and by her aid, Shine safe without a fear to fade.