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INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN.
THIS cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
TO MRS. UNWIN.
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.
KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me!
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
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.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO RAIN HAD
IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found
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 thec ! May, 1793.
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Nor did you kill that you might eat
For him, though chased with furious heat,
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
My dog! what remedy remains,
July 15, 1793.
SIR, when I flew to seize the bird
A louder voice than yours I heard,
You cried-Forbear!—but in my breast
Yet, much as nature I respect,
And when your linnet on a day,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.
obedience then excuse
If killing birds be such a crime,
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
DEAR architect of fine chateaux in air,
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequal'd birth!
But what his commentators' happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,