He seized him fast, and from the pit The cord was brought, and, at his word, The horrid sequel asks a veil; That can be shall be sunk Led by the sufferer's screams aright All, suppliant, beg a milder fate Death menacing on all. But vengeance hung not far remote, Big with a curse too closely pent, 'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, That, sent for man's instruction, bring "Tis hard to read amiss. May, 1789. TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WEST MINSTER. HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind, TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, 66 AD LIBRUM SUUM." MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd To his own little volume address'd, The honor which you have bestow'd; Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat, He had laugh'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet And sneer, if you please, he had said, A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies; Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT, ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784. WHERE hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd, Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste? Roar as they might, the overbearing winds And in thy minikin and embryo state, To him who sent thee! and success, as oft [well! To the same drag that caught thee!-Fare thee Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE, ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS *AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, ESQ., 1790. OTHER stones the era tell When some feeble mortal fell; I stand here to date the birth Which shall longest brave the sky, I must moulder and decay, Cherish honor, virtue, truth, Stone at heart, and cannot grow. TO MRS. KING, ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR, A PATCH WORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING.. THE bard, if e'er he feel at all, To pay with tuneful thanks the care Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which in the scorching day, What labors of the loom I see! To scramble for the patch that bears And oh, what havoc would ensue ! All in a moment fled! As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers Each pocketing a shred. |