He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,"
And, Bring me cord, he cried;

The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird,
Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil;
And all the terrors of the tale

That can be shall be sunk

Led by the sufferer's screams aright
His shock'd companions view the sight,
And him with fury drunk.

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate :
He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel

Death menacing on all.

But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat,
And heaven and earth defied,

Big with a curse too closely pent,
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgment of the skies;
But judgments plain as this,

That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,

"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,
While young, humane, conversable, and kind,
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men.
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, 66 AD LIBRUM SUUM."

MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honor awaited his ode

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.
Feb., 1790.

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
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast
safe-

And in thy minikin and embryo state,
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed,
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss.
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,
Grazing at large in meadows submarine,
Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps
Above the brine-where Caledonia's rocks
Beat back the surge-and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.
-Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st,
And I not more, that I should feed on thee.
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much
good fish,

To him who sent thee! and success, as oft
As it descends into the billowy gulf,

[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
Of these hardy sons of earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost-these oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,

I must moulder and decay,
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honor, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,

Stone at heart, and cannot grow.
June, 1790.

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,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,

To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair,

Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,
(As Homer's epic shows)

Composed of sweetest vernal flowers,
Without the aid of sun or showers,
For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,

Is that which in the scorching day,
Receives the weary swain,
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.

What labors of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me!
Should every maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue !
This bright display of every hue

All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bowers

Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers

Each pocketing a shred.