WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792.
WHENCE is it that, amazed I hear,
From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May ?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a lon
Ari joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing,
To make ev'n January charm,
And ev'ry season Spring.
"You talk of primroses, that you pulled on Candlemas Day; but what think you of me, who heard a Nightingale on New Year's Day? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good fortune."-(To John Johnson, March 11, 1792.)
WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS ANT SIGNATURES MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.
In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.
ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVOURITE OF
MISS SALLY HURDIS.1
THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed,
For absent Robin, who she fears,
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand,
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.
Alarm'd she call'd him, and perplext
She sought him, but in vain;
That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.
She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.
Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.
1 "Here are two nice damsels, not young, but of easy, elegant manners, expected every moment in the turret, and for them you must exert your humanity. This you will doubtless be ready to do, when I tell you they are two interesting sisters of Cowper's friend, poor Hurdis,-his sisters Eliza and Sally. Sally, you know, was his model for Cecilia, in his play of Sir Thomas More."-HAYLEY TO JOHN JOHNSON, March 6, 1807. (Life of Hayley, ii. 158.)
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame,
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.
SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ
THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the Just on earth, and all the Blest above.
TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON
AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Lov'd by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died.
And oh! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health;
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his art with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.
Friend of my friend! I love thee, tho' unknown,
And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown,
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary and me, for her dear sake distress'd,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown.
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purpos'd ne'er to go in quest
Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
But Thou hast won me; nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent Thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My Brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
Not more t'admire the Bard than love the Man.
SHE came-she is gone-we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream,
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delayed
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charmed with a tone,
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witnessed her own.
1 Afterwards Mrs. Courtenay.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteemed
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seemed
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above
Then, whether embellished or rude,
"Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!
To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;
She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
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