You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he ;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think.
Thus life is spent-oh, fie upon't!—
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
A Poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,

Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong ;
Your feelings in their full amount
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love:
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.

59

THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the Dues at the Parsonage.

1 COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong;
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burden of my song.

2 This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year:

But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.

3 He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,

And long before the day appears,
He heaves up many a sigh.

4 For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road;

Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.

5 In sooth the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd,

When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distress'd.

6 Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates—
He trembles at the sight.

7 And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.

8 So in they come-each makes his leg,

And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.

9" And how does miss and madam do, The little boy and all?"

"All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr What-d'ye-call?"

10 The dinner comes, and down they sit ; Were e'er such hungry folk?

There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

11 One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,

Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.

12 The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

13 At length the busy time begins,

66

Come, neighbours, we must wag."The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

14 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.

15 Quoth one," A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear :
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear."

16 0 why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

17 Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,

Less trouble taking twice the sum
Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET,

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.1

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren
Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords.

1 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.

2 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.

3 Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet
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.

Henry Cowper, Esq.,' Clerk of the Lords. See Macaulay's Warren Hastings."