But vengeance hung not far remote, | 'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, For while he stretch'd his clamorous To point the judgment of the skies; But judgments plain as this, That, sent for man's instruction, bring

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.

A written label on their wing,
"Tis hard to read amiss.

HYMN,

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.*

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,

In heaven Thy dwelling place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek Thy face!

Thanks for Thy Word, and for Thy
Day;

And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy Sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear,-but oh! im-
part

To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds en-
gage

Of older far than we,
What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free ?

Much hope, if Thou our spirits take
Under Thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss Thy word be-
stows,

A sun that ne'er declines; And be Thy mercies shower'd on those

Who placed us where it shines.

ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER.†

(IN THE MANNER OF HOMER.)

THE straw-stuff'd hamper with his Or oats, or barley; next a bottle

* Written at the request of the Vicar of Olney, to be sung on the occasion of his preaching to the children of the Sunday School.

↑ Sent by Mr. Rose to the poet.

ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,

WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.

Go!-thou art all unfit to share

The pleasures of this place
With such as its old tenants are,
Creatures of gentler race.
The squirrel here his hoard provides,
Aware of wintry storms;
And woodpeckers explore the sides
Of rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted
thorn

With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn, Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah!-I could pity the exiled

From this secure retreat;-
I would not lose it to be styled
The happiest of the great.
But thou canst taste no calm delight;
Thy pleasure is to shew
Thy magnanimity in fight,

Thy prowess, therefore, go!

I care not whether east or north,
So I no more may find thee;
The angry muse thus sings thee forth,
And claps the gate behind thee.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD,*

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER HIS DECEASE.

OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest,
Whose social converse was itself a feast.

O ye of riper years, who recollect

How once ye loved and eyed him with respect,
Both in the firmness of his better day,
While yet he ruled you with a father's sway,
And when impair'd by time, and glad to rest,
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest,
He took his annual seat, and mingled here
His sprightly vein with yours,-now drop a tear.
In morals blameless as in manners meek,
He knew no wish that he might blush to speak,
But, happy in whatever state below,
And richer than the rich in being so,
Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed
At length from one, as made him rich indeed.
Hence, then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here!
Go, garnish merit in a higher sphere,

The brows of those, whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

* He was the father of Robert Lloyd, and usher and under-master at Westminster for nearly fifty years. He received a handsome retiring pension from the king.

Light lie the turf, good senior, on thy breast!
And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest,
Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame,
And not a stone now chronicles thy name.

ABIIT senex! Periit senex amabilis !
Quo non fuit jucundior.

Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior
Senem colendum præstitit,
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus
Firmoque fretus pectore,

Florentiori vos juventute excolens
Curâ fovebat patriâ ;

Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude,
Vultu sed usque blandulo,

Miscere gaudebat suas facetias
His annuis leporibus.

Vixit probus, purâque simplex indole,
Blandisque comis moribus,

Et dives æquâ mente,-charus omnibus,
Unius auctus munere.

Ite, tituli! Meritis beatioribus
Aptate laudes debitas!

Nec invidebat ille, si quibus favens
Fortuna plus arriserat.

Placide senex! levi quiescas cespite,
Etsi superbum nec vivo tibi

Decus sit inditum, nec mortuo
Lapis notatus nomine.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE

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

To his own little volume address'd,

66

The honour 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.

* "Two odes by Horace have been lately discovered at Rome; I wanted them transcribed into the blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and Mrs. Throckmorton performed that service for me; in a blank leaf, therefore, of the same book I wrote the following."To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 9, 1790.

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."

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

OH that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalise-
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep rne in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile!-it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting words shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt* our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, "Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

* The rectory at Great Berkhampstead, where he was born,