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, HYMN, FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.* HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven Thy dwelling place, Thanks for Thy Word, and for Thy And grant us, we implore, Thanks that we hear,-but oh! im- To each desires sincere, For if vain thoughts the minds en- Of older far than we, Much hope, if Thou our spirits take Wisdom and bliss Thy word be- 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 The sheep here smooths the knotted 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;- Thy prowess, therefore, go! I care not whether east or north, 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, O ye of riper years, who recollect How once ye loved and eyed him with respect, The brows of those, whose more exalted lot * 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! ABIIT senex! Periit senex amabilis ! Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior Florentiori vos juventute excolens Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude, Miscere gaudebat suas facetias Vixit probus, purâque simplex indole, Et dives æquâ mente,-charus omnibus, Ite, tituli! Meritis beatioribus Nec invidebat ille, si quibus favens Placide senex! levi quiescas cespite, Decus sit inditum, nec mortuo TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd To his own little volume address'd, 66 The honour which you have bestow'd,― 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, Although but a mere bagatelle ; 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 I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone 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: Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. I pricked them into paper with a pin, * The rectory at Great Berkhampstead, where he was born, |