TO DR. AUSTEN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.
AUSTEN! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the muses, thy ingenious mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalising 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, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER.
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.
LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN."
Two poets,† (poets by report
Not oft so well agree,)
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court!
Conspire to honour thee.
They best can judge the poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own.
* Mrs. Unwin. Dr. Austen was a friend of Hayley's.
+ Himself and Hayley, a poem by whom accompanied these lines.
We therefore pleased extol thy song,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment, as strong
And learned as 'tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise;
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,
They would-they must at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundiced eye:
And deem the bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for thee,
Unworthy of his own.
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.*
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 delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charm'd with a tone,
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own.
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.
*Afterwards Lady Throckmorton.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seem'd
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 shew.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd 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.
ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE THROCKMORTON COURTENAY,* ESQ.
BELIEVE it or not, as you chuse,
The doctrine is certainly true,
Brother of Sir John Throckmorton, to whose baronetcy he succeeded.
That the future is known to the muse,
And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire
To see Catharina at home,
At the side of my friend George's fire,
And lo!-she is actually come !
Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approved in the skies,
And therefore attains to its end.
"Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warm'd
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was form'd.
Maria* would leave us, I knew,
To the grief and regret of us all,
But less to our grief, could we view
Catharina the Queen of the Hall.
And therefore I wish'd as I did,
And therefore this union of hands,
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,
But all cry, Amen-to the banns.
Since therefore I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain,
When making good wishes for her,
I will e'en to my wishes again:
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress for my life,-
How soon I can make her a mother.
ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.†
HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shewn
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;
† Author of the "Triumphs of Temper" and other now forgotten poems.
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed 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 to admire the Bard than love the Man.
A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.
THOUGH Once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim;
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase.
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice!
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
"Yes," the indignant shade of Fop replies-
“And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies.”
SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.,
ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS,
Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792.
ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace,
On chart or canvas, not the form alone
And semblance, but however faintly shown
The mind's impression too on every face;
With strokes that time ought never to erase,
Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
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