For if vain thoughts the mind engage
Of elder 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 bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines;
And be thy mercies show'r'd on those
Who placed is where it shines.'
REMAINS OF THE GREAT MILTON-ANNO 1790.3
"ME too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptur'd stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
"But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb.
And sleep securely there."
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
1 This hymn was written at the request of the Rev. James Bean, then Vicar of Olney, to be sung by the children of the Sunday schools of that town, after a charity sermon, preached at the parish church for their benefit, on Sunday, July 31, 1790.-JOHN JOHNSON.
2 A coffin, suposed to be that of Milton, was opened at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in the beginning of August.
9 Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus,
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri
Fronde comas, at ego secura pace quiescam.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dar'd profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heav'd the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR-A PATCHWORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING.
THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,
pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a Lady fair
Who deigns to deck his bed.
A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,
(As Homer's Epic shows)
Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs,
Without the aid of sun or show'rs
For Jove and Juno rose.
Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.
What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me!
Should ev'ry maiden come
To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.
And oh what havoc would ensue !
This bright display of ev'ry hue
All in a moment fled!
As if a storm should strip the bow'rs
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs-
Each pocketing a shred.
Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle Fair
Who will not come to peck me bare,
As bird of borrow'd feather;
And thanks to One, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,
Who put the whole together.
Certain potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows:
PAY me my price, Potters! and I will sing.
Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm
Protect their oven; let the cups and all
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked
With good success, yield them both fair renow
And profit, whether in the market sold
Or street, and let no strife ensue between us.
But, oh ye Potters! if with shameless front
Ye falsify your promise, then I leave
No mischief uninvoked t' avenge the wrong.
Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, e me,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape;
No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a translation of on of the Emiуpapuara of Homer, called 'O Kavos, or the Furnace. The prefatory lines are from the Greek of Herodotus, or whoever was the author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him.-JOHN JOHNSON.
May ye lament to see confusion mar
And mingle the whole labour of your hands,
And may a sound fill all your ovens, such
As of a horse grinding his provender,
While all your pots and flagons bounce within.
Come hither, also, daughter of the sun,
Circe, the sorceress, and with thy drugs
Poison themselves, and all that they have made!
Come also, Chiron, with thy num'rous troop
Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath
The club of Hercules, as who escaped,
And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall
Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes
And howl to see the ruin of their art,
While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop
To peep into his furnace, may the fire
Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men
Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ
POETS attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore.
Thee, THORNTON! worthy in some page to shine,
As honest and more eloquent than mine,
I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee,
Thee to deplore, were grief mispent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky,
And glory for the virtuous, when they die.
What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe
By virtue suffer'd combating below?
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means
T'illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food;
Av'rice, in thee, was the desire of wealth,
By rust unperishable or by stealth;
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,
Thine had a value in the scales of Heav'n,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had giv'n.
And, tho' God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat;
And though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.
Such was thy charity; no sudden start,
After long sleep, of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to th' eternal mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,
To Him whose works bespeak his nature, Love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake;
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and power exemplified in Thee.
A BRIEF FRAGMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED POEM.
"I COULD be well content, allow'd the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"
1 Two years after this fragment was composed, Cowper told Hayley-"The atmost that I aspire to-and Heaven knows with how feeble a hope-is to write at some better opportunity, and when my hands are free, 'THE FOU AGES.'"
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