Avarice 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 Heaven Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. And, though 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 the 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, allowed 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!'
Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,
And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied:
"Could'st thou in truth? and art thou taught at length
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far Than opportunity vouchsafed to err With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect?" I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind I pass'd, and next consider'd-what is man. Knows he his origin? can he ascend By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? And in those from him Through numerous generations, till he found At length his destined moment to be born? Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toil'd To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.
It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves Truths useful and attainable with ease, To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies Not to be solved, and useless if it might. Mysteries are food for angels; they digest With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean His manna from the ground, or starve and die.
A POET'S CAT, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique, Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonnair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering pot: There, wanting nothing save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within : She therefore wish'd instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use, A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there;
Puss, with delight beyond expression, Survey'd the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast; By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) "Was ever cat attended thus? The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!
O what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening grey again ensued,
And Puss came into mind no more
Than if entomb'd the day before.
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.
That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said-" What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him and dispell'd his fears: He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:
Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence: The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around, in all that's done, Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.
THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possess'd, A warm dispute once chanced to wage, Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete, Had both alike been mild:
But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown'd oftener than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frown'd, Would raise her voice, and roar, And shake with fury to the ground The garland that she wore.
The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last, And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song The nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, The flippant and the scold,
And though she changed her mood so oft, That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, Or so resolved to err-
In short the charms her sister had They lavish'd all on her.
Then thus the god, whom fondly they Their great inspirer call,
Was heard, one genial summer's day, To reprimand them all.
"Since thus ye have combined," he said,
My favourite nymph to slight,
Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right,
"The minx shall, for your folly's sake, Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, And pinch your noses blue.'
SURVIVOR Sole, and hardly such, of all
That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth (Since which I number threescore winters past), A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
This tree had been known by the name of Judith for many ages. Perhaps it re-` ceived that name on being planted by the Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, whom he gave in marriage to the English Earl Waltheof, with the counties of Northampton and Huntingdon as her dower.
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