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.

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 ;

Sball dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;

And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

Feb. 1700.

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE

HALIBUT,

ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784

WHERE hast thou floated, in what seas pursued
Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd,
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste?

Roar as they might, the overbearing winds

That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe-
And in thy minikin and embryo state,,
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed,

Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,
Grazing at large in meadows submarine,
Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps
Above the brine-where Caledonia's rocks
Beat back the surge-and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.

Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, And I not more, that I should feed on thee.

Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish, To him who sent thee! and success, as oft

As it descends into the billowy gulf,

To the same drag that caught thee !-Fare thee well! Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin

Would envy, could they know that thou wast ooom'd To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE

ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHIL LINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, ESQ., 1790.

OTHER stones the era tell

When some feeble mortal fell;

I stand here to date the birth

Of these hardy sons of earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky,

Storm and frost-these oaks or 1?

Pass an age or two away,

I must moulder and decay,

But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth:
Wanting these, however fast
Mau be fix'd and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,

Stone at heart, and cannot grow.

June, 1730.

ANOTHER,

For a stone erected on a similar occasion at the same place in the following year.

REALER! behold a monument

That asks no sigh or tear,
Though it perpetuate the event
Of a great burial here.

Anno 1791.

TO MRS. KING,

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,
To 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 flowers,
Without the aid of sun or showers,
For Juve and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,

Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain,

Whe, 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 every 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 every hue
All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bowers
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers-
Each pocketing a shred.

Thanks then to every 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 Pertenhal,
Who put the whole together.
August, 1790.

TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM OF HOMER.

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 renown
And profit, whether in the market sold

Or streets, 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 to avenge the wrong..
Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread,
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape,
May ye lament to see confusion mar
And mingle the whole labour of your hands

No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a trans lation of one of the Entypaμpara of Homer railed. 'O Kavoc, or the Furnace. Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him, observes, certain potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing 3 Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their com modity and of such other things as they could afford, if he would ding to them-when he sang as follows."

And may a sound fill all your oven, 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 numerous 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.
Oct. 1790.

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 bè,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee.
Thee to deplore were grief misspent 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