FAST by the fountains of the silver Cray
Encircled deep with weeping willows round,
O! let me sorrowing pass the pensive day,
And wake my reed to many a plaintive sound.
For good Aurelius (now alas! no more)
Sighs follow sighs, and tears to tears succeed;
Him shall the Muse in tenderest notes deplore,
For oft he tun'd to melody my reed.
How was I late by his indulgence blest,
Cheer'd with his smiles, and by his precepts
taught!
My fancy deem'd him some angelic guest,
Some Heaven-sent guide, with blissful tidings
fraught.
Mild was his aspect, full of truth and grace,
Temper'd with dignity and lively sense;
Sweetness and candour beam'd upon his face,
Emblems of love and large benevolence,
Yet never useless slept those virtues fair,
Nor languish'd unexerted in the mind;
Secret as thought, yet unconfin'd as air,
He dealt his bounties out to all mankind.
How will the poor, alas! now truly poor,
Bewail their generous benefactor dead?
Who daily, from his hospitable door,
The naked cloth'd, and gave the hungry bread.
To sick and orphans duly sent relief,
Was feet and eyes to crippies and the blind, Sooth'd all the suffering family of grief,
And pour'd sweet balsam on the wounded mind. How will the nation their lost guardian mourn?
Lo! pale-ey'd Science fix'd in grief appears;
The drooping Arts, reclining on his urn,
Lament, and every Muse dissolves in tears.
Genius of Britain! search the kingdom round,
Ere yet the strict inquiry be too late;
What bold, unblemish'd patriot can be found",
To rouse the virtues of a languid state?
'A river in Kent.
This poem was wrote in 1757.
With freedom's voice to wake the slumbering
To cheer fair merit, prowess to advance,
Dauntless to rise, and scourge with generous rage
The high-plum'd pride and perfidy of France.
Alas! no longer burns the glorious flame :
The patriot passion animates no more;
But, like the whirling eddy, some low aim
Absorbs alike the great, the rich, the poor.
Not so, when wise Aurelius o'er the north
Shed the mild influence of his pastoral care,
The madness of rebellion issuing forth,
He stemm'd the torrent of the rising war.
Behold him! with his country's weal inspir'd,
Before the martial sons of Ebor stand,
Fair in the robe of eloquence attir'd,
In act to speak, he waves the graceful hand :
Silent as evening, lo! the listening throng,
While from his lips the glowing periods fall,
Drink sweet persuasion streaming from his
tongue,
And the firm chain of concord binds them all
As some large river, gentle, strong, and deep,
Winds his smooth volumes o'er the wide cam-
paign,
Then forceful flows, and with resistless sweep,
Rolls, in his strength collected, to the main :
Thus the good prelate, in his country's cause,
Pour'd the full tide of eloquence along ;
As erst Tyrtæus gain'd divine applause,
Who fir'd the Spartans with heroic song.
But when religious truths his bosom warm'd,
Faith, hope, repentance, and eternal love,
With such pathetic energy he charm'd,
He rais'd our souls to Paradise above.
The holy city's adamantine gate
On golden hinge he open'd to our view;
Unravell'd every path, perplex'd and strait,
And gave to willing minds the safe-conducting
clew.
For God's Messiah was his chosen guide;
And well the sacred lore he understood, And well the precept, sent from Heaven, apply'd, "For evil meekly recompensing good."
Thus mild, thus humble, in the highest state,
The "one thing needful' was his sole regard,
Belov'd, and blamelesss he prolong'd his date
By acts of goodness, which themselves reward.
To him the bed of sickness gave no pain;
For, trusting only in th' Almighty King,
He look'd on dissolution as his gain;
No terrours had the grave, and death no sting.
Ah! Muse, forbear that last sad scene to draw
This homage, due to virtue, let me pay,
These heart-sprung tears, inspir'd by filial awe,
These numbers warbled to the silver Cray,
May, 1757.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOST SACRED MAJESTY
KING GEORGE THE SECOND. AH, fatal hour!-we must at last resignFarewel, great hero of the Brunswick line! For valour much, for virtue more renown'd, With wisdom honour'd, and with glory crown'd. 'Twas thy bless'd lot a happy reign to close, And die serene, triumphant o'er thy foes; To see the faithless, vain insulting Gaul, Like proud Goliath, nodding to his fall; In chains the sons of tyranny to bind, And vindicate the rights of human kind.
No brighter crown than Britain's God could
give
To grace the monarch, till he ceas'd to live;
Then gave him, to reward his virtuous strife,
A heavenly kingdom, and a crown of life.
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Oh! were they worthy of the sovereign's ear,
The Muse should greet Britannia's blissful isle,
Where crown'd with liberty the graces smile;
Where the pleas'd halcyon builds her tranquil
nest,
No storms disturb her, and no wars molest:
For still fair peace and plenty here remain'd,
While George, the venerable monarch, reign'd.
One generation pass'd secure away,
"Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;"
Now cold in death the much-lov'd hero lies,
His soul unbodied seeks her native skies:
The living laurels which his temples crown'd
Strike root, and shade his funeral pile around.
As when the Sun, bright ruler of the year,
Through glowing Cancer rolls his golden sphere,
He gains new vigour as his orb declines,
And at the goal with double lustre shines:
In splendour thus great George's reign surpast, Bright beam'd each year, but brightest far the last:
Where-ever waves could roll, or breezes blow,
His fleet pour'd ruin on the faithless foe: [hurl'd,
Fiance saw, appall'd, the dreadful vengeance
And own'd him monarch of her western world.
But now, alas! see pale Britannia mourn,
And all her sons lamenting o'er his urn.
Thus when Vespasian died, imperial Rome
With copious tears bedew'd the patriot's tomb;
But soon o'er sorrow bright-ey'd joy prevail'd,
When Titus her lov'd emperor she hail'd;
Titus, a blessing to the world design'd,
The darling and delight of human-kind.
With joy, great prince, your happy subjects A better Titus now reviv'd in you; Of gentler nature, and of nobler blood, Whose only study is your people's good: For you (so truly is your heart benign) To heathen virtues christian graces join. O may Heaven's providence around you wait, And bless you with a longer, happier date; Then will your virtue all its powers display, And noble deeds distinguish every day; Joys unallay'd will sweetly fill your breast, Your people blessing, by your people blest; Then will the rage of rancorous discord cease, The drooping arts revive, and all the world have peace.
A PARODY ON A PASSAGE MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
BENEATH a beech's bowery shade
Damon in musing mood was laid,
A brook soft-dimpling by his side,
Thus echo, as he sung, reply'd:
"Sweet is the breath of rosy morn, Soft melody the sky-lark trills, Bright are the dew-drops on the thorn,
Fresh are the zephyrs on the hills,
Pure are the fountains in the vale below,
And fair the flowers that on their borders blow:
Yet neither breath of roseate morn,
Nor wild notes which the sky-lark trills,
Nor dew drops glittering on the thorn,
Nor the fresh zephyrs of the hills,
Nor streams that musically-murmuring flow,
Nor flowers that on their mossy margins grow,
Can any joy suggest
But to the temper'd breast,
Where virtue's animating ray
Illumines every golden day,
Beams on the mind, and makes all nature gay."
In Gath, ab! never this dishonour name,
Nor in the streets of Askelon proclaim;
Lest the sad tidings of our country's woe
Cause triumph to the daughters of the foe.
May Heav'n, Gilboa, on thy heights ne'er pour
The dew refreshing, or the fruitful shower;
Ne'er may thy furrows give the golden seed,
Nor from thy folds the fleecy victims bleed:
There mighty men through fear their shields re-
sign'd,
The shield of Saul was basely left behind.
Thy bow, O Jonathan, oft strew'd the plain
With carcasses of valiant heroes slain;
Thy sword, O Saul, ne'er left its sheath in vain.
Blest pair! whom love with sweetest concord tied,
Whom glory join'd, and death cou'd not divide.
Dreadful through all the war they mov'd along,
Swift as the eagle, as the lion strong. [drest
Weep, weep for Saul, ye maids, whose bounty
Israel's fair daughters in the scarlet vest;
Who gave you gold and pearls your robes to
deck,
And rings and jewels for your hands and neck.
Thy prowess, much lov'd Jonathan, prov'd vain ;
How are the mighty on the mountains slain!
To me, O Jonathan, for ever dear,
Thy fate, alas! demands th' eternal tear :
Where can such faith, such piety be found?
Such pleasing converse with firm friendship
bound?
Thy love was wondrous, soothing all my care,
Passing the fond affection of the fair.
How are the mighty on the mountains slain !
And all the instruments of battle vain!
PARAPHRASED FROM THE SEVEN FIRST VERSES OF
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER OF ECCLESIASTES.
My son, attentive hear the voice of truth;
Remember thy Creator in thy youth,
Ere days of pale adversity appear,
And age and sorrow fill the gloomy year,
When wearied with vexation thou shalt say,
"No rest by night I know, no joy by day;"
Ere the bright soul's enlighten'd pow'rs wax frail,
Ere reason, memory, and fancy fail,
But care succeeds to care, and pain to pain,
As clouds urge clouds, returning after rain:
Ere yet the arms unnerv'd and feeble grow,
The weak legs tremble, and the loose knees bow;
Ere yet the grinding of the teeth is o'er,
And the dim eyes behold the Sun no more;
Ere yet the pallid lips forget to speak,
The gums are toothless, and the voice is weak;
Restless he rises when the lark he hears,
Yet sweetest music fails to charm his ears.
A stone, or hillock, turns his giddy brain,
Appall'd with fear he totters o'er the plain;
And as the almond-tree white flow'rs displays,
His head grows hoary with the length of days;
As leanness in the grasshopper prevails,
So shrinks his body, and his stomach fails;
Doom'd to the grave his last long home to go,
The mourners march along with solemn woe:
Ere yet life's silver cord be snapt in twain,
Ere broke the golden bowl that holds the brain,
Ere broke the pitcher at the fountful heart,
Or life's wheel shiver'd, and the soul depart,
Then shall the dust to native earth be given,
The soul shall soar sublime, and wing its way to
Heaven.
FROM PROVERBS, Chapter xxxi.
MORE precious far than rubies, who can find
A wife embellished with a virtuous mind:
In her securely, as his better part,
Her happy husband cheerful rests his heart!
With such a lovely partner of his toil
His goods increase without the need of spoil.
Bless'd in the friendship of his faithful wife,
He steers through all vicissitudes of life.
Well pleas'd she labours, nor disdains to cull
The textile flax, or weave the twisted wool.
Rich as the merchant ships that crowd the
strands,
She reaps the harvest of remotest lands.
Early she rises ere bright Phoebus shines,
And to her damsels separate tasks assigns:
Refresh'd with food her hinds renew their toil,
And cheerful haste to cultivate the soil.
If to her farm some field contiguous lies,
With care she views it, and with prudence buys;
And with the gains which Heaven to wisdom
grants,
A vineyard of delicious grapes she plants.
Inur'd to toils she strength and sweetness joins,
Strength is the graceful girdle of her loins.
With joy her goodly merchandise she views,
And oft till morn her pleasing work pursues.
The spindle twirls obedient to her tread,
Round rolls the wheel, and spins the ductile
Benignant from her ever-open door [thread.
She feeds the hungry, and relieves the poor.
Nor frost nor snow her family molest,
For all her household are in scarlet drest.
Resplendent robes are by her husband worn,
Her limbs fine purple and rich silks adorn:
For wisdom fam'd, for probity renown'd,
He sits in council with bright honour crown'd.
To weave rich girdles is her softer care, [wear.
Which merchants buy, and mighty monarchs
With strength and bonour she herself arrays,
And joy will bless her in the latter days.
Wise are her words, her sense divinely strong,
For kindness is the tenour of her tongue.
Fair rule and order in her mansion dwell,
She eats with temperance what she earns so well.
Rich in good works her children call her blest,
And thus her husband speaks his inmost breast:
"To Eve's fair daughters various virtues fall,
But thou, lov'd chariner, hast excell'd them all."
Smiles oft are fraudful, beauty soon decays,
But the good woman shall inherit praise.
To her, O grateful, sweet requital give!
Her name, her honour shall for ever live
NATHAN'S PARABLE,
11. SAMUEL, Chap. xii.
To Israel's king thus spoke the holy seer:
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O mighty monarch, fam'd for wisdom, hear
While to my lord a tale of woe I tell :
Two men, O king, in one fair city dwell;
The one is friendless, and exceeding poor,
The other rich, and boastful of his store:
Large herds of oxen in his pastures feed,
And flocks unnumber'd whiten every mead.
The
poor man's stock was only one ewe-lamb
Of snowy fleece, wean'd lately from its dam;
He bought it with what treasure he could spare,
Ev'n all his wealth, and 'twas his only care;
Nurs'd by his hand, and with his children bred,
With them it wanton'd, and with them it fed;
Of his own mess it eat without control,
And drank the beverage of his milky bowl;
Then lightly-sportful skipt, and, tir'd with play,
Dear as a daughter in his bosom lay.
A traveller of no ignoble fame,
By chance conducted, to the rich man came;
Yet from his herds he could not spare an ox
To treat him, nor a wether from his flocks,
But took by cruel force, and kill'd and drest
The poor man's lamb to feed his pamper'd guest."
The monarch paus'd-then made this stern
reply
Incens'd: "I swear by God that rules the sky,
The man that did this thing shall surely die:
The lamb fourfold he likewise shall restore,
To recompense the friendless and the poor:
Because his heart no soft compassion felt,
At other's woe unknowing how to melt."
"Thou art the man," reply'd the holy seer,
Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel, hear:
A king thou art, anointed at my call,
O'er Israel; and I rescued thee from Saul;
And gave thee all thy master's servants lives,
His large possessions, and his numerous wives:
Was that too little? Could'st thou more require?
I would have given thee all thy heart's desire.
Then wherefore didst thou God's commandment
Committing this great evil in his sight? [slight,
Lo! thou hast robb'd Uriah of his wife,
Defil'd his bed, and then destroy'd his life,
Hast slain him with the adversary's sword:
Now therefore hear the judgment of the Lord,
And lock this awful sentence in thy heart;
The sword shall never from thy house depart,
For thou hast robb'd Uriah of his wife,
Defil'd his bed, and then destroy'd his life.'
Thus saith the Lord, nor thou his words despise,
The power of evil in thy house shall rise,
Lo! I will take thy wives before thine eyes;
Thy concubines shall be in triumph led,
The Sun shall see them in thy neighbour's bed:
Thou didst it secret-this thing shall be done
Before all Israel, and before the Sun."
Aghast, convict the mighty monarch stood,
And from his eyes stream'd sorrow in a flood;
And while a sigh repentant heav'd his breast,
He thus the anguish of his soul exprest: [sword,
Thy words are sharper than the two-edg'd
For I, alas! have sinn'd against the Lord."
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Stung with remorse he inourn'd his past offence
With bitter tears, and heart-sprung penitence.
The seer then sooth'd him with this calm reply;
Thy sin is pardon'd, and thou shall not die."
Thus may we clearly see each secret sin,
Warn'd by the faithful monitor within:
Thus may we, blest with bounteous grace from
Heaven,
Like Judah's king repent, and be forgiven.
THE SONG OF DEBORAH.
LEND, O ye princes, to my song an ear,
Ye mighty rulers of the nations, hear,
While to the Lord the notes of praise I sing,
To Israel's God, the everlasting king.
When from aerial Seir, in dread array,
From Edom when th' Almighty took his way,
"On Cherub, and on Cherubim he rode," [God:
The trembling Earth proclaim'd th' approach of
The heavens dissolv'd, the clouds in copious
rains
[plains:
Pour'd their black stores, and delug'd all the
The rent rocks shiver'd on that awful day,
And mountains melted like soft wax away.
In Shamgar's days, in Jael's hapless reign,
How were the princes, and the people slain?
When Sisera, terrific with his hosts,
Pour'd dire destruction on pale Judah's coasts
The cities no inhabitants contain'd;
The public ways unoccupied remain'd;
The travellers through dreary deserts stray'd,
Or pensive wander'd in the lonely glade,
Till, sent by Heaven, 1, Deborah, arose
To rule and rescue Israel from their foes.
Those patriot warriors of immortal fame,
Who sav'd their country all my favour claim:
Ye judges, speak, ye shepherd swains, rehearse
Jehovah's praise in never-dying verse.
Awake, awake; raise, Deborah, thy voice,
And in loud numbers bid the lyre rejoice:
Raise to the Lord of Heaven thy grateful song,
Who gave the weak dominion o'er the strong.
The tribes of Israel sent their mighty men,
That wield the falchion, or that guide the pen.
Gilead, Oh shame! by fountful Jordan lay,
Dan in his ships, and Asher in his bay:
Their bleating flocks (ignoble care!) withheld
The tribes of Reuben from the tented field:
But chiefs intrepid to the conflict came,
Heroes that fought for empire and for fame:
In Taanach where Megiddo's streams are roll'd,
There fought the monarchs resolutely bold.
Heav'n's thunders to our foes destruction
The stars 'gainst Sisera conspiring fought.
The river Kishon swept away the slain,
Kishon, that antient river, to the main.
For ever bless'd be Jael's honour'd name!
For ever written in the rolls of fame!
He ask'd refreshment from the limpid wave,
The milky beverage to the chief she gave:
He drank, he slept extended on the floor,
She smote the warrior, and he wak'd no more:
Low at her feet he bow'd his nail-pierc'd head;
Low at her feet he bow'd, he fell, he lay down
The hero's mother, anxious for his stay,
Thus, fondly sighing, chid his long delay:
"What hopes, what fears my tortur'd bosom feels!
Alas! why linger thus his chariot-wheels?
Some captive maid, distinguish'd for her charms,
Perchance detains the conqueror in her arms:
Perchance his mules, rich laden from afar,
Move slowly with the plunder of the war."
Ah, wretched mother! all thy hopes are vain, Thy son, alas! lies breathless on the plain, Vanquish'd by Israel's sons, and by a woman slain.
Oh let your once-lov'd friend inscribe the stone, And, with domestic sorrows, mix his own!
ON A VERY GOOD WOMAN. COULD marble know what virtue's buried here, This monument would scarce refuse a tear, But mourn, so early snatch'd from mortal life, The tencerest parent, and the dearest wife, Bless'd with sweet temper, and of soul so even, She seem'd a copy of the saints in Heaven.
ON A YOUNG GENTLEMAN
WHO DIED A. D. 1743, ÆTAT. 15.
IN A CHURCH IN CHESHIRE.
WHEN age, all patient, and without regret,
Lies down in peace, and pays the general debt,
'Tis weakness most unmanly to deplore
The death of those who relish life no more.
But when fair youth, that every promise gave,
Sheds his sweet blossom in the blasting grave,
All eyes o'erflow with many a streaming tear,
And each sad bosom heaves the sigh sincere.
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ON MRS. FOUNTAYNE,
DAUGHTER OF THOMAS WHICHCOT ESQ. AND WIFE TO THE DEAN OF YORK; WHO DIED IN CHILD-BED, JULY 1750. ÆTAT. 19.
Ir e'er thy bosom swell'd with grief sincere, View this sad shrine, and pour the pitying tear: Here Fountayne lies, in whom all charms combin'd,
All that e'er grac'd, or dignified her kind.
Farewel, bright pattern of unblemish'd youth, Of mildest merit, modesty, and truth! Death snatch'd thy sweetness in the genial hour, Just when thy stem put forth its infant flower: Still blooms the tender flower; as oft we see Fair branches budding from the lifeless tree.
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