Hence, then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here,
Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere,

The brows of those whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

Light lie the turf, good senior! on thy breast, And tranquil as thy mind was be thy rest! Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE,
"AD LIBRUM SUUM."

MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address'd,

The honour which

you

have bestow'd;

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 ;
Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;

And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
Feb. 1790.

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 poplar 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 doom'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 CHILLINGTON, 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 I?
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
Man be fix'd and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,

Stone at heart, and cannot grow.

June, 1790.

ANOTHER,

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

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

June, 1790.

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,

Το

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 Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,

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

Who, laying his long sithe 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 Pertenhall,

Who put the whole together.
August, 1790.