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.
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 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.
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, And may a sound fill all your oven, such
*No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a translation of one of the Eriуpaμpara of Homer called 'O Kapivoc, 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 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."
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.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON,
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 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?
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means To 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; 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 unwearie d, secret still, As in some solitude the summer rill
« AnteriorContinuar » |