EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY.

[lies,

TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man
Till all who knew him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants,

weep

And justly-few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.
April, 1793.

TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY
HERSELF.

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,

I danced and fondled on my knee,

A kitten both in size and glee,

I thank thee for my purse.

Gold pays

the worth of all things here;
But not of love;-that gem's too dear
For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.
May 4, 1793.

INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE
AUTHOR'S GARDEN.

THIS cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to the last retreat.

May, 1793.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they

drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,

I

may record thy worth with honour due,

In verse as musical as thou art true,

And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

May, 1793.

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ON HIS PRESENTING ME

WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER.

KINSMAN beloved, and as a son,

by me!

When I behold this fruit of thy regard,

[be

The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee. Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn; critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,

I lose my precious years, now soon to fail Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross when balanced in the Christian

scale.

Be wiser thou-like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
May, 1793.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO RAIN

HAD FALLEN THERE.

IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he

found

While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the church endow'd

With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;

In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen-may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!
May, 1793.

A TALE.*

IN Scotland's realms, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;

But where, however bleak the view,

Some better things are found,

For husband there and wife

Their union undefiled,

may

boast

And false ones are as rare almost
As hedgerows in the wild.

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late-

This history of a wedded pair,

A chaffinch and his mate.

*This tale is founded on an article which appeared in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793:

Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food."

The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd;

They pair'd, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd and the moors
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vex'd and tired;

At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.

A ship? could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?

Or was the merchant charged to bring
The homeless birds a nest?

Hush-silent hearers profit most—
This racer of the sea

Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast,

And had a hollow with a wheel

Through which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloft

Their roofless home they fix'd,

Form'd with materials neat and soft,

Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.