EPIGRAM

ON THE REFUSAL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
TO SUBSCRIBE TO HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER

[Written in letter to Mrs. Throckmorton, April 1, 1791.
Published by Hayley, 1803.]

COULD Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear)
Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here.

THE FOUR AGES

(A BRIEF FRAGMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE
PROJECTED POEM)

[Written May (?), 1791. Published by Hayley, 1803.]

“I COULD be well content, allow'd the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope

Of fewer errors, on a second proof!

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Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd Fresh odours from the shrubb'ry at my side, Taking my lonely winding walk, I mus'd,

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And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When, from within it, thus a voice replied.
"Could'st thou in truth? and art thou taught at
length

This wisdom, and but this, from all the past?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse

Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsaf'd to err
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?"
I heard, and acquiesc'd: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,

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My grav'lly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd-what is man?
Knows he his origin?.
can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? and in those from him
Through num'rous generations, till he found
At length his destin'd moment to be born?
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb?
Deep myst'ries both! which schoolmen much have
toil'd

T'unriddle, and have left them myst'ries still.

It is an evil, incident to man,

And of the worst, that unexplor'd he leaves
Truths useful, and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where myst'ry lies
Not to be solv'd, and useless if it might.
Myst'ries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS
[Written May, 1791. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of num'rous charms possess'd,
A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage,
Whose temper was the best.

The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild;

But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frown'd oft'ner than she smil'd,

And in her humour, when she frown'd,
Would raise her voice, and roar;
And shake with fury, to the ground,
The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear;

Her frowns were seldom known to last,

And never prov'd severe.

To poets of renown in song,

The nymphs referr'd the cause,

Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong,

And gave misplac'd applause.

They gentle call'd, and kind, and soft,
The flippant, and the scold;

And though she chang'd her mood so oft,

That failing left untold.

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No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,

Or so resolv'd to err;

In short, the charms her sister had

They lavish'd all on her.

Then thus the God, whom fondly they
Their great inspirer call,

Was heard, one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all.

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Since thus ye have combin'd, he said,

My favourite nymph to slight,
Adorning May, that peevish maid!
With June's undoubted right;

The minx shall, for your folly's sake,

Still prove herself a shrew;

Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,

And pinch your noses blue.

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EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON [Written 1791. Published by Hayley, 1803.]

LAURELS may flourish round the conqu'ror's tomb,
But happiest they, who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,

And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

THE RETIRED CAT

[Written 1791. Published by Hayley, 1803.]

A POET'S cat, sedate and grave,
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire

For nooks, to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.

I know not where she caught the trick —
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree or lofty pear,
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gard'ner at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty wat'ring pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparell'd in exactest sort,

And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place

Not only in our wiser race;

Cats also feel as well as we

That passion's force, and so did she.

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Her climbing, she began to find,
Expos'd her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin

Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wish'd instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

A draw'r,-it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use,-
A draw'r impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there.

Puss with delight beyond expression,
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease ere long,

And lull'd by her own hum-drum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclin'd,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impell'd,

But all unconscious whom it held.
Awaken'd by the shock (cried puss)

Was ever cat attended thus!

The open draw'r was left, I see,

Merely to prove a nest for me,

For soon as I was well compos'd,

Then came the maid, and it was closed:

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How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet,

O what a delicate retreat!

I will resign myself to rest

Till Sol, declining in the west,

Shall call to supper; when, no doubt,

Susan will come and let me out.

The evening came, the sun descended,

And puss remain'd still unattended.

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The night roll'd tardily away,

(With her indeed 'twas never day)

The sprightly morn her course renew'd,

The evening gray again ensued,

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And puss came into mind no more

Than if entomb'd the day before.

With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presag'd approaching doom,
Not slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.

That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching,
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,

And to himself he said-what's that?
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And doubtful what, with prudent care,
Resolv'd it should continue there.

At length a voice, which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,

Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the draw'rs explore,
The lowest first, and without stop,
The rest in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In ev'ry cranny but the right.

Forth skipp'd the cat; not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,

Nor in her own fond apprehension,

A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cur'd of all
Her notions hyberbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Any thing rather than a chest:
Then stept the poet into bed,
With this reflexion in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence!
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around, in all that's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn, in school of tribulation,
The folly of his expectation.

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