Nor did

you kill that you might eat

And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport

Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach all I can,

you

I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man?

July 15, 1793.

BEAU'S REPLY.

SIR, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.

You cried-Forbear-but in

my

breast

A mightier cried-Proceed—

'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest

Impell'd me to the deed.

Yet, much as nature I respect,

I ventured once to break

(As you perhaps may recollect) Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,

Had flutter'd all his strength away,

And panting press'd the floor,

Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,

I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick'd the feathers smooth.

Let

my

obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow:

If killing birds be such a crime
(Which I can hardly see)

What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

DEAR architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!

O for permission from the skies to share,

Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware!

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequal'd birth!
But what his commentators' happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.
June 29, 1793.

ANSWER

To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor take a Copy.

To be remember'd thus is fame,

And in the first degree;

And did the few like her the same,
The press might sleep for me.

So Homer, in the memory stored
Of many a Grecian belle,

Was once preserved-a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.

1793.

ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.

THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce;
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.
September, 1793.

TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,

On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into
Italian Verse.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And, steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.

1793.

TO MARY.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah would that this might be the last!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

My Mary!

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For

My Mary!

my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more;

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfill
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language utter'd in a dream;

My Mary!

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,

That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,

My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!