BY WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. ON
FROM BENGAL TO ENGLAND, IN 1785.
ADDRESSED TO JOHN SHORE, ESQ.
FOR ease the harass'd seaman prays,
When equinoctial tempests raise
The Cape's surrounding wave;
When hanging o'er the reef he hears
The cracking mast, and sees or fears,
Beneath, his wat❜ry grave.
For ease, the slow Maratta spoils,
And hardier Seik erratic toils,
While both their ease forego;
For ease, which neither gold can buy,
Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie
The cover'd heart, bestow;
For neither gold, nor gems combin'd,
Can heal the foul, or suffering mind;
Lo! where their owner lies,
Perched on his couch Distemper breathes,
And Care like smoke, in turbid wreathes,
Round the gay cieling flies.
*It was written at sea near the Cape of Good Hope, about the 21st of March, 1785.
He who enjoys, nor covets more,
The lands his father held before,
Is of true bliss possess'd :
Let but his mind unfetter'd tread,
Far as the paths of knowledge lead,
And wise, as well as blest.
No fears his peace of mind annoy,
Lest printed lies his fame destroy,
Which labour'd years have won;
Nor pack'd committees break his rest,
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the sun.
Short is our span, then why engage
In schemes, for which man's transient age
Was ne'er by Fate design'd?
Why slight the gifts of Nature's hand?
What wanderer from his native land,
E'er left himself behind?
The restless thought, and wayward will,
And discontent attend him still,
Nor quit him while he lives;
At sea, care follows in the wind,
At land, it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the post-boy drives.
He who would happy live to-day,
Must laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come;
For come they will, or soon, or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By heaven's eternal doom.
To ripen'd age, Clive liv'd renown'd,
With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed;
Too long, alas.! he liv'd, to hate
His envied lot, and died too late
From life's oppression freed.
An early death was Elliott's doom,
I saw his opening virtues bloom,
And manly sense unfold;
Too soon to fade! I bade the stone
Record his name 'midst hordes unknown,
Unknowing what it told.
To thee, perhaps, the fates may give,
I wish they may, in health to live,
Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields;
Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine,
With these the Muse, already thine,
Her present bounties yields.
For me, O Shore! I only claim,
To merit, not to seek for fame,
The good and just to please;
A state above the fear of want,
Domestic love, Heaven's choicest grant,
Health, leisure, peace, and ease.
Mr. Elliott died in October 1778, in his way to Nagpore, the capital of Moodajee Boosla's dominions, being deputed on an embassy to that Prince, by the Governor General and Council a monument was erected to his memory, on the spot where he was buried; and the Marattas have since built a town there, called Elliott Gunge, or Elliott's town.
WITH Sylvan bow, on Drakelow's shadowy green,
Arm'd like Diana, trod the Cyprian queen,
O'er her fair brow the beamy crescent shone,
And starry spangles glitter'd round her zone;
Love's golden shafts her snow-white shoulders prest,
And the fringed ribbon cross'd upon her breast.
With careless eye she viewed the central ring,
Stretch'd her white arms, and drew the silken string!
Mute wonder gazed the brazen studs betwixt;
Full in the boss the flying arrow fixed!
Admiring circles greet the victor fair,
And shouts of triumph rend the breezy air;
Trent, with loud echoes thrills the flowery grounds,
And Burton's towers return applausive sounds,
The graceful huntress eyes the gaudy grove,
And bends again the unerring bow of Love;
Now guard your hearts, with playful malice cries,
And wing'd with smiles the shining arrow flies;
With random aim the dazzled crowd she wounds,
The quivered heroes strew the velvet grounds;
Beau after beau expiring, prints the plain,
And Beauty triumphs o'er the archer train,
Now, with light bound, she mounts her wreathed car, Rolls her blue eyes, and waves her golden hair. Fond youth bow homage as the wheels proceed, Sigh as they gaze, and call the goddess, SNEYD!
FOR A LADY'S POCKET BOOK.
BY CHRISTOPHER SMART
Or all returns in Man's device
'Tis gratitude that makes the price,
And what sincerity designs
Is richer than Peruvian mines.
Thus estimate the heart's intent
In what the faithful hands present.
This volume soon shall worth derive
From what your industry shall hive,
And then in every line produce
The tale of industry and use.
Here, too, let your appointments be,
And set down many a day for me;
Oh! may the year we now renew
Be stor❜d with happiness for you,
With all the wealth your friends would choose,
And all the praise which you refuse ;
With love sweet inmate of the breast,
And meekness bowing to be blest.
Formerly of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, and Author of several of the Seaton Prize Poems, &c. &c.
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