Not to bewail one Reynolds, snatch'd from earth,
But give, in every age, a Reynolds birth;
In every age a Reynolds; born to stand
A prince among the worthies of the land,
By Nature's title, written in his face :
More than a Prince-a sinner saved by grace,
Prompt at his meek and lowly Master's call
To prove himself the minister of all.

Bristol! to thee the eye of Albion turns ; At thought of thee thy country's spirit burns; For in thy walls, as on her dearest ground, Are "British minds and British manners" found: And, 'midst the wealth which Avon's waters pour From every clime on thy commercial shore, Thou hast a native mine of worth untold; Thine heart is not encased in rigid gold, Wither'd to mummy, steel'd against distress; No-free as Severn's waves, that spring to bless Their parent hills, but as they roll expand In argent beauty through a lovelier land, And widening, brightening to the western sun, In floods of glory through thy channel run; Thence, mingling with the boundless tide, are hurl'd In ocean's chariot round the utmost world: Thus flow thine heart-streams, warm and unconfined, At home, abroad, to woe of every kind. Worthy wert thou of Reynolds;-worthy he To rank the first of Britons even in thee. Reynolds is dead; thy lap receives his dust Until the resurrection of the just : Reynolds is dead; but while thy rivers roll, Immortal in thy bosom live his soul!

Go, build his monument :-and let it be Firm as the land, but open as the sea; Low in his grave the strong foundations lie, Yet be the dome expansive as the sky, On crystal pillars resting from above, Its sole supporters-works of faith and love; So clear, so pure, that to the keenest sight They cast no shadow; all within be light: No walls divide the area, nor enclose; Charter the whole to every wind that blows; Then rage the tempest, flash the lightnings blue, And thunders roll,-they pass unharming through.

One simple altar in the midst be placed, With this, and only this, inscription graced, The song of angels at Immanuel's birth,

66

Glory to GOD! good-will and peace on earth." There be thy duteous sons a tribe of priests, Not offering incense, nor the blood of beasts, But with their gifts upon that altar spread;

Health to the sick, and to the hungry bread, Beneficence to all, their hands shall deal, With Reynolds' single eye and hallow'd zeal. Pain, want, misfortune, thither shall repair; Folly and vice reclaim'd shall worship there The GOD of him-in whose transcendent mind Stood such a temple, free to all mankind : Thy GOD, thrice-honour'd city! bids thee raise That fallen temple, to the end of days: Obey His voice; fulfil thine high intent; -Yea, be thyself the Good Man's Monument!

1818.

"O laborum

Rite vocanti."

THE GRAVE.

THERE is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep

Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer-evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.

For Misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild :
I perish;
O my Mother Earth!

Take home thy child.

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind
Resembling me.

Hark! -a strange sound affrights mine ear;
My pulse, my brain runs wild, — I rave;
-Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
I am THE GRAVE!

66

"The GRAVE, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
O listen!-I will speak no more :--
Be silent, Pride!

"Art thou a WRETCH of hope forlorn, The victim of consuming care?

Is thy distracted conscience torn

By fell despair?

Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,

Hark! the Lyre enchants the wind; Fond ALCEUS listens, lingers

Lingering, listening, looks behind. Now the music mounts on high, Sweetly swelling through the sky; To every tone, with tender heat, His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.

Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling

Poor ALCEUS grasps the Lyre: Lo! his furious hand he flings In a tempest o'er the strings; He strikes the chords so quick, so loud, "Tis JOVE that scatters lightning from a cloud.

"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,

Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We will never, never part:
Glory, Commerce, now in vain
Tempt me to the field, the main ;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

"What though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,

While this hallow'd Lyre is mine? Heaven that o'er my helpless head

Many a wrathful vial shed,—

Heaven gave this Lyre,—and thus decreed, Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed."

1803.

REMONSTRANCE TO WINTER.

AH! why, unfeeling WINTER, why Still flags thy torpid wing?

Fly, melancholy season, fly,

And yield the year to SPRING.

SPRING,the young harbinger of love, An exile in disgrace,—

Flits o'er the scene, like Noah's dove,

Nor finds a resting-place.

When on the mountain's azure peak

Alights her fairy form,

Cold blow the winds,-and dark and bleak Around her rolls the storm.

If to the valley she repair

For shelter and defence,

Thy wrath pursues the mourner there, And drives her, weeping, thence.

She seeks the brook ;- the faithless brook,
Of her unmindful grown,

Feels the chill magic of thy look,
And lingers into stone.

She woos her embryo-flowers in vain To rear their infant heads;Deaf to her voice, her flowers remain Enchanted in their beds.

In vain she bids the trees expand Their green luxuriant charms ;Bare in the wilderness they stand,

And stretch their withering arms.

Her favourite birds, in feeble notes,
Lament thy long delay;

And strain their little stammering throats
To charm thy blasts away.

Ah! WINTER, calm thy cruel rage,
Release the struggling year;
Thy power is past, decrepit Sage,
Arise and disappear!

The stars that graced thy splendid night
Are lost in warmer rays;

The Sun, rejoicing in his might,
Unrolls celestial days.

Then why, usurping WINTER, why
Still flags thy frozen wing?
Fly, unrelenting tyrant, fly!
And yield the year to SPRING.

SONG.

ROUND LOVE'S Elysian bowers
The fairest prospects rise;
There bloom the sweetest flowers,
There shine the purest skies:
And joy and rapture gild awhile
The cloudless heaven of BEAUTY's smile.

Round LOVE's deserted bowers
Tremendous rocks arise;
Cold mildews blight the flowers,

Tornadoes rend the skies:

And PLEASURE's waning moon goes down
Amid the night of BEAUTY'S frown.

Then YOUTH, thou fond believer!
The wily Siren shun;
Who trusts the dear Deceiver

Will surely be undone :

When BEAUTY triumphs, ah! beware;-
Her smile is hope-her frown despair.

LINES WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF YARDLEY OAK,

CELEBRATED BY COWPER.

See Hayley's Life and Letters of W. Cowper, Esq.

THIS sole survivor of a race

Of giant oaks, where once the wood Rang with the battle or the chase, In stern and lonely grandeur stood.

From age to age it slowly spread
Its gradual boughs to sun and wind;
From age to age its noble head
As slowly wither'd and declined.

A thousand years are like a day,

When fled; no longer known than seen; This tree was doom'd to pass away,

And be as if it ne'er had been ;

But mournful COWPER, wandering nigh,

For rest beneath its shadow came,
When, lo! the voice of days gone by
Ascended from its hollow frame.