All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last ;-
All that makes fourteen years with you,
A summer and a short one too;-
All that affection feels and fears,
When hours without you seem like years.

Till that be done (and I'd as soon Believe this knife will chip the moon), Accept my present, undeterr'd, And leave their proverbs to the herd.

If in a kiss-delicious treat!— Your lips acknowledge the receipt, Love, fond of such substantial fare, And proud to play the glutton there, All thoughts of cutting will disdain, Save only-" cut and come again."

Samuel Bishop.-Born 1731, Died 1795.

1003.-TO THE SAME.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-
DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY,
WITH A RING.

"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed ".
So, fourteen years ago, I said.-
Behold another ring!" for what?"
"To wed thee o'er again?"-Why not?

With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appear'd.

If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow.

Here then to-day (with faith as sure, With ardour as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine,

I took thy troth, and plighted mine),

To thee, sweet girl, my second ring

A token and a pledge I bring:

With this I wed, till death us part,

Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues, which before untried,
The wife has added to the bride:
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake, as well as love's.

And why? They show me every hour Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things-but repentance.

Samuel Bishop.-Born 1731, Died 1795.

1004.-EPIGRAM.

QUOD PETIS, HIC EST.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,
Plain folk, in humble plight;
One only tankard crown'd their board,
And that was fill'd each night ;-

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,
In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby Angel's face.

John swallow'd first a moderate sup;
But Joan was not like John;
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She swill'd, till all was gone.

John often urged her to drink fair;
But she ne'er changed a jot;
She loved to see the Angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play'd;

And where the Angel stood so plain,
He got a Devil portray'd.-

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd;
And ever, when she seized her ale,
She clear'd it at a draught.-

John stared, with wonder petrified;
His hair stood on his pate:
And "why dost guzzle now," he cried,
"At this enormous rate?".

"Oh! John," she said, "am I to blame?
I can't in conscience stop:

For sure 'twould be a burning shame,
To leave the Devil a drop!"

Samuel Bishop.-Born 1731, Died 1795.

1005.-EPIGRAM.

SPLENDEAT USU.

See! stretch'd on nature's couch of grass,
The foot-sore traveller lies!
Vast treasures let the great amass;
A leathern pouch and burning-glass
For all his wants suffice.

For him the sun its power displays
In either hemisphere;
Pours on Virginia's coast its blaze,
Tobacco for his pipe to raise ;
And shines to light it-here!

Samuel Bishop.-Born 1731 Died 1795.

1006.-EPIGRAM.

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

A veteran gambler, in a tempest caught,
Once in his life a church's shelter sought;
Where many a hint, pathetically grave,
On life's precarious lot, the preacher gave.
The sermon ended, and the storm all spent,
Home trudged old Cog-die, reasoning as he
went:

"Strict truth," quoth he, "this reverend sage declared;

I feel conviction-and will be prepared

Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals

away,

Give credit for a bet, beyond a day!"

Samuel Bishop.-Born 1731, Died 1795.

Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn hymn,

From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim;

And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire,

Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch The pittance due to thy well-warbled song: Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,

Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng,

And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch,

Full many a tale have told and ditty long. John Bampfylde.-Born 1754, Died 1796.

1009.-SONNET.

ON A WET SUMMER.

All ye, who far from town, in rural hall, Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field,

Enjoying all the sunny day did yield,

With me the change lament, in irksome thrall,

By rains incessant held; for now no call From early swain invites my hand to wield The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd, And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall;

Or 'neath my window view the wistful train Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves

Shelter no more.-Mute is the mournful plain,

Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch,
And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his

hatch,

Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves. John Bampfylde.-Born 1754, Died 1796.

1010. SONNET.'

Cold is the senseless heart that never strove With the mild tumult of a real flame; Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame, Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to

love

The pathless vale, the long forsaken

grove,

The rocky cave that bears the fair one's

name,

With ivy mantled o'er-For empty fame,

Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove In search of plunder far to western clime.

Give me to waste the hours in amorous play

With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd;

Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;

Not starr'd and spangled courts, Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No: men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,

Prevent the long-aim'd blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the

chain :

These constitute a state,

And sovereign Law, that state's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill;
Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend Discretion like a vapour sinks,
And e'en the all-dazzling Crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore!
No more shall Freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

Sir W. Jones.-Born 1746, Died 1794.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them, their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.
O! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart ?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?

Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream;
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Beauty has such resistless power,
That even the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah sweet maid, my counsel hear
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage):
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.
What cruel answer have I heard?
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung:
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But oh! far sweeter, if they please
The nymph for whom these notes are sung!
Sir W. Jones.-Born 1746, Died 1794.

1012.-A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ.

Sweet maid, if thou would'st charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

1013.-TETRASTIC.

FROM THE PERSIAN.

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled;

So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep, Calm thou mayst smile, while all around thee weep.

Sir W. Jones.-Born 1746, Died 1794.

1014. THE BROWN JUG.

Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale

(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale),

Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul, As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl; In bousing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,

With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away,

And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,

His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,

And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its coverts so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form'd this
brown jug;

Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale,

So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale!

Francis Fawkes.-Born 1721, Died 1777.

1015.-ODE TO SOLITUDE.

O Solitude, romantic maid!
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep,
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or, at the purple dawn of day,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey,
You, recluse, again, I woo,
And again your steps pursue.

Plumed Conceit himself surveying,
Folly with her shadow playing,
Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence,
Bloated empiric, puff'd Pretence,
Noise that through a trumpet speaks,
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrusion with a fopling's face
(Ignorant of time and place),
Sparks of fire Dissension blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer,
Ambition's buskins, steep'd in blood,
Fly thy presence, Solitude.

Sage Reflection, bent with years,
Conscious Virtue void of fears,
Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy,
Meditation's piercing eye,

Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,
Retrospect that scans the mind,
Wrapt earth-gazing Reverie,
Blushing artless Modesty,
Health that snuffs the morning atr,
Full-eyed Truth with bosom bare,
Inspiration, Nature's child,
Seek the solitary wild.

You, with the tragic muse retired,
The wise Euripides inspired;
You taught the sadly-pleasing air
That Athens saved from ruins bare.
You gave the Cean's tears to flow,
And unlock'd the springs of woe;
You penn'd what exiled Naso thought,
And pour'd the melancholy note.
With Petrarch o'er Vaucluse you stray'd,
When death snatch'd his long-loved maid
You taught the rocks her loss to mourn,
Ye strew'd with flowers her virgin urn.
And late in Hagley you were seen,
With bloodshot eyes, and sombre mien;
Hymen his yellow vestment tore,
And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore.
But chief your own the solemn lay
That wept Narcissa young and gay;
Darkness clapp'd her sable wing,
While you touch'd the mournful string;
Anguish left the pathless wild,
Grim-faced Melancholy smiled,
Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn,
The starry host put back the dawn;
Aside their harps even seraphs flung
To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young!
When all nature 's hush'd asleep,
Nor Love nor Guilt their vigils keep,
Soft you leave your cavern'd den,
And wander o'er the works of men;
But when Phosphor brings the dawn
By her dappled coursers drawn,
Again you to the wild retreat
And the early huntsman meet,
Where, as you pensive pace along,
You catch the distant shepherd's song,
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew,
Or the rising primrose view.
Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings,
You mount, and nature with you sings.
But when mid-day fervours glow,
To upland airy shades you go,
Where never sunburnt woodman came,
Nor sportsman chased the timid game;
And there beneath an oak reclined,
With drowsy waterfalls behind,
You sink to rest,

Till the tuneful bird of night,

From the neighbouring poplar's height,
Wake you with her solemn strain,
And teach pleased Echo to complain.

With you roses brighter bloom.
Sweeter every sweet perfume;

Purer every fountain flows,
Stronger every wildling grows.
Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease.
What is fame? an empty bubble.
Gold? a transient shining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed ?
Man 's not worth a moment's pain,
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, sequester'd fair,
To your sibyl grot repair;
On yon hanging cliff it stands,
Scoop'd by nature's salvage hands,
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade
Of cypress not with age decay'd.
Where the owl still-hooting sits,
Where the bat incessant flits,
There in loftier strains I'll sing
Whence the changing seasons spring;
Tell how storms deform the skies,
Whence the waves subside and rise;
Trace the comet's blazing tail,
Weigh the planets in a scale;
Bend, great God, before thy shrine,-
The bournless macrocosm 's thine.

Dr. Granger.-Born 1721, Died 1766.

1016. THE CHAMELEON.

Oft has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post; Yet round the world the blade has been, To see whatever could be seen. Returning from his finish'd tour, Grown ten times perter than before; Whatever word you chance to drop, The travell'd fool your mouth will stop: "Sir, if my judgment you'll allowI've seen and sure I ought to know." So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk'd of this, and then of that; Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the Chameleon's form and nature. "A stranger animal," cries one, "Sure never lived beneath the sun : A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd; And what a length of tail behind! How slow its pace! and then its hueWho ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there," the other quick replies, I saw it with these eyes,

"'Tis green,

As late with open mouth it lay,
And warm'd it in the sunny ray;
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd,
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast survey'd
Extended in the cooling shade."

""Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye."

"Green!" cries the other in a fury:

66

แ

Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" ""Twere no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus,

You'll find them but of little use."

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referr'd;
And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your
pother;

The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle-light;

I mark'd it well, 'twas black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it."-" Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."
"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out;
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said; and full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white.
Both stared; the man look'd wondrous
wise--

66

My children," the Chameleon cries
(Then first the creature found a tongue),
"You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you :

Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eye-sight to his own."
James Merrick.-Born 1720, Died 1769.

1017.-THE WISH.

How short is life's uncertain space!
Alas! how quickly done!

How swift the wild precarious chase!
And yet how difficult the race!
How very hard to run!

Youth stops at first its wilful ears
To wisdom's prudent voice;
Till now arrived to riper years,
Experienced age, worn out with cares,
Repents its earlier choice.