Works

SPRING.

Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign,
Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray
Primeval nature in his simple lay;...

DAVID.

My task is done; no further will I mow;
I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow.
Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag!
Badly your practice answers to your brag.

GILES....

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower,...

Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!
But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!

* * * * *

Man's owl-eyed reason Popish Priests assert...

'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;
To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,
Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'
Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;...

Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head;
Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view;
O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!
Ye marble statues! how I envy you!
...

That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought,
To save your idle brain the toil of thought,
You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,
It seems almost as stupid as your own.
...

Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?
No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,
Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,...

Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,
Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.
What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?
To guard his flock against the tempter's power....

Pale is Amelia's face,
And red Lavinia's nose is;
The sisters ever jar:
'Tis like the civil war
Between the rival roses.

* * * * *
...

Bury, for practice bold and skill
Deserves to be of note;
He cures by means that well might kill,
He cuts his patient's throat!

* * * * *
...

What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
...

Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes;
I view the youth, and feel compassion rise.
He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze
I listen, listen, and admiring gaze....

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.)

Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed
The name of Shakspeare!
What a glorious theme
For never-ending praise! His drama's page,...

What adverse passions rule my changeful breast,
With hope exalted, or by fear deprest!
Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre,
And proudly to poetic fame aspire;...

Whence the shouts of public joy,
Whence the galaxies of light,
That strike the deafen'd ear?
That charm the dazzled sight?
While Night, arrested in her highest way,...

What fine aerial Shape,
In orient colours dight,
Springs from the world unknown
Upon my wondering sight?

Loosely through various space
The lovely Figure flows,
And leaves the sleeping air...

What majesty! what elegance and grace!
The form how perfect! how divine the face!
In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:
Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?
No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;...

Ere Reason rose within my breast,
To enforce her sacred law,
Still would some charm, in every maid,
My veering passions draw.

But now, to calm those gales of night,
The morn her light displays;...

Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay;
See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd?
See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay
Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around?...