FROM H. M. AT BRISTOL, TO DRAGON,

I. DRAGON! Since lyrics are the mode,
To thee I dedicate my ode,

And reason good I plead :

Are those who cannot write, to blame
To draw their hopes of future fame,

From those who cannot read?
II O could I, like that nameless wight,*
Find the choice minute when to write,
The mollia_tempora fandi !
Like his, my muse should learn to whistle
A true heroical epistle,

In strains which never can die. III. Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace ! Can thy great shade do nothing for us To mend the British lyre?

And golden cowslips grace the vernal year:
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue,
And ev'ry violet boasts a brighter blue.
Here builds the wood-lark, here the faithful
dove

Laments his lost, or woos his living love.
Secure from harm is ev'ry hallow'd nest,
The spot is sacred where true lovers rest.
To guard the rock from each malignant
sprite,

A troop of guardian spirts watch by night;
Aloft in air each takes his little stand,
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy
Land.*

* By contraction, Failand, a hill well known in Somersetshire: not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which constantly issues a crimson current. A desire to account for this appearance, gave rise to a whimsical conversation, which produced these slight verses.

Our luckless bards have broke the strings,
Seiz'd the scar'd muses, pluck'd their wings,
And put out all their fire.†

IV. Dragon! thou tyrant of the yard,
Great namesake of that furious guard
That watch'd the fruits Hesperian !
Thy choicer treasures safely keep,
Nor snatch one moment's guilty sleep,
Fidelity's criterion.

V. O Dragon! change with me thy fate,
To me give up thy place and state,

And I will give thee mine:

I, left to think, and thou to feed!
My mind enlarg'd, thy body freed,

How blest my lot and thine!

VI. Then shalt thou scent the rich regale Of turtle and diluting,ale,

Nay, share the sav'ry bit ;

And see, what thou hast never seen,
For thou hast but at Hampton been,

A feast devoid of wit.

VII. Oft shalt thou snuff the smoking venison,

Devour'd alone, by hungry denizen,

So fresh, thou'lt long to tear it ;

Because their friends should share it. VIII. And then on me what joys would wait, Were I the guardian of thy gate,

How useless bolt and latch!
How vain were locks, and bars how vain,
To shield from harm the household train

Whom I, from love, would watch!
IX. Not that 'twould crown with joy my life,
That Bowden, or that Bowden's wife,
Brought me my daily pickings :
Though she, accelerating fate,
Decrees the scanty moral date

Of turkeys and of chickens!
X. Though fir'd with innocent ambition,
Bowden, great Nature's rhetorician,

More flow'rs than Burke produces ;
And though he's skill'd more roots to find,
Than ever stock'd an Hebrew's mind,

And knows their various uses.
XI. I'd get my master's ways by rote,
Ne'er would I bark at ragged coat,
Nor tear the tatter'd sinner;
Like him, I'd love the dog of merit
Caress the cur of broken spirit,

And give them all a dinner.
XII. Nor let me pair his blue-ey'd dame
With Venus' or Minerva's name,

One warrior, one coquet;
No; Pallas and the queen of Beauty
Shunn'd, or betray'd that nuptial duty,
Which she so high has set.

XIII. Whene'r I heard the rattling coach
Proclaim their long desir'd approach,

How would I haste to greet 'em!

Nor ever feel I wore a chain,

Till, starting, I perceiv'd with pain

I could not fly to meet 'em.

XIV. The master loves his sylvan shades,

His choicest hours are spent :

t'Hor. lib. ii. Sat. 2.

The gardner and poultry woman at Hampton,

And set before his time;

I who have felt and lov'd his rays,
What they condemn will loudly praise,
And call the deed sublime.
XVIII. How wise long pamper'd with ap-
plause,
To make a voluntary pause

And lay his laurels down!
Boldly repelling each strong claim,
To dare assert to Wealth and Fame,
'Enough of both I've known.'

XIX. How wise! a short retreat to steal,
The vanity of life to feel,

And from its cares to fly;

To act one calm, domestic scene,
Earth's bustle, and the grave between,
Retire, and learn to die!

IN REDCLIFF CHURCH, ENGLAND.

O COULD this verse her fair example spread,
And teach the living while it prais'd the dead!
Then, reader! should it speak her hope divine,
Not to record her faith, but strengthen thine;
Then should her ev'ry virtue stand confest,
Till ev'ry virtue kindle in thy breast.
But, if thou slight the monitory strain,
And she has liv'd, to thee at least, in vain ;
Yet let her death, an awful lesson give,
The dying Christian speaks to all that live.
Enough for her that here her ashes rest,
Till God's own plaudit shall her worth attest.

The son escap'd to foreign lands,
And broke his gracious sire's commands ;
Far, as he fancied, from his sight,
In each low joy he took delight.
The youth, detesting peace and quiet,
Indulg'd in vice, expense, and riot;
Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted,
Till health declin'd, and substance wasted.
The tender sire, to pity prone,
Promis'd to pardon what was done;
And, would he certain terms fulfil
He should receive a kingdom still.
The youth the pardon little minded,
So much his sottish soul was blinded;
But though he mourn'd no past transgression,
He lik'd the future rich possession.
He lik'd the kingdom when obtain'd,
But not the terms on which 'twas gain'd;
He hated pain and self-denial,

Chose the reward, but shunn'd the trial.
He knew his father's power how great,
How glorious too the promis'd state!
At length resolves no more to roam
But strait to seek his father's home.
His sire had sent a friend to say,
He must be cautious on his way;
Told him what road he must pursue,
And always keep his home in view.
The thoughtless youth set out indeed,
But soon he slacken'd in his speed;
For ev'ry trifle by the way
Seduc'd his idle heart astray.
By ev'ry casual impulse sway'd,
On ev'ry slight pretence he stay'd;
To each, to all, his passions bend,
He quite forgets his journey's end.
For ev'ry sport, for ev'ry song,
He halted as he pass'd along
Caught by each idle sight he saw,
He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw.
Whate'er was present seiz'd his soul,
A feast, a show, a brimming bowl;
Contented with this vulgar lot,
His father's house he quite forgot.

Those slight refreshments by the way,
Which were but meant his strength to stay,
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin,
He look'd no farther than his inn.
His father's friend would oft appear
And sound the promise in his ear;
Oft would he rouse him, Sluggard come!
This is thy inn, and not thy home.'
Displeas'd he answers, Come what will,
Of present bliss I'll take my fill:
In vain you plead, in vain I hear,
Those joys are distant, these are near.'
Thus perish'd, lost to worth and truth,
In sight of home this hapless youth ;
While beggars, foreigners, and poor,
Enjoy'd the father's boundless store.

APPLICATION.

My fable, reader, speaks to thee,
In God this bounteous father see;
And in his thoughtless offspring trace,
The sinful, wayward, human race.
The friend, the generous father sent,
To rouse, and to reclaim him, meant;
The faithful minister you'll find;
Who call the wand'ring, warns the blind.
Reader, awake! this youth you blame,
Are not you doing just the same?
Mindless your comforts are but given
To help you on your way to heav'n.
The pleasures which beguile the road,
The flow'rs with which your path is strew'd;
To these your whole desires you bend
And quite forget your journey's end.
The meanest toys your soul entice,
A feast, a song, a game at dice;
Charm'd with your present paltry lot,
Eternity is quite forgot.

Then listen to a warning friend,
Who bids you mind your journey's end;
A wand'ring pilgrim here you roam;
This world's your inn, the next your home.

THE OBJECTOR.

1. EACH man who lives the Scriptures prove, Must as himself his neighbour love; But though the precept's full of beauty, 'Tis an impracticable duty:

I'll prove how hard it is to find
A lover of this wond'rous kind.
II. Who loves himself to great excess,
You'll grant must love his neighbour less;
When self engrosses all the heart
How can another have a part?

Then if self-love most men enthral,
A neighbour's share is none at all.
III. Say, can the man who hoards up pelf
E'er love his neighbour as himself?
For if he did, would he not labour
To hoard a little for his neighbour?

Then tell me, friend, can hoarding elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?

IV. The man whose heart is bent on pleasure
Small love will to his neighbour measure :
Who solely studies his own good,
Can't love another if he would.

Then how can pleasure-hunting elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?
V. Can he whom sloth and loitering please
E'er love his neighbour like his ease?
Or he who feels ambition's flame
Loves he his neighbour like his fame?

Such lazy, or such soaring elves

Can't love their neighbour as themselves. VI. He, whose gross appetites enslave him, Who spends or feasts the wealth God gave him;

Full, pamper'd, gorg'd at ev'ry meal,
He cannot for the empty feel.

How can such gormandizing elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?