Now Jove, for once be mighty civil:
To counterbalance all this evil
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.' ''Tis done!' says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT
RIDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more,
Nor pour your descant grating on my soul !
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar!
How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend.
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round the untimely tomb where
Riddell lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And sooth the Virtues weeping o'er his bier!
The man of worth—and hath not left his peer'!—
Is in his 'narrow house' for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss will only meet.
FOURTEEN, a sonneteer thy praises sings;
What magic myst'ries in that number lie!
Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings
That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly.
Fourteen full pounds the jockey's stone must be ;
His age fourteen-a horse's prime is past.
Fourteen long hours too oft the Bard must fast;
Fourteen bright bumpers-bliss he ne'er must see!
Before fourteen, a dozen yields the strife;
Before fourteen-e'en thirteen's strength is vain.
Fourteen good years—a woman gives us life;
Fourteen good men-we lose that life again.
What lucubrations can be more upon it?
Fourteen good measur'd verses make a sonnet.
ALL villain as I am—a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting sinner-
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness,
And with sincere, tho' unavailing, sighs
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Ev'n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth, like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused,
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say :-'It was no deed of mine.'
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added:- Blame thy foolish self!'
Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning Hell! in all thy store of torments
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs,
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
RUSTICITY'S UNGAINLY FORM
RUSTICITY'S ungainly form
May cloud the highest mind;
But when the heart is nobly warm,
The good excuse will find.
Propriety's cold, cautious rules
Warm Fervour may o'erlook ;
But spare poor Sensibility
Th' ungentle, harsh rebuke.
ON WILLIAM CREECH
A LITTLE upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest She he meets.
Much specious lore, but little understood
(Veneering oft outshines the solid wood),
His solid sense by inches you must tell,
But mete his subtle cunning by the ell!
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,
Learn'd 'Vive la bagatelle et vive l'amour':
So travell'd monkies their grimace improve,
Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies' love!
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
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