English

LXI.

Yet still no Stoic he, with cold neglect
To treat his own, despising nature's tie;
Nor raving, rapt, enthusiast, to expect
A miracle from heaven for their supply —
No, no; the dew that moistens either eye,
The heavy sigh he labours to suppress,
While stretching forth his feeble hand, to dry
The stream of grief that flows on every face,

LI.

No; robbery legalized, and smooth deceit,
May gather much, and after more aspire;
On lazy couch may loll in silken state,
Sooth'd with the idle chaunting of the lyre.
But surely God will in the end require
The cruel grinding of the helpless poor;
Will judge the smooth deceiver, and in ire,
Even while he laughs beneath the vernal shower,

XLI.

E'en he, who with the just hath come and gone,
Sabbaths and solemn times his chief delight,
Brought into deeps, where standing there is none,
Gropes, darkling, through temptation's dismal night —
Where ever rises on the doubtful sight,
Shadows more vast, and clouds of deeper dye —
Thought overturning thought in mournful plight,

XXXI.

What though, he cries, to rottenness be turn'd
My strength, within me though my reins consume,
And under pains derided, wailings spurn'd,
My weary flesh longs for the peaceful tomb —
My Saviour lives. I know He yet shall come
In flesh, Heaven's matchless mercy to display —
His voice of power in death's cold ear shall boom

XXI.

Oft was he wont, on such a cheerless night,
With Israel's royal Bard, in rapture high,
To traverse wide the fields of dewy light,
Beholding vast the treasures of the sky, —
The hail, the snow, the lurid clouds that fly
Around the footsteps of th' Eternal King,
When to the troubled earth approaching nigh,

XI.

Clos'd is the door whence, eager peeping forth,
The youngsters watch'd the darger's blyth return;
Foxy, supine, lies stretch'd before the hearth,
That, smouldering, dim and sickly seems to burn.
The well darn'd hose at last day's labour worn,
The strong gramashins, stiff with miry clay,
Beneath the sautfat, hung upon the horn,

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOST RESPECTED FRIEND, THE LATE MR THOMAS HART

I.

I, WHO erewhile in artless numbers sung
The Sabbath service of the simple swain,
Whence peace, content, delight for ever young,
And heavenly Hope, rose smiling in his train;
Now to the tremulous, sorrow-breathing strain,
With faltering hand attune the plaintive lyre:

V.

Mean while, great Jove did secretly confer
With his most trusty Messenger,
And Hermes with Commission sent,
The Parcae's Scissars to prevent,
As swift as Thought he shot thro Air,
And to the fatal Dwelling did repair.
An ancient venerable Pile it stood,

IV.

Then from his Seat Apollo rose,
And softly breathing mystick Charms,
The new made Immaterial did enclose
In his resulgent Arms.
Be Thou my darling Son, said he,
Excelling all in Harmony,
Vast be thy Genius, sparkling ev'ry Day

III.

In Fate's mysterious Book, I lately read,
And as I view'd who were to die,
Or were already dead;
I found th' appointed Day drew near,
In which a tuneful Heroe shou'd appear;
A Heroe! by the strictest Honour fir'd,
With ev'ry Virtue blest, by ev'ry Muse inspir'd!