Like that great Spirit, who with plastic

sweep

Of murky midnight ride the air sublime,

Or of those hags, who at the witching

time

ness.

January 10, 1795. 1 Aurora Borealis.

Fancy fling

adored,

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great

Michael's sword.

January 29, 1795.

TO LORD STANHOPE

ON READING HIS LATE PROTEST IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

[MORNING CHRONICLE, JAN. 31, 1795] STANHOPE! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name!

Thou shalt be bless'd and lov'd, when in the dust

Thy corse shall moulder-Patriot pure

and just!

And o'er thy tomb the grateful hand of FAME

Shall grave:Here sleeps the Friend of Humankind!'

For thou, untainted by CORRUPTION'S bowl,

Or foul AMBITION, with undaunted soul

Hast spoke the language of a Free-born mind

Pleading the cause of Nature ! Still pursue

doubtful name

I've made thro' Earth, and Air, and Sea,

A Voyage of Discovery!

And let me add (to ward off strife)

For V-ker and for V-ker's Wife-
She large and round beyond belief,
A superfluity of beef!

Her mind and body of a piece,
And both composed of kitchen-grease.
In short, Dame Truth might safely
dub her

Vulgarity enshrined in blubber!
He, meagre bit of littleness,
All snuff, and musk, and politesse ;
So thin, that strip him of his clothing,
He'd totter on the edge of Nothing!
In case of foe, he well might hide
Snug in the collops of her side.

Ah then what simile will suit?
Spindle-leg in great jack-boot?
Pismire crawling in a rut?
Or a spigot in a butt?

Thus I humm'd and ha'd awhile,
When Madam Memory with a smile
Thus twitch'd my ear-Why sure,

I ween,

In London streets thou oft hast seen
The very image of this pair :
A little Ape with huge She-Bear
Link'd by hapless chain together :
An unlick'd mass the one-the other
An antic huge with nimble crupper-
But stop, my Muse! for here comes
supper.
? 1795-

TO THE REV. W. J. HORT

WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES ON HIS FLUTE

I

HUSH! ye clamorous Cares! be mute!
Again, dear Harmonist! again
Thro' the hollow of thy flute

Breathe that passion-warbled strain : Till Memory each form shall bring

The loveliest of her shadowy throng; And Hope, that soars on sky-lark wing, Carol wild her gladdest song!

In Freedom's UNDIVIDED dell, Where Toil and Health with mellow'd Love shall dwell,

Far from folly, far from men,

In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and thro' the glade, Wandering with the dear-loved maid, I shall listen to the lay, And ponder on thee far away Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire

('Making my fond attuned heart her lyre '),

Thy honour'd form, my Friend! shall reappear,

And I will thank thee with a raptured tear.

CHARITY

? 1795.

SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled

To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs

Hoar with the snowy blast: while no

one cares

To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.

My Father throw away this tattered

vest

That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use

A young man's arm! I'll melt these

frozen dews

O! I have listen'd, till my working soul, Waked by those strains to thousand

phantasies,

Absorb'd hath ceased to listen! There

fore oft,

I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight

Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!

'Most musical, most melancholy' Bird! That all thy soft diversities of tone, Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp,

numb thy breast.

love