Page images
PDF
EPUB

For still she lives, but has exchang'd the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,

Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,

Of magic song, both gods, and men detains.

THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.

A FABLE.

A PEASANT to his lord pay'd yearly court,
Presenting pippins of so rich a sort

That he, displeas'd to have a part alone,
Remov'd the tree, that all might be his own.
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd,
And "Oh," he cried, "that I had liv'd content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!
My av'rice has expensive prov'd to me,
Has cost me both my pippins, and my tree."

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR,

A PHYSICIAN.

LEARN, ye nations of the earth,
The condition of your birth,

Now be taught your feeble state!
Know, that all must yield to Fate!

If the mournful rover, Death,

Say but once-" resign your breath!"
Vainly of escape you dream,

You must pass the Stygian stream.

Could the stoutest overcome

Death's assault, and baffle doom,

Hercules had both withstood,

Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood.

Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the chief to Jove allied

By Achilles' phantom died.

Could enchantments life prolong,

Circe, sav'd by magic song,
Still had liv'd, and equal skill
Had preserv'd Medea still.

Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a pow'r To avert man's destin'd hour,

Learn'd Machaon should have known

Doubtless to avert his own.

Chiron had surviv'd the smart

Of the hydra-tainted dart,

And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,

Foil'd by Asclepiades.

Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn

Helicon and Cirrha mourn,

Still had'st fill'd thy princely place,

Regent of the gowned race.

[blocks in formation]

ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY.

Written in the Author's 17th Year,

My lids with grief were tumid yet,

And still my sullied cheek was wet
With briny dews, profusely shed

For venerable Winton dead';

When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound

Alas! are ever truest found,

The news through all our cities spread

Of yet another mitred head

By ruthless fate to death consign'd,
Ely, the honour of his kind!

At once, a storm of passion heav'd
My boiling bosom, much I griev'd
But more I rag'd, at ev'ry breath
Devoting Death himself to death.
With less revenge did Naso teem,
When hated Ibis was his theme:
With less, Archilochus, denied
The lovely Greek, his promis'd bride.

But lo! while thus I execrate, Incens'd, the minister of fate, Wond'rous accents, soft, yet clear, Wafted on the gale I hear.

« PreviousContinue »