ODE XV.

ON

BREAKING A CHINA QUART MUG.

BELONGING

TO THE SOCIETY OF LINCOLN COLLEGE,

OXFORD.

BY AN UNDER-GRADUATE.

AMPHORA NON MERUIT TAM PRETIOSA MORI.

WHENE'ER the cruel hand of Death

Untimely stops a fav'rite's breath,

Muses in plaintive numbers tell

How lov'd he liv'd-how mourn'd he fell :

Catullus 'wail'd his sparrow's fate,

And Gray immortaliz'd his cat.

Thrice tuneful Bards! could I but chime so clever, My Quart, my honest Quart, should live for ever.

How weak is all a mortal's pow'r,
T'avert the death-devoted hour!
Nor can a shape, or beauty save,
From the sure conquest of the grave.
In vain the butler's choicest care,
The master's wish, the bursar's pray'r!

For when life's lengthen'd to its longest span,
China itself must fall, as well as Man.

Can I forget how oft my Quart

Has sooth'd my care, and warm'd my heart?
When barley lent its balmy aid,

And all its liquid charms display'd!
When orange and the nut-brown toast
Swam mantling round the spicey coast!

The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes,
Nor envied Jove the nectar of the skies.

The side-board, on that fatal day,
When you in glitt'ring ruins lay,
Mourn'd at thy loss-in guggling tone,
Decanters poured forth their moan-
A dimness hung on ev'ry glass-
Joe wonder'd what the matter was—
Corks self-contracted free'd the frantic beer,
And sympathizing tankards dropp'd a tear.

Where are the flow'ry wreaths that bound
In rosy rings thy chaplets round?
The azure stars, whose glitt'ring rays
Promis'd a happier length of days?
The trees that on thy border grew,

And blossom'd with eternal blue ?

'Trees, stars, and flow'rs, are scatter'd on the floor, And all thy brittle beauties are no more.

Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth,

Had Nottingham but giv'n thee birth,
Or had thy variegated side

Of Staffords' sable hue been dy'd, Thy stately fabric had been sound, Tho' tables tumbled on the ground.The finest mould the soonest will decay; Hear this, ye Fair! for you yourselves are clay,

ODE XVI.

AN

INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE.

WRITTEN AT CLAVERTON, NEAR BATH,
MDCCLXIII.

BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES.

AGAIN the balmy Zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove,
Each bird with vernal rapture glows,
And tunes his notes to love.

Ye gentle warblers, hither fly,

And shun the noon-tide heat My shrubs a cooling shade supply, My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray to spray,

Or weave the mossy nest;

Here rove, and sing, the live-long day,

At night here sweetly rest.

Amid this cool translucent rill,

That trickles down the glade,

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,

And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,

E'er shews his ruddy face,

Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone,
In this sequestered place.

Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet sings,

The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares,
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt,

Yon distant woods among;

And round my friendly grotto chaunt Thy sweetly-plaintive song.

Let not the harmless Red-breast fear, Domestic bird, to come,

And seek a sure asylum here,

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve;
O let me thus your friendship bribe!
Come feed without reserve!

For you these cherries I protect,

To you these plumbs belong ; Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd, But sweeter far your song.