See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity?
When last you left your Woodbridge pretty, To stare at sights, and see the City, If I your meaning understood,
You wish'd a Picture, cheap, but good; The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy; To suit a Poet's quiet study,
Where Books and Prints for delectation Hang, rather than vain ostentation. The subject? what I pleased, if comely; But something scriptural and homely: A sober Piece, not gay or wanton, For winter fire-sides to descant on ; The theme so scrupulously handled, A Quaker might look on unscandal'd; Such as might satisfy Ann Knight, And classic Mitford just not fright. Just such a one I've found, and send it; If liked, I give--if not, but lend it. The moral? nothing can be sounder. The fable? 'tis its own expounder— A Mother teaching to her Chit Some good book, and explaining it. He, silly urchin, tired of lesson, His learning lays no mighty stress on, But seems to hear not what he hears; Thrusting his fingers in his ears,
'From the venerable and ancient Manufactory of Carrington Bowles : some of my readers may recognise it.
Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one, In honest parable of Bunyan. His working Sister, more sedate, Listens; but in a kind of state, The painter meant for steadiness s; But has a tinge of sullenness ; And, at first sight, she seems to brook As ill her needle, as he his book. This is the Picture. For the Frame- 'Tis not ill-suited to the same;
Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling; Old-fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling; And sober, as the Owner's Calling.
While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, Painter, who is she that stayeth By, with skin of whitest lustre, Sunny locks, a shining cluster, Saint-like seeming to direct him To the Power that must protect him? Is she of the Heaven-born Three,
Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity : Or some Cherub?—
They you mention
Far transcend my weak invention.
'Tis a simple Christian child,
Missionary young and mild,
From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,
Bible-taught without a college,
Which by reading she could gather,
Teaches him to say OUR FATHER To the common Parent, who Colour not respects, nor hue. White and black in him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
1 A Picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.
SHE IS GOING
For their elder Sister's hair Martha does a wreath prepare Of bridal rose, ornate and gay: To-morrow is the wedding day: She is going.
Mary, youngest of the three, Laughing idler, full of glee,
Arm in arm does fondly chain her, Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her--- But she's going.
Vex not, maidens, nor regret Thus to part with Margaret.
Charms like your's can never stay Long within doors; and one day You'll be going.
On Her Twenty-First Birth-Day
Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray
A blessing on thy years, young Isola;
Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown To me thy girlish times, a woman grown
Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack
My fancy to believe the almanac,
That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou should'st have still
Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will
Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.
Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,
Hastening to leave thy friends!-for which intent,
Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment.
After some thirty years, spent in such bliss As this earth can afford, where still we miss Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold. O far more ag'd and wrinkled, till folks say, Looking upon thee reverend in decay,
"This Dame for length of days, and virtues rare, With her respected Grandsire may compare.".
Grandchild of that respected Isola,
Thou should'st have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate
Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. But they have died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance The friends which Nature grudg'd. And thou wilt find, Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind
To thee and thy deservings. That last strain Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again Another cheerful goblet, while I say
"Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
TO THE SAME
External gifts of fortune, or of face,
Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show ; Much fairer damsels have I known, and know, And richer may be found in every place. In thy mind seek thy beauty, and thy wealth. Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health. O guard that treasure above gold or pearl, Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth-- And take my benison, plain-hearted girl.
HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS
By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk: The fair Maria, as a vestal, still;
And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. With soft and Lady speech the first applies The mild correctives that to grace belong To her redundant friend, who her defies With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, What music from your happy discord rises, While your companion hearing each, and seeing, Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes; This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, That harmonies may be in things unlike!
WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE
(August 15. 1819)
I was not train'd in Academic bowers,
And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow; Mine have been any thing but studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap ;
My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers. Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain;
And my scull teems with notions infinite. Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach
Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein, And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite!
TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"
Rare artist who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art,
And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, Unaided by the eye, expression's throne! While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight: Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, O mistress of the passions; artist fine!
Who dost our souls against our sense command, Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace.
Who first invented work, and bound the free
And holyday-rejoicing spirit down
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