No;-soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move, He flew to reach it, by a law Of never-failing love.
Then perching at his consort's side, Was briskly borne along, The billows and the blast defied, And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight His feather'd shipmates eyes, Scarce less exulting in the sight Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs, And from a chance so new Each some approaching good divines, And may his hopes be true!
Hail, honour'd land! a desert where Not even birds can hide, Yet parent of this loving pair Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with man ;
For whose lean country much disdain We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain But wantonness and woe;
Be it your fortune, year by year, The same resource to prove, And may ye, sometimes landing here, Instruct us how to love!
SIR, when I flew to seize the bird In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to withstand.
You cried-forbear!--but in my breast A mightier cried-proceed!— "Twas nature, sir, whose strong behest Impell'd me to the deed.
Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break (As you perhaps may recollect) Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day, Passing his prison door, Had flutter'd all his strength away, And panting press'd the floor; Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, And lick'd the feathers smooth. Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow; If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see) What think you, sir, of killing time With verse address'd to me?
A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,
KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat, And ease a doggish pain;
For him, though chased with furious heat, You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort, Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport Whom you have torn for yours. My dog! what remedy remains, Since teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains, So much resemble man!
STANZAS ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH,
BY MISS CATHARINE FANSHAWE,
IN RETURNING A POEM OF MR. COWPER'S, LENT TO HER ON CONDITION SHE SHOULD NEITHER SHOW IT, NOR TAKE A COPY.
To be remember'd thus in fame, And in the first degree; And did the few like her the same, The press might sleep for me.
So Homer, in the memory stored Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved-a richer hoard, But never lodged so well.
SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,
ON HIS TRANSlating the AUTHOR'S SONG ON A ROSE INTO
My rose, Gravina, blooms anew; And steep'd not now in rain, But in Castalian streams by you, Will never fade again.
ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. Sept. 1793.
THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, Whom all this elegance might well seduce; Nor can our censure on the husband fall, Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.
But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!
HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM MR. HAYLEY. Oct. 1793.
ON THE ICE ISLANDS,
SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN. March 19, 1799.
WHAT portents, from what distant region, ride, Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide? In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves; But now, descending whence of late they stood, Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood; Dire times were they, full-charged with human And these, scarce less calamitous than those. [woes; What view we now? More wondrous still! Behold! Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? No. Never such a countless dazzling store Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore; Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the prize. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Ves'vius', or from Etna's burning womb? Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day? With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales, that breathe
Now landward, and the current's force beneath, Have borne them nearer; and the nearer sight, Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. Their lofty summits crested high, they show, With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow : The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year, Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff to join the flood below, He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, And long successive ages roll'd the while, Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill, Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight, It left the shelving beach,—and with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old, How Delos swam the Ægean deep, have told. But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with laurel,
Even under wintry skies, a summer smile; And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle. But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. Hence! Seek your home, nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air; Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulf for ever lost!
MONTES GLACIALES,
IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTES, March 11, 1799.
EN, quæ prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, Oras adveniunt pavefacta per æquora nostras! Non equidem priscæ sæclum rediisse videtur Pyrrhæ, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti
In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant. Quid verò hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu? Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex ære vel auro Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, Baccâ cæruleâ, et flammas imitante pyropo. Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus Parturit omnigenas, quibus æva per omnia sumptu Ingenti finxêre sibi diademata reges ?
Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos Mercatorum oculos: prius et quàm littora Gangis Liquissent, avidis gratissima præda fuissent. Ortos unde putemus? An illos Ves'vius atrox Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus Ætna? Luce micant propriâ, Phoebive, per aëra purum Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent? Phoebi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis, Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est Multâ onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis. Cætera sunt glacies. Procui hinc, ubi Bruma ferè
Contristat menses, portenta hæc horrida nobis Illa strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo Clivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutæ Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu, Illa gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese Mirum cœpit opus; glacieque ab origine rerum In glaciem aggestâ sublimes vertice tandem Equavit montes, non crescere nescia moles. Sic immensa diu stetit, æternumque stetisset, Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte, Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset,
Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi, Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim, Insula, in Ægæo fluitâsse erratica ponto. Sed non ex glacie Delos; neque torpida Delum Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. Sed vestita herbis erat illa, ornataque nunquam Decidua lauro; et Delum dilexit Apollo. At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni Cimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra, Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite cælum ! Ite! Redite! Timete moras; ni lenitèr austro Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti!
THE SALAD. BY VIRGIL. June 8, 1799.
THE winter night now well nigh worn away, The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day, When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook, And poking in the dark, explored the nook Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around, And with burnt fingers-ends the treasure found. It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose, Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose ; When trimming with a pin the incrusted tow, And stooping it towards the coals below, He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. With prudent heed he spreads his hand before The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door. Small was his stock, but taking for the day, A measured stint of twice eight pounds away, With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand: Then baring both his arms, a sleeveless coat He girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat; And with a rubber, for that use design'd, Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind; Each hand has its employ; labouring amain, This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain. The stone revolving rapidly, now glows, And the bruised corn a mealy current flows; While he, to make his heavy labour light, Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right; And chants with rudest accent, to beguile His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. And now, "Dame Cybale, come forth!" he cries; But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.
From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd; With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin, Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin, Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his command Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream. The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieve The mingled flour and bran must next receive, Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refined, And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. This done, at once, his future plain repast, Unleaven❜d, on a shaven board he cast, With tepid lymph, first largely soak'd it all, Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, And spreading it again with both hands wide, With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied; At length, the stubborn substance, duly wrought, Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought, Becomes an orb, and quarter'd into shares, The faithful mark of just division bears. Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, For Cybale before had swept the place, And there, with tiles and embers overspread, She leaves it—reeking in its sultry bed.
Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus, alone, His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own, But sedulous, not merely to subdue His hunger, but to please his palate too, Prepares more savoury food. His chimney-side Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried, And hook'd behind him: but sufficient store Of bundled anise, and a cheese it bore;
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung
With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung; The prudent hero therefore with address, And quick despatch, now seeks another mess. Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground, With reeds and osiers sparely girt around; Small was the spot, but liberal to produce, Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use; And sometimes even the rich would borrow thence, Although its tillage was his sole expense. For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceased, Home-bound by weather or some stated feast, His debt of culture here he duly paid, And only left the plough to wield the spade. He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds; And could with ease compel the wanton rill To turn, and wind, obedient to his will. There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet, The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet, The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind, The noxious poppy-quencher of the mind! Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board, The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd ; But these (for none his appetite controll'd With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold; With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, He bore them ever to the public mart; Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load, Of cash well earn'd, he took his homeward road, Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home. There, at no cost, on onions rank and red, Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed : On scallions sliced, or with a sensual gust On rockets-foul provocatives of lust; Nor even shunn'd, with smarting gums, to press Nasturtium, pungent face-distorting mess!
Some such regale now also in his thought, With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought; There delving with his hands, he first displaced Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast; The tender tops of parsley next he culls, Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls, And coriander last to these succeeds,
That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds.
Placed near his sprightly fire he now demands The mortar at his sable servant's hands; When stripping all his garlick first, he tore The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, Then cast away with like contempt the skin, Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. These search'd, and perfect found, he one by one Rinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone; Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, With his injected herbs he cover'd these, And tucking with his left his tunic tight, And seizing fast the pestle with his right, The garlick bruising first he soon express'd, And mix'd the various juices of the rest.
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below Lost in each other their own powers forego, And with the cheese in compound, to the sight Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white. His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent; He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent, Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke
The trickling tears, cried-" Vengeance on the smoke!"
The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow; With cautious hand that grudges what it spills, Some drops of olive-oil he next instils; Then vinegar with caution scarcely less; And gathering to a ball the medley mess, Last, with two fingers frugally applied,
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side: And thus complete in figure and in kind, Obtains at length the Salad he design'd.
And now black Cybale before him stands, The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands: He glad receives it, chasing far away All fears of famine for the passing day; His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head In its tough casque of leather, forth he led And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair, Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.
THE CAST-AWAY. MARCH 20, 1799.
OBSCUREST night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast Than he, with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away;
But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevail'd, !
That pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
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