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PAGE In my own Album

558 Angel Help

559 The Christening

560 On an Infant dying as soon as born

560 The Young Catechist

562 She is Going

563 To a Young Friend on her Twenty-first Birthday.

563 Harmony in Unlikeness

564 Written at Cambridge.

565 To a celebrated Female Performer in the “Blind Boy"

565 Work.

566 Leisure

566 To Samuel Rogers, Esq.

567 The Gipsy's Malison..

567 To the Author of Poems published under the Name of Barry Cornwall 568 To J. S. Knowles, Esq., on his Tragedy of Virginius.

568 To the Editor of the Every-day Book”.

569 To T. Stothard, Esq., on his Illustrations of the Poems of Mr. Rogers 570 To a Friend on his Marriage

570 The Self-enchanted ..

571 To Louisa M-, whom I used to call “Monkey”

572 Oh lift with Reverent hand

572 On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping

573 The Rival Bells ..

573 Epitaph on a Dog..

574 The Ballad-singers

575 To David Cook, of the Parish of Saint Margaret's, Westminster, Watchman

576 On a Deaf and Dumb Artist

578 Newton's Principia

578 The Housekeeper

579 The Female Orators

579 Pindaric Ode to the Tread-mill

580 Going or Gone ......

582 Free Thoughts on several Eminent Composers

585 The Wife's Trial; or, the Intruding Widow.




WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply Though ye among a thousand try,

With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,

That flush'd her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train’d in Nature's school,

Nature had bless'd her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to blind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray

Hath struck a bliss upon the day
A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet forewarning?



ALONE, obscure, without a friend,

A cheerless, solitary thing,
Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out?
What offering can the stranger bring

social scenes, homebred delights,

That him in aught compensate may For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,

For loves and friendships far away? In brief oblivion to forego

Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be a while with me content

To stay, a kindly loiterer, here: For this a gleam of random joy

Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek; And, with an o'ercharged, bursting heart,

I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

Oh! sweet are all the muses' lays,

And sweet the charm of matin bird; 'Twas long since these estranged ears

The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds

In mem'ry's ear in after time
Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,

And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For, when the transient charm is fled,

And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless solitude

When I return as heretofore,

Long, long within my aching heart

The grateful sense shall cherish'd be; I'll think less meanly of myself,

That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.


THREE young maids in friendship met;
Mary, Martha, Margaret.
Margaret was tall and fair,
Martha shorter by a hair;
If the first excell'd in feature,
Th' other's grace and ease were greater ;
Mary, though to rival loath,
In their best gifts equall'd both.
They a due proportion kept ;
Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept ;
Margaret joy'd when any good
She of Martha understood ;
And in sympathy for either
Mary was outdone by neither.
Thus far, for a happy space,
All three ran an even race,
A most constant friendship proving,
Equally beloved and loving;
All their wishes, joys, the same ;
Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smiled,
As upon a favourite child ;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Martha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses
And his fortunes rich and great
Changed at once to low estate ;
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care berest,
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in sick-bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction
Martha now received conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Saved her dying broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixed springs. That which had to Martha proved A sweet consolation, moved Different feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret. She, whose love was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere. To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation, Fewer visits forced to pay her, When no other cause did stay her ; And her Mary living nearer, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Martha's heart should steal away. That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer. From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined. All her cheerful spirits flew, Fast as Martha gather'd new; And her sickness waxed sore, Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition, Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence, With a goodness, built on reason, Changed her measures with the season; Turn’d her steps from Martha's door, Went where she was wanted more ; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret.

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