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To a FRIEND, on presenting him with a Volume of M.S.S. Poems


To thee, who lov'st what Latian Poets sing,
Whose bosom glows with all the Muse's fire,
Who, whilst thy steps to Isis' banks retire,
In study pale consum'st thy life's fair spring;
Striking with venturous hand the sounding string,
To thee, my Friend! the first fruits of my lyre,
Lo I, the lowliest of the tuneful quire,
A votive wreath of simple flow'rets bring!
Simple 'tis true, combin'd of various hues,

Fram'd oft as Fancy whisper'd in mine ear;
A boon so slight yet will not thou refuse,

Yet will the Donor's name the wreath endear.. O would the violet here its sweets diffuse,

Or lily of the vale in snowy stole appear!


Thou then art come again NECESSITY!

Unwelcome visitor, to whom the door

Must open, thou art come to me once more
Hard Mistress! but thou should'st have brought with thee
INVENTION, Whom tradition's ancient lore

Asserts thine offspring; he should visit me,
For ever friendly to the Poet poor,

Inspirer of the needful rhyme, is he.
Hard Mistress I am never pleas'd to see
Thy frown severe, thy unrelaxing brow,
Yet should the thanks of Gratitude be paid:
For more than all the Muses nine hast thou
NECESSITY! Wrought for the Poet's aid,

And he must thank thee tor his Sonnet now.


Farewell my home, my home no longer now,
Witness of many a calm and happy day;
And thou fair eminence upon whose brow
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray.
Farewell! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue
The westering sun beyond the utmost height,
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of the falling dew,
Cool and delightful here shall bathe my head,
As from this western window dear, I lean
Listening the while I watch the placid scene
The martins twittering underneath the shed.
Farewell my home! where many a day has past
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last.



To W. L. Esq. while he sung a Song to Purcell's Music.

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L-! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep

My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at Death's dread moment I should lie

With no beloved face by my bed-side
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

O God! such strains breath'd by my angel guide Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!


Porlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight,
Thy lofty hills with fern and furze so brown,
The waters that so musical roll down

Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight
Recalls to memory, and the channel grey
Circling its surges in thy level bay.

Porlock, I also shall forget thee not,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined,
And often shall hereafter call to mind

How here, a patient prisoner 'twas my lot
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
Making my Sonnet by the alehouse fire,
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.
August 9, 1799.

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