These, and a thousand plagues, that haunt the breast, Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, Divine communion chases, as the day Drives to their dens th' obedient beasts of prey. The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands; And share the joys your bounty may create; These, these are arts pursued without a crime, Employs, shut out from more important views, THE YEARLY DISTRESS; OR, TITHING-TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a country clergyman complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, This priest be merry is and blithe He then is full of fright and fears, For then the farmers come jog, jog, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good. In sooth, the sorrow of such days When he that takes and he that pays Are both alike distressed. Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, And well he may, for well he knows So in they come-each makes his leg, And how does miss and madam do, 'The little boy and all?' All tight and well. And how do you, 'Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?' The dinner comes, and down they sit : One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, One spits upon the floor, Yet, not to give offence or grieve, The punch goes round, and they are dull Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier. At length the busy time begins, 'Come, neighbours, we must wag' The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag. One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, Quoth one,' A rarer man than you Oh, why are farmers made so coarse, A kick that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies stay at home; SONNE T. ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords. COWPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou readest) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN. 169 Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but silence honoured thee Mute as ever gazed an Orator or Bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN. Author of the Botanic Garden. Two Poets (poets, by report, They best can judge a poet's worth, The pangs of a poetic birth We therefore pleased extol thy song, No envy mingles with our praise, They would-they must at thine. Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this. VOL. I. |