A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to the last retreat.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

[May, 1793.]

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heav'n as some have feign'd they
drew,

An eloquence scarce giv'n to mortals, new
And undebas'd by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or wo I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.

But thou hast little need. There is a book

By seraphs writ with beams of heav'nly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine,

TO

JOHN JOHNSON,

ON

His presenting me with an antique bust of Homer. [May, 1793.]

KINSMAN belov'd, and as a son, by me!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,
The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard,
I rev'rence feel for him, and love for thee.
Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn: Critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine

I lose my precious years now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howso'er it shine,

Proves dross, when balanc'd in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou-like our forefather DONNE, Seek heav'nly wealth, and work for God alone.

TO

A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON

His arriving at Cambridge wet, when no rain

had fallen there.

[May, 1793.]

IF Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he

found,

While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd

With heav'nly gifts, to Heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry.
Heav'n grant us half the omen-may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

A TALE.

[June, 1793.]

IN Scotland's realm where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;

But where, however bleak the view,

Some better things are found,

For husband there and wife may boast

Their union undefil'd,

And false ones are as rare almost
As hedge-rows in the wild.

In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare,
The hist'ry chanc'd of late-
This hist'ry of a wedded Pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd;
They pair'd, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd, and the moors,
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks, and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vext and tir'd;

At length a ship arriving, brought
The good so long desir'd.

A ship!-could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?

Or was the merchant charg'd to bring
The homeless birds a nest?

Hush-Silent hearers profit most-
This racer of the sea

Prov'd kinder to them than the coast, It serv'd them with a Tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a Mast,
And had a hollow with a wheel

Through which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloft,

Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mixt.

Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight-
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had chang'd her kind;
But goes the male? Far wiser, he
Is doubtless left behind?

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