TRANSLATION.

Erasmus, here, the eloquent and wise, That Sun of Learning! rose, and spread his beam O'er a benighted world, thro' low'ring skies, And shed on Basil's tow'rs his parting gleam.

There his great relics lie: he bless'd the place: No proud preserver of his fame shall prove The Parian pile, tho' fraught with sculptur'd grace: Reader! his mausoleum is above.



THE FOLLOWING TWO SONGS

Were written during a Period when it was confidently believed that the French would invade our Country.

SONG.

To the Tune of "Ye Gentlemen of England."

No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe, All they wish, all they ask, is a fav'ring wind to blow.

Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low'r, But fairly may we try our valour and our pow'r, That Hist'ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low, To the storm 'tis alone the victory we owe.

Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff'rence prove, 'Twixt slaves impell'd by fear, and freemen bound by love; Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low, On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow.

SONG.

When storms on the ocean Create high emotion, It pleases the wish Of the monarch of fish, For he gambols and sports in the motion.

Should a shoal of small fry Attempt to draw nigh, With a flap of his tail, Th' imperial whale Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.

Oh! thus, on the seas, Just with the same ease, Should the enemy come, In ship, boat, or bomb, We will knock them about as we please;

Till at last they shall cry, "We are the small fry, And Britannia's the whale, By a flap of whose tail, If we dare to approach her we die."



SONNET,

Occasioned by reading an Inscription on the Tombstone of Captain Christensen, of Krajore, in Norway, who died in consequence of the Bite of his Dog, when it was mad.

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey? No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay.

The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet, Who watch'd thee in thy sleep, who moan'd if miss'd, And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet, Imbu'd with death the hand he oft had kiss'd.

And here, remov'd from Love's lamenting eye, Far from thy native cat'racts' awful sound, Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh, Thy poor remains repose on alien ground; Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone, And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone.



IMPROMPTU,

IN REPLY TO A LADY,

Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled.

How like is childhood to the lucid tide That calmly wanders thro' the mossy dell, Sweeps o'er the lily by the margin's side, And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!



LINES

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,

Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the Evening.

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense; Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence. Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r! So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close, The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose!

[Footnote A: One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven o'clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.]



LINES TO STUDY.

O Study! while thy lovers raise Thy name with all the pow'r of praise, Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! If in this bosom thou should'st find That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, Which charm'd it once, now charms no more: Frown not, if, on thy classic line, One strange, uncall'd-for, tear should shine; Frown not, if, when a smile should start, A sigh should heave an aching heart: If Mem'ry, roving far away, Should an unmeaning homage pay, Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, And, when thou deign'st to hear her suit, Should turn her from the proffer'd food, To tread the shades of Solitude: Frown not, if, in the humble line, Ungrac'd by any thought of thine, Should but that gentle name appear, Fond cause of ev'ry joy and fear; I love, tho' rude, I love it more, Than all thy piles of letter'd lore: Frown not if ev'ry airy word, Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, More rich, more eloquently, flow, To Mem'ry gives a warmer glow, Than all by thee so much approv'd, The wit of age on age improv'd. Go, then! and, since it is denied That thou shalt be my radiant guide! Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove How little Learning is to Love.



SONG.

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng, With him to dwell in peaceful groves, With him to hear the shepherd's song?

Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign The homage by thy charms inspir'd? To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine What oft so many have admir'd?

Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love, Till time shall bid it cease to flow; With thee shall ev'ry moment prove A little heaven form'd below!



THE FURY OF DISCORD

In a chariot of fire, thro Hell's flaming arch, The Fury of Discord appear'd; A myriad of demons attended her march, And in Gallia her standard she rear'd.

Thy name, so enchanting, sweet Freedom! she took, But in vain did she try to assume Thy smile of content, thy enlivening look, And thy roseate mountainous bloom.

For wan was her visage, and phrensied her eye, At her girdle a poniard she wore; Her bosom and limbs were expos'd to the sky, And her robe was besprinkled with gore.

Nature shudder'd, and sigh'd as the wild rabble past, Each flow'r droop'd its beautiful head; The groves became dusky, and moan'd in the blast, And Virtue and Innocence fled.

She rose from her car 'midst the yell of her crew; Emblazon'd, a scroll she unfurl'd, And on it the dreams of Philosophy drew; "'Tis the Charter, she cried, of the World."

Plunder, keen-ey'd and lean, rang with plaudits the sky, Murder grinn'd as he whetted his steel; While Blasphemy swore the Redeemer on high Was the creature of Folly and Zeal.

The scaffold grew red with the blood of the brave, Kings turn'd pale on their thrones at her nod; While Loyalty fled to the gloom of the cave, And Piety knelt to her God.

At length, after changing her chiefs at her will, As their mischievous zeal grew remiss, She sought a fresh fav'rite, with dexterous skill, From Obscurity's darkest abyss.

The pow'rs of her monstrous adoption to try, 'Midst, Syria! thy waterless waste, She bade him the blast of thy desert outvie, And defile all thy relics of taste.

The chieftain obey'd: with a merciful air He wrung from thy natives a tear; But the justice and valour of Britain, e'en there, Shook his legions, recoiling with fear.

Well-pleas'd with his crimes, the Fury, with flight, To her empire safe wafted him o'er; Whilst the spectres of Jaffa, with ghastly delight, The murd'rer pursued to the shore.

Arriv'd, for his brow, lo! a turban she made, Bright with gems pluck'd from Gallia's crown; To give him a name, she Rome's hist'ry survey'd, In the days of her early renown.

To embellish his guilt, or to soften its shade, The Arts mournful captives she kept; And the plund'rer and plunder of Europe display'd To the wand'rer, who wonder'd and wept.

To support this apostate imperial shade, This impious mock'ry of good, She rais'd a banditti, to whom she convey'd His spirit for plunder and blood.

The chiefs of the earth in a panic beheld The flash of his sabre afar; They enter'd, but pensively mov'd from the field, And bow'd to this idol of war.

Till, fum'd with the incense of slavish applause, O'er the globe's fairest portion he trod; And, spurning its liberty, spirit, and laws, Conceiv'd himself rais'd to a god.

But England disdain'd to the Tyrant to bend; Still erect, undismay'd, she was found; Infuriate, he swore that "his bolt should descend," And her temples should fall to the ground.

Yes, here, if his banner is destin'd to wave, It shall float o'er her temples laid low, O'er piles of her children, who, loyal and brave, Such a victory never will know.

Oh! banish the thought; for, learn 'tis in vain, Thus, thou maniac Tyrant, to boast; As soon shall her base be remov'd by the main, As her empire by thee and thy host.

The sound is gone forth, 'tis recorded above, To the mountain it spread from the vale; "Our God, and our King, and our Country, we love, And for them we will die or prevail."

Then hasten the day, if thy threat be sincere, Let the winds blow thy myriads along; Then soon may thy boasted armada appear, And our rocks catch thy death-breathing song.

Thy guardian, foul deity! hideous with crime, Shall view, as she moves to our shore, The Genius of Britain, mild, brave, and sublime, And shall boast her achievements no more.

Oh! direful and strange will the contest appear, Big with freedom to nations afar; The good, who confide, and the guilty, who fear, Shall join in the conflict of war.

In Heaven, with smiles, shall the happy and blest Lean over its bright-beaming walls, To guide and support to the regions of rest The soul of the patriot who falls.

Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep, The fate of the fight shall proclaim; The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep, Recording each hero by name.

The world to its centre shall shake with delight, As thus she announces their fall; "They sink! our invaders submit to our might, The ocean has buried them all!"



LINES TO ANNETTE.

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see? His trembling love unfolded hear? And mark the while th' impassion'd tear, Th' impassion'd tear of agony?

Adown his anxious features steal, Nor then one burst of pity feel? But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense, Look on with cold indifference. Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms, Go bless some gayer, happier, arms; Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er, These eyes shall follow thee no more; And never shall these lips impart One thought of all that rends my heart.

Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh, And since the tear will ever fall, From thee and from the world I'll fly; Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all.



LINES

SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W——.

Go, faithless bloom! on Delia's cheek Your boasted captivations try; Alas! o'er Nature would you seek To gain one moment's victory? Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air, Shall prove you're but a vain intruder there.

But go, display your charms and taste; Soon shall you blush a richer red, To find your mimic pow'r surpass'd; And, whilst upon her cheek you spread Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart, 'Tis the first time she ever practis'd art.



MISS W—— RETURNED THE ROUGE

With the following elegant Lines.

When men exert their utmost pow'rs, To while away the tedious hours, With soothing Flatt'ry's art, When ev'ry art and work well skill'd, And ev'ry look with poison fill'd, Assail a woman's heart,

Tho' ardently she'd wish to be Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery, The task is hard, I ween; Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true, Who can there be more fair than you? Who more admir'd, when seen?"

Then take this tempting gift of thine, Nor e'er again wish me to shine In any borrow'd bloom: Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm; Full well I know they both will harm; Truth is my only plume.



LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,

OCCASIONED BY HER DECLINING AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

Made her by a very accomplished Friend of the Author.

Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear, At once so sweet, yet so severe! As much for you as him I grieve; Ah! thoughtless! if you thus can leave A mind with wit and learning bright, Where Temper sheds its cloudless light; Where manly honour, taste refin'd, With ev'ry virtue, are combin'd; If you can quit a heart so true, Which has so often throbb'd for you, I'll pity, tho' I can't reprove; And did I, such is Florio's love, Eager he'd fly to take thy part, E'en in a war against his heart.



THE MUSHROOM.

Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb'ring string, And (mighty subject!) of a Mushroom sing, Fair to the eye, and pleasant to the taste; Charm'd by the note, a pigmy group, in haste, Lay down their grainy loads, as slow they move Thro' lanes of reed and grass, to them a grove! As if an Orpheus thou, they gather round, Erect their tiny ears, and drink the sound. Gray was the sky, save where the eastern ray O'er fragrant hills proclaim'd th' approaching day; Rurilla, loveliest virgin of the plain, With spirits light, and mind without a stain, Rose from her simple bed, refresh'd with rest; Ah, Sleep! with marble finger had'st thou prest Her lovely eyelids till a later hour, And by a blissful vision's fairy pow'r Hadst thou impress'd her mind with forms of love, The walk at eve, the kiss, the murm'ring dove, The little nymph had never sought the plain, Nor fill'd with one romantic thought this brain. In russet gown, with sweet and simple air, She issued forth, like Hebe, young and fair, To neighb'ring field, fresh as the rosy dawn; Nor stile oppos'd her; like a bounding fawn Graceful she sprang: so prankish was the air, Had but the love-sick Daphanel been there, He would have sigh'd: alas! poor love-sick fool! Thou rather Zephyr dost inflame than cool! And now, my Muse, the fatal spot disclose, Where, bath'd with dew, the modest Mushroom rose. Less fair the swan, by Richmond's flow'ry side, That in the river views herself with pride, As, gazing on her, some their stay prolong, To see her sail in majesty along. Ill-fated child of earth! thy charms so fair, As oft with youthful beauty, prove thy snare: Now, as with dewy-spangled feet is seen The lovely maid to trace each ringlet green, Not distant far thy skin of velvet white She views, and to thee presses with delight Oh! might some deity, with potent arm, Arrest her flight, and alter ev'ry charm; Like Niobe dissolve into a tear, Or like the Delian virgin, when with fear She fled!—See on each beauteous limb appear Soft leaves and flow'rs, the sweetest of the year; And, taking root, spread round her fragrant breath O'er the fair form that now she dooms to death: But, ah! in vain, the pray'r no goddess hears; } She bends—she plucks—and, bath'd in purple tears,} The much-priz'd victim in her lap she bears! } Tears that, preserv'd in crystal, will prolong, And paint its worth beyond this simple song.



LINES

Written en badinage, after visiting a Paper-Mill near Tunbridge-Wells, in consequence of the lovely Miss W——, who excels in Drawing, requesting the Author to describe the Process of making Paper, in Verse.

Reader! I do not wish to brag; But, to display Eliza's skill, I'd proudly be the vilest rag That ever went to paper-mill.

Content in pieces to be cut; Tho' sultry were the summer-skies, Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put, And after bath'd in jellied size.

Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate, For thee, sweet girl! upon my word, When the stout press had forc'd me flat, I'd be suspended on a cord.

And then, when dried and fit for use, Eliza! I would pray to thee, If with thy pen thou would'st amuse, That thou would'st deign to write on me.

Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove Her pretty chit-chat to convey, P'rhaps be the record of her love, Told in some coy enchanting way.

Or, if her pencil she would try, On me, oh! may she still imprint Those forms that fix th' admiring eye, Each graceful line, each glowing tint!

Then shall I reason have to brag, For thus, to high importance grown, The world will see a simple rag Become a treasure rarely known.



LINES

TO A PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST.

These bays be thine; and, tho' not form'd to shine Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line, Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse, Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse. As when the demon of the winter storm Robs each sweet flow'ret of its beauteous form, The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave, Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave, Till the Sun spreads his animating fires, And sullen Darkness from the scene retires, Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow, And in green mantles smile in roseate glow, And rivers, loosen'd from their icy chain, Spread joy and richness thro' the verdant plain, Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair, Each infant Science breath'd a genial air, Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign'd, Nor left one selfish passion to the mind; On her green lap the swain reclin'd his head, And found his banquet where he found his bed. Then Painting grew, and from the shades of flow'rs[A] There first essay'd her imitative pow'rs, When, urg'd by plunder, with the torrent's might, Nerv'd by the storm, and harden'd in the fight, A race barbarian left their forests wild, And sought the spot where Love and Learning smil'd. By Taste unsoften'd, these relentless droves Burst, fair Italia! thro' thy sacred groves, Laid ev'ry flow'r of Art and Fancy waste, And pour'd a winter o'er the realms of Taste, Each Science trembled at the ruffian sound, Forsook her shades, and fled her classic ground; The lofty column prostrate in the dust, Defac'd the arch, o'erthrown the matchless bust; The shatter'd fresco animates no more, And ruthless winds thro' clefted temples roar! Florence beheld the scene with sad surprise, And bade the prostrate pile in grandeur rise. Then, oh! thou truly "Father of the Art[B]!" 'Twas thine superior vigour to impart; Illustrious Cimabue! it was thine To soar beyond Example's bounded line, And, as the Heav'n-directed sceptre's shock, Produc'd full torrents from the flinty rock, So streams of taste obey'd thy pencil's call, And Nature seem'd to start from out the wall. Hail, beauteous art! oh! that in equal lay Could but my Muse thy various pow'rs convey! 'Tis thine with silent eloquence to shew Passion's strong image, Beauty's rapt'rous glow, To soothe the parted lover's anxious care, Who owns thee fairest of thy sisters fair; When waves divide him, still thro' thee to trace The dear resemblance of that cherish'd face, Which he so oft with trembling lips has prest, So often gaz'd upon, so often blest! Thine too it is to seek the verdant plains Where Peace resides, where Rustic Beauty reigns; Or bid the torrent on thy canvass roar, Or calmly spread the yellow winding shore; Or show, from some vast cliff's extremest verge, The frail bark combating the angry surge. Oft too on some lone turret wilt thou stand, To trace the fury of th' embattled band, To darken with the clouds of death the skies, And bid the scenes of blood and havoc rise! Such, and far more, thy pow'rs, bless'd art! to thee Inferior far descriptive Poesy; And tho' sweet Music, when she strikes the strings, When thro' the grove with seraph-voice she sings, The soul, enraptur'd with the thrilling stream, Would hail the Maid of Harmony supreme! Yet, while her dulcet sounds enchant, they die;} So shooting stare illume the midnight sky, } And, as we wonder, vanish from the eye. } But when resistless Death, in mournful hour, Withdraws the drooping painter's mimic pow'r, Improv'd by time, his works still charm the sight, And thro' successive ages yield delight Greece early bade the painter's pencil trace Each form with force; to force she added grace: For this her Zeuxis she a garland wove, For[C] that Apelles won her grateful love. Chiefly she called on Painting's magic powers To deck the guardians of her lofty tow'rs; Here[D] Jove in lightning show'd his awful mien. There Venus with her doves was smiling seen! Till ruthless Time, with unabating flight, O'er Grecian grandeur flung the shades of night Long did they settle o'er the darken'd world. Till Raphael's hand the sable curtain furl'd; A pious calm, an elevated grace, Then on the canvass mark'd th' Apostle's face; Devout applauses ev'ry feature drew, E'en[E] such as graceful Sculpture never knew. In nearer times, and on a neighb'ring shore, Painting but feebly shone, obscur'd by pow'r. See Rubens' soul indignantly advance, Press'd by the pride and vanity of France; Behold, [F] in fulsome allegory spread, The gaudy iris o'er the victor's head! See Genius, deaf to Nature's nobler call, Waste all its strength upon the banner'd hall! E'en now, tho' Gallia, in her blood-stain'd car, Spreads over Europe all the woes of war, Still with consummate craft she tries to prove How much the peaceful charms engage her love: Treasures of art in lengthen'd gall'ries glow, And[G] Europe's plunder Europe's plund'rers show! Yet of her living artists few can claim Half the mix'd praise that waits on David's fame. Thrice happy Britain! in thy favour'd isle The sister Arts in health and beauty smile! Tho' no Imperial Gall'ries grace thy shores, Tho' wealth the public bounty seldom pours, Yet private taste rewards thy painter's toil, And bids his genius grace his native soil. Bless'd country! here thy artists can supply Abundant charms to fix th' admiring eye: In furtive splendour ne'er art thou array'd, No plunder'd country mourns thy ruthless blade, Sees its transported treasures torn away, To grace a fierce ambitious Tyrant's sway. Long in this isle, where Freedom finds repose, Whilst, raving round her, loud the tempest blows, Oh! long befriended, may the Arts excel, And bless the sacred spot they love so well!

[Footnote A: "Then painting grew, and from the shades," &c.—The shadows of plants, and indeed of every object in Nature, must, at a very early period, have furnished ideas of imitation.]

[Footnote B: "Then, oh! thou," &c.—After the ravages of the northern barbarians, painting was revived in Italy, about the fourteenth century, by Cimabue, who was hence styled the Father of Painting.]

[Footnote C: "For that Apelles," &c.—Painting attained so great a perfection amongst the Greeks, under Zeuxis, that Apelles found nothing wanting but grace, which in those times he bestowed upon the art, as Corregio did after Raphael.]

[Footnote D: "Here Jove in," &c.—The Greeks excelled in the delineation of their deities, to whom they attributed all the human passions: their Jupiter they elevated to the highest degree of majesty, their Venus to the utmost pitch of human beauty.]

[Footnote E: "E'en such as graceful Sculpture," &c.—From Cimabue to Raphael, the painters were employed by the church; and they gave a character to the Prophets, Apostles, and our Saviour, which was never known to the ancient sculptors. The power which the former possessed of uniting dignity to humility is without a parallel.]

[Footnote F: "Behold, in fulsome allegory," &c.—As long as the French school adhered to the principles of the Italian school, it produced many great masters; however, the art certainly degenerated after Raphael, by being employed in adulatory allegory, in honour of Princes, as is to be seen in the works of Rubens and Le Brun at Paris, artists of great talents, which they were led to misapply, through the supreme vanity of Louis the Fourteenth.]

[Footnote G: "And Europe's plunder," &c.—Those who have visited the Napoleon Gallery at Paris can attest the truth of this observation, as those who are acquainted with the modern state of painting in France well know, and, knowing, cannot but be surprised at, the small number of French painters of any tolerable celebrity.]

FINIS.