STANZAS

On the late indecent Liberties taken with the Remains of the great Milton,-Anno 1790.

[AUGUST 1790.]

"ME too, perchance, in future days,
"The sculptur'd stone shall show,
"With Paphian myrtle or with bays
"Parnassian on my brow.

"But I, or ere that season come,

"Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
"And sleep securely there."*

*Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Pernasside lauri
Fronde comas-At ego secura pace quiescam.

MILTON IN MANSO.

So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long

Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.

Who then but must conceive disdain,

Hearing the deed unblest

Of wretches who have dar'd prophane

His dread sepulchral rest?

Ill fare the hands that heav'd the stones

Where Milton's ashes lay,

That trembled not to grasp his bones

And steal his dust away!

O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,

And blind idolatrous respect

As much affronts thee dead.

1

TO MRS. KING,

ON

Her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work Counterpane of her own making.

[AUGUST 14, 1790.]

THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,

Must sure be quicken'd by a call

To

Both on his heart and head,

pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a Lady fair

Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,

(As Homer's Epic shows)

Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs,

Without the aid of sun or show'rs

For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,

Is that which in the scorching day

Receives the weary swain

Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied "Till rous'd to toil again.

What labours of the loom I see!

Looms numberless have groan'd for me!

Should ev'ry maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears

The impress of the robe she wears,

The Bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue!
This bright display of ev'ry hue

All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bow'rs

Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs

Each pocketting a shred.

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle Fair

Who will not come to peck me bare

As bird of borrow'd feather,

And thanks to One, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,

Who put the whole together.

[OCTOBER, 1790.]

* Certain potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows:

PAY me my price, Potters! and I will sing.
Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm

Protect their oven; let the cups and all

*Note by the Editor.-No Title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a translation of one of the Emypapμara of Homer, called 'O Kaunos, or the Furnace. The prefatory lines are from the Greek of Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him.