Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. SONNET TO WM. WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 1792. THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the' enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall❜d, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain. Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the Just on earth and all the Bless'd above. SONNET 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, task'd sometimes Legends prolix delivers in the ears [hard, (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. SONNET TO JOHN JOHNSON. ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER. 1793. KINSMAN beloved, and as a son, by me! Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be Be wiser thou-like our forefather Donne, SONNET TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 1793. DEAR architect of fine Chateaux in air, Much to my own, though little to thy good, With thee, (not subject to the jealous mood!) A partnership of literary ware! But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth SONNET TO DR. AUSTIN. 1792. AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM, IN THE 61ST YEAR OF MY AGE, IN THE MONTHS OF AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER. 1792. ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face With strokes that time ought never to erase, Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. 、 But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe In thy incomparable work appear. Well-I am satisfied it should be so, Since on maturer thought the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN. 1793. MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. I may But thou hast little need. There is a book mine. |