THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

What are ye, monarchs, laurel’d heroes, say, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
But Ætnas of the susl’ring world ye sway? In scarlet manile warm, and velvet cap,
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, "Tis now become a bist’ry little known,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; That once we call'd the pası'ral house our own.
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Still outlives many a storm, that has eflac'd
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; A thousand other themes less deeply tracd.
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Thy inoming bounties ere I left my home, Where to succeed is not to be undone;

The biscuit, or confectionary plum; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant Row of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughend by those cataracts and breaks,
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTIIER'S PICTURE That humor interpos'd too ofien makes;
OUT OF NORFOLK,

All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though liule notic'd here.
The same, that of in childhood solac'd me;

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy sears away!" The violet, the pink, and jessamine, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (Blest be the art that can immorialize,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

Wouldst sofily speak, and stroke my head, and smile;) To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Could those few pleasant days again appear, Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? () welcome guest, though unexpected here! I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I mighi. Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

But no—what here we call our life is such, I will obey, not willingly alone,

So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, But gladly, as the precept were her own:

That I should ill requite thee to constrain And, while that face renews my filial grief, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

(The storins all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) A momentary dream that thou art she.

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? While airs impregnated with incense play Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss- So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"* I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,

And thy lov'd consort on the dang’rous tide I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away, Of life long since has anchord by thy side. And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Always from port withheld, always distress'd— But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, And day by day some current's thwarting force The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth And, disappointed still, was sull deceiv'd.

From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth ; By expectation ev'ry day beguild,

But higher far my proud pretensions riseDupe of 10-morrow even from a child.

The son of parents pass'd into the skies. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went And now, farewell—Time unrevok'd has run Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ;

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry Nuor; Without the sin of violating thine ;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,

Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast, At such a sight to catch the poet's flame,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, And with a rapture like his own exclaim,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,

“ These are thy glorious works, thou source of good
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own, How dimly seen, how faintly understood !
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,
From what debilitates, and what inflames, This universal frame, thus wondrous fair;
From cities humming with a restless crowd, Thy pow'r divine, and bounty beyond thought,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,

Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou hast wrought.
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain, Absorb'd in that immensity I see,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, I shrink abas’d, and yet aspire to thee;
Where works of man are cluster'd close around, Instruct me, guide me to that heav'nly day,
And works of God are hardly to be found, Thy words, more clearly ihan thy works, display,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe, That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,

I may resemble thee, and call thee mine."
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, O blest proficiency! surpassing all,
Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love. That men erroneously their glory call,
"Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day,

The recompense that arts or arms can yield,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,

The bar, the senate, or the tented field, True wisdom will attend his feeble call,

Compard with this sublimest life below,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.

Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show?
Souls, that have long despis'd their heav'nly birth, Thus studied, us d and consecrated thus.
Their wishes all impregnated with Earth,

On Earth what is, seems form'd indeed for us .
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care Not as the plaything of a froward child,
In catching smoke and feeding upon air,

Fretful unless diverted and beguild,
Conversant only with the ways of man,

Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.

Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, Invet'rate habits choke th' unfruitful heart,

But as a scale, by which the soul ascends Their fibres penetrate its tend'rest part,

From mighty means to more important ends, And, draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed

Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed. Mounts from inferior beings up to God,

Happy, if full of days—but happier far, And sees, by no fallacious light or dim, If, ere we yet discern life's ev'ning-star,

Earth made for man, and man himself for him.
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds

Not that I mean t' approve, or would enforce
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, A superstitious and monastic course :
We can escape from Custom's idiot sway, Truth is not local, God alike pervades
To serve the Sov'reign we were born t’ obey. And fills the world of traffic and the shades,
Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes,
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made!

Or scorn'd where business never intervenes.
To trace in Nature's most minute design

But 'tis not easy, with a mind like ours, 'The signature and stamp of power divine, Conscious of weakness in its noblest pow'rs, Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease,

And in a world, where, other ills apart, Where unassisted sight no beauty sees,

The roving eye misleads the careless heart, The shapely limb and lubricated joint,

To limit thought, by nature prone to stray Within the small dimensions of a point,

Wherever freakish fancy points the way;
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun,

To bid the pleadings of Self-love be still,
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, Resign our own, and seek our Maker's will;
Th' invisible in things scarce seen reveald, To spread the page of Scripture, and compare
To whom an alom is an ample field;

Our conduct with the laws engraven there ;
To wonder at a thousand insect forms,

To measure all that passes in the breast,
These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms, Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;
New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share, To dive into the secret deeps within,
Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, To spare no passion and no fav'rite sin,
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and size, And search the themes, important above all,
More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; Ourselves, and our recov'ry from our fall.
With helmet-heads, and dragon-scales adorn'd, But leisure, silence, and a mind releas'd
The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increas
Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, How to secure in some propitious hour,
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth: The point of int'rest, or the post of pow'r,
Then with a glance of fancy to survey,

A soul serene, and equally retir'd
Far as the faculty can stretch away,

From objects too much dreaded or desir'd, Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command Safe from the clamors of perverse dispute, From urns, that never fail, through ev'ry land; At least are friendly to the great pursuit. These like a deluge with impetuous force,

Op’ning the map of God's extensive plan, Those winding modestly a silent course;

We find a little isle this life of man; The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales; Eternity's unknown expanse appears Seas, on which ev'ry nation spreads her sails ; Circling around and limiting his years. The Sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, The busy race examine and explore The crescent Moon, the diadem of night;

Each creek and cavern of the dang'rous shore, Stars countless, each in his appointed place, With care collect what in their eyes excels, Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space

Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shell: