« PreviousContinue »
WILLIAM COW PE R.
Bonn, 1731 ; DIED, 1800. l'rincipal Works.—The Task, Table Talk, Jolin Gilpin, Hymns,
Translation of Homer.
There is a bird, who by his coat,
Might be supposed a crow;
And dormitory too.
From what point blows the weather.
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
And thence securely sees
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muscs
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Or troubles it at all.
Church, army, physic, law
And says—what says he ?-Caw.
And sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'ern.
SLAVERY. I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No! I would rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home-then why abroad ? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their langs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
THE THREE WARNINGS. THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages
That love of life increas'd with years,
The greatest love of life appears.
When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dobson's wedding day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave, “You must," says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." “With you! and quit my Susan's side ? With you ?" the hapless husband cried ; “Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd; My thoughts on other matters go: This is my wedding day, you know." What more he urg'd I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger ; So Death the poor delinquent spar’d,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet, calling up a serious look,
Apd grant a kind reprieve,
Well pleas'd the world will leave."
What next the hero of our tale befell,
The willing Muse shall tell :
Nor thought of Death as near ;
He pass'd his hours in peace.
While thus along life's dusty road
Brought on his eightieth year.
As all alone he sate,
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
So soon, d’ye call it ?” Death replies ;
Since I was here before
And you are now fourscore !"
Hold,” says the farmer, “not so fast !