Hence, then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here,
Go, garnish merit in a brighter sphere,
The brows of those whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not.

Light lie the turf, good Senior! on thy breast,
And tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest!
Tho', living, thou hadst more desert than fame,
And not a stone, now, chronicles thy name.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE "AD LIBRUM SUUM," FEBRUARY 1790.

MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address'd,
The honour which you have bestow'd!
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,

He had laugh'd at the critical sneer

Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

And sneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph shall hereafter arise

Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies ;

Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;

And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT

CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, ESQ., 1790.

OTHER stones the era tell,
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.

Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost-these oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,

I must moulder and decay,
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,

Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.

Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd, and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,

Stone at heart, and cannot grow.

ANOTHER,

FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR-ANNO 1791.

READER! behold a monument
That asks no sigh or tear,
Though it perpetuate the event
Of a great burial here.

HYMN

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r
In heaven thy dwelling-place,

From infants made the public care,

And taught to seek thy face!

Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day;

And grant us, we implore,

Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy Sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear-but oh! impart
To each desires sincere,

That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the mind engage

Of elder far than we,

What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines;

And be thy mercies show'r'd on those
Who placed us where it shines.'

STANZAS

ON THE LATE INDECENT

LIBERTIES

TAKEN WITH THE

REMAINS OF THE GREAT MILTON-ANNO 1790.2

"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,
Escaped from every care,

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

This hymn was written at the request of the Rev. James Bean, then Vicar of Olney, to be sung by the children of the Sunday schools of that town, after a charity sermon, preached at the parish church for their benefit, on Sunday, July 31, 1790.-JOHN JOHNSON.

A coffin, supposed to be that of Milton, was opened at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in the beginning of August.

8 Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus,
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri
Fronde comas, at ego secura pace quiescam.

MILTON-MANSUS.

Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest

Of wretches who have dar'd profane
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.

TO MRS. KING,

ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR-A PATCHWORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING.

THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,
pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a Lady fair
Who deigns to deck his bed.

To

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 roused 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 pocketing 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.

ANECDOTE OF HOMER.'

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
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked
With good success, yield them both fair renown
And profit, whether in the market sold

Or street, and let no strife ensue between us.
But, oh ye Potters! if with shameless front
Ye falsify your promise, then I leave
No mischief uninvoked t' avenge the wrong.
Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, e me,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread
Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,
May neither house nor vestibule escape;

No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a translation of on of the Emуpappara of Homer, called 'O Kaivos, 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.-JOHN JOHNSON.