Thy spirits frolicsome as good,
Thy courage by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?
Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye;

Cold turf which I no more must view,
Dear name which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu!

William Gifford.-Born 1756, Died 1826.

1142.-GREENWICH HILL.

Though clouds obscured the morning hour,
And keen and eager blew the blast,
And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,
As, doubtful, to the skiff we pass'd:

All soon, propitious to our prayer, Gave promise of a brighter day; The clouds dispersed in purer air,

The blasts in zephyrs died away.

So have we, love, a day enjoy'd,

On which we both-and yet, who knows?

May dwell with pleasure unalloy'd,

And dread no thorn beneath the rose.

How pleasant, from that dome-crown'd hill,
To view the varied scene below,
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,
The circling Thames majestic flow!

How sweet, as indolently laid,

We overhung that long-drawn dale, To watch the chequer'd light and shade That glanced upon the shifting sail!

And when the shadow's rapid growth

Proclaim'd the noon-tide hour expired, And, though unwearied, "nothing loath," We to our simple meal retired;

The sportive wile, the blameless jest, The careless mind's spontaneous flow, Gave to that simple meal a zest

Which richer tables may not know.

The babe that on the mother's breast
Has toy'd and wanton'd for awhile,
And, sinking in unconscious rest,

Looks up to catch a parting smile;

Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,
When, ere thy ruby lips could part
(As close to mine thy cheek was laid),
Thine eyes had open'd all thy heart.
Then, then I mark'd the chasten'd joy

That lightly o'er thy features stole, From vows repaid (my sweet employ),

From truth, from innocence of soul:

While every word dropt on my ear

So soft (and yet it seem'd to thrill), So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear, And e'en thy pause had music still.

And O! how like a fairy dream

To gaze in silence on the tide,
While soft and warm the sunny gleam
Slept on the glassy surface wide!

And many a thought of fancy bred,
Wild, soothing, tender, undefined,
Play'd lightly round the heart, and shed
Delicious languor o'er the mind.

So hours like moments wing'd their flight,
Till now the boatmen on the shore,
Impatient of the waning light,

Recall'd us by the dashing oar.

Well, Anna, many days like this

I cannot, must not hope to share; For I have found an hour of bliss

Still follow'd by an age of care.

Yet oft when memory intervenes—
But you, dear maid, be happy still,
Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes,
The day we pass'd on Greenwich Hill.
William Gifford.-Born 1756, Died 1826.

1143.-TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.
Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' watery skies;

Retire, retire! these tepid airs

Are not the genial brood of May;
That Sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.

Stern winter's reign is not yet past-
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low.

Alas, for such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you, and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die.

Come then, ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest
And drawn your balmiest sweets away;
O come, and grace my Anna's breast.

Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know

What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride;

1148.-DR. JOHNSON'S STYLE.

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch the importance of a mile,
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter

To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart!
Dr. Wolcot.-Born 1738, Died 1819.

1149.-ADVICE TO LANDSCAPE
PAINTERS.

Whate'er you wish in landscape to excel,
London's the very place to mar it;
Believe the oracles I tell,

There's very little landscape in a garret.
Whate'er the flocks of fleas you keep,

'Tis badly copying them for goats and sheep;
And if you'll take the poet's honest word,
A bug must make a miserable bird.

A rushlight in a bottle's neck, or stick,
Ill represents the glorious orb of morn;
Nay, though it were a candle with a wick,
'Twould be a representative forlorn.

I think, too, that a man would be a fool,
For trees, to copy legs of a joint stool;

Or even by them to represent a stump : Also by broomsticks-which, though well he rig

Each with an old fox-colour'd wig,

Must make a very poor autumnal clump.

You'll say,
"Yet such ones oft a person sees
In many an artist's trees;
And in some paintings we have all beheld
Green baize hath surely sat for a green field:
Bolsters for mountains, hills, and wheaten

High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs, Where ships below appear like little skiffs,

The people walking on the strand like

crows.

Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made:

Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid

He should not charm enough his guests divine,

He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks;

And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,

To make the apprentices and draymen fine:
Busy as horses in a field of clover,
Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were
tumbled over,

Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation,
To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,

To visit the first brewer in the land; Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat

In a snug corner, christen'd Chiswell Street; But oftener, charm'd with fashionable air, Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also,

His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise, With Lady Harcourt join'd the raree show, And fix'd all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters,

Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Thus was the brewhouse fill'd with gabbling noise,

Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys, Devour'd the questions that the king did ask;

In different parties were they staring seen, Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen!

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Now majesty into a pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep:
Examining with care each wondrous matter
That brought up water!