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THE FLOWERS OF THE MEAD

How much to be wish’d that the flowers of the mead

The pleasures of converse could yield;

And be to our bosoms, wherever we tread,

The reasoning sweets of the field!

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CHARITY

In moorland cot—or hovel by the road,

Rest the poor Peasant and his shiv’ring boy,

—And theirs we deem Contentment’s blest abode,

Where Fancy riots in ideal joy!—

Shall this bar charity—when spare and thin5

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HAPPINESS OF GLEANERS

⁽¹⁾

For the full text of the poem, which dates from 1786, see ‘An Harvest Scene’.

—Welcome the cot’s

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THE SOLDIER’S RETURN

⁽¹⁾

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HOB’S EPITAPH

A Grey-owl was I when on earth;

My master, a wondrous wise-man,

Found out my deserts and my worth,

And would needs have me bred an exciseman.

⁽¹⁾

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GOOD NATURE

Much of good nature, grey-beards tell,

And make a great to-do:

I’ve weigh’d their bold assertions well,

And now believe them true.

Let beauty’s bloom improve or fade,5

Wit bring its good or harm,

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THE MAID OF DUNSTABLE

Where o’er the hills, and white as snow,

The channel’d road resounding lies,

And curling from the vale below,

The morning-mists in columns rise;

Blithe at their doors, where glanced the sun,5

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SONNET. TO FIFTEEN GNATS SEEN DANCING IN THE SUN-BEAMS ON JAN. 3

Welcome, ye little fools, to cheer us now,

With recollections of a summer’s eve;

And, though my heart, can not the cheat believe,

Still merrily dance about your leafless bough.

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ON REPAIRING A MINIATURE BUST OF BUONAPARTE. FOR MRS. PALMER

madam,

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THE DAWNING OF DAY. A HUNTING SONG

The grey eye of morning, was dear to my youth,

When I sprang like the roe from my bed,

With the glow of the passions, the feelings of truth,

And the light hand of Time on my head.