FOR ATTENDING THE SICK AT THEIR OWN HOUSES. 437

The LIVING Light descending from above,
Borne on the pinions of the mystic Dove!
Then should the Muse her instant homage pay,
And at this votive Board her tribute lay;—
Then should her lyre be strung to notes divine-
An offering worthy Yours and Pity's shrine!

But, since to hallow'd harps alone belong
The inspirations of spontaneous song,
Ah, be it mine though in terrestrial lays,
To lift the thought to hopes of nobler praise;
To bid you see, in each relation dear,

The Father's, Husband's, Orphan's, Lover's tear-
Enraptur'd tears! that mix with every prayer-
The sweetest incense for your guardian care.

O let me raise, sublime, your mental eye To view the wreaths preparing in the sky;

There bid your mental ear catch sounds from Heav'n, By Cherub Choirs to Virtue only given!

For Heav'n itself approves each gracious deed,

And God's rewarding smile is Pity's glorious meed!

TWO

Written at the above-named City, May 8, 1801.

O BATH! how fair wert thou to view

When last I said, Dear Bath, adieu!
When, in the language of the Beau,
I tender'd thee my D. I. O.!
Fair were the hills that topp'd thy scene,
And fair the groves that smil'd between.
A Crescent grac'd thy airy brow,
A Circus bound thy zone below;
And, blithe as Eden in its May,
Nature, with all her train at play,
Was seen distinct: the frolic Gales
Sporting with Beauty in the vales,
While Temp'rance, to Hygeia given,
Crown'd with roses fresh from Heav'n,
Their odours dropping from her wings,
Shed balms into thy healing Springs;
While all that rais'd life's drooping powers
Were guided by the sober Hours:

These regulated dance and play,

And scatter'd blessings o'er the way.

Such

Such wert thou when I saw thee last, Some twenty fleeting summers past. But now, so mighty art thou grown, Thy head so huge, thy trunk so swoln, Thy legs and arms so long and wideAnd such an air of city pride

Thy sides so blacken'd by the smoke,

Thy streets so cramm'd, thy views so broke

By upstart buildings perch'd on high,

Like pigmies aiming at the sky;
Vapour that respiration clogs,
And all the family of fogs;
And modern ruins all a-row,
And wind above and dust below;
And London fashions rattling down
To make thee yet more overgrown;
And well-bred dinnerings at seven,
And sipping coffee at eleven,
And sandwiches at noon of night,
And dames at noon of day in white,
Showing their shapes to all the men,
Up Milsom-street and down again;
Pacing the smooth parades in crowds,
Like shadows folded in their shrouds ;
Yet shades that prove the substance true,
For each fair limb 's betray'd to view;
And though to earth the drapery reaches,
"Tis but a kind of muslin breeches;
Tight e'en as buckskin on the beau,
With here and there an airy flow
As waves the linen to the breeze—
O times of freedom and of ease!

T

And

And after thus they blow about
They brave the oven of a rout,
Then hissing hot retire to bed,
And rise at noon of day half dead :-
In short, thou art so Londoniz'd,
So over-built and over-siz'd,

That my old friend I scarcely knew
Since last I said, Dear Bath, adieu!

Yet, if by this increase of height
And bulk thou art as good as great;
If thou more largely canst dispense
Thy streams to Genius, Virtue, Sense;
If from those streams more copious flow
The balms that soften human woe;
O, if they offer prompt relief
To pallid Sickness, paler Grief,
Or give to Pity's gentle eye
The melting beam of Charity,
Or to the trembling nerves impart
The tone that gives the cheerful heart;

And if from thy augmented wealth
The Poor find bread, the Affluent health,
And faded Sorrow at thy springs

Removes the malady it brings

Then, though thy charms were ALL destroy'd,
Though hosts of artists were employ'd
To seize the remnant of thy bowers,
Usurp the fragrant realms of flowers;
Though the white mason should displace
Thy varied grounds of every grace,

Where

Where now thy tender blossoms blow,
And daisies shoot, and hawthorns grow;
Rob e'en the gardens of their pride,
And spread the vernal ruin wide,
Till e'en the firs that capp'd thy seene
Should yield their everlasting green,
And disembowell'd quarries dark
Change to a town thy Allen's park;
Another Crescent crowd thy hill,
And, hid in clouds, another still,
Another Circus on another
Staring and wondering at each other,
Till, when I next my visit pay,
Brick, stone, or mortar block my way;
I'd bid thee build from street to street,
Till Lud's and Bladud's cities meet!

COME! LET THEM COME!

Written at Bath, Feb. 24, 1804, during His Majesty's Indisposition,

LONG has the Isle been vex'd with dire alarms,
And long its generous sons been rous'd to arms;
Long has the proud Usurper made his boast,
That all his horrors should invade our coast;
In desperate vauntings, sworn to distant lands,
That half the trembling world shall join his bands
Reluctant bands! who, while constrain'd they lend
To France their arms, are still fair England's friend;
And, when their vassal legions dare the waves,
Will feel they strike for tyrants and for slayes.

Yet