And yon white stone in ruins lay,

On which the sweet moon now doth shine; And make the hallow'd bones thy prey,

And mock at Love and Pity's shrine !

Yes, ruthless, Thou, untaught to spare,

Canst rob the chambers of the grave,
The meck babe from the bosom tear,
Nor mother nor her infant save.

To thy destroying arm must yield

The useful ox, the generous steed,

And all the treasures of the field,

And man and beast promiscuous bleed !

With stony heart, and weepless eye,
Thou tak'st thy sacrilegious round,

Stabbing the labourers as they lie

In toil's sweet slumber wrapt profound.

Nor cradled infancy, nor age

Bed-rid or crutch'd, nor orphan's moan,

Can 'scape thy all-devouring rage,

Nor matron's shriek, nor father's groan!

O then, by all that crowns your lives,
By friendships true, and loves sincere,
By spotless daughters, blameless wives,
Kinsfolk, and King and Country dear-

Rise, RISE, ye husbandmen and swains!

Arm, arm, ye rich, and arm, ye poor!

Defend

Defend your dear, your native plains,
And spurn the invader from the door!

Or, should the Tyrant's self advance,
Let all your scythes to sabres turn,
Convert the sickle to the lance,

Till shepherd's crook shall laurels earn.

So shall the loud and jovial laugh

Still gaily spread from sheaf to sheaf,
And PEACE return, as proud you quaff-
The DOWNFAll of the GALLIC CHIEF!

So shall your villages and plains,

Your cots and farms, be still your thrones; So thrive your damsels, dames, and swains, And quiet rest poor Anna's bones.

Then, rise, ye husbandmen and swains!

Arm, arm, ye rich, and arm, ye poor!

Defend your dear and native plains,

And SPURN TH' Invader frOM YOUR DOOR !

212

A POETIC

A POETIC DISPUTE.

"Proofs rise on proofs, and still the last the strongest."

TO THE REV. MR. GRAVES,

OF CLAVERTON, NEAR BATH,

On receiving an admirable Letter, written after having passed the 90th Year of his Age.

LONG-LOV'D and venerable Friend,
Thanks for the Paradox you send.
You talk of weakness and of age,
And then to prove it fill your page
With every mark of mental health,
Vigour and intellectual wealth,
And active, warm benevolence,
And all the energies of sense.

You tell me too, you're deaf and blind;
Then show the vision of your mind

To be so little worse for wear,

In all that Genius pictures fair,

That, running sense and wit 'gainst time,
You're little more than in your prime;
And had I not the date from you,
I scarce should think you fifty-two;
The point when Wisdom is mature,
And what remains of Fancy, pure;

Or

Or, if you still dispute this truth,

We'll say you're in your second youth!
But even here you change the plan,

NOT TWICE a CHILD, BUT TWICE A MAN!

March 31st, 1804.

TO THE GLEANER,

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES OF HIS TO THE AUTHOR.

ALAS! my friend, you're very kind
To say, that though I'm deaf and blind,
Of sight and hearing thus bereft,
My mental vigour still is left;

But while you'd contradict my senses,
My feeling stronger light dispenses,
And 'spite of all your glowing diction,
Poets, I find, will deal in fiction;

Yet, though I think your praise invention,
your kind intention.

I thank you

for

You tell me too, I still am young,
Nor are you, Sir, entirely wrong.
If follies are of youth the test,
This obvious truth must be confest;
In this respect I'm still a child,
By every youthful whim beguil'd:
The lovely sex I still admire;

But, ab! what hopes can they inspire?

Love books-I ne'er can read, I fear;
Love music-which I cannot hear;
Love pictures-which I cannot see;
What greater follies can there be?
But, every scruple to remove,
These doggrel rhymes the fact will prove.

I'm also twice a man, you say,
Not twice a child—ah! lack-a-day!

I never was, say what

you can,

But little more than half a man;

And now, by age and grief worn out,

I still am twice a man, no doubt!
And that my faculties decay

I feel, alas! each fleeting day:
In short, if still you will dispute,
These rhymes your argument confute,
I'm hastening fast to ninety-one,
And ('tis full time) my work is done;
And hourly now I keep in view

My latter end. Dear Sir, adieu!

Claverton, April 2, 1804.

REJOINDER.

TO THE REV. MR. GRAVES.

BETTER and better, my old friend !
Instead of marring things, you mend;
And though I own you ably strive,

Your negative's affirmative.

3

R. GRAVES.

A truce