Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides;
  Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield: 
While adverse mountains, with protective sides,
  The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield.

The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore,
  His wife and children press to meet his kiss;
Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er,
  And, safe at home, renew their former bliss.

EPIGRAM,

ON WINNING A YOUNG LADY’S MONEY AT CARDS.

How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts;
We win your money, Ann, and you our hearts.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY,

At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq.

NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.

Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more,
In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store,
Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene,
And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green;
For Winter bids her winds so softly blow,
That, cold and famine scorning, even now
The feather’d warblers still delight the ear,
And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here. 
Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound,
’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound,
The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill,
Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill. 
The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves;
As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves,
A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son,
For him whose god-like eloquence could stun,
Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue,
Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song,
For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar
Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war;
But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire
Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire;
Who, as they pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke,
Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke;
And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d,
Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d.

LINES ON A LITTLE BIRD

Singing at the Window of the Author,

SOON AFTER THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER.

Go, little flutt’rer! seek thy feather’d loves,
  And leave a wretched mourner to his woe;
Seek out the bow’rs of bliss, seek happier groves,
  Nor here unheeded let thy music flow.

Yet think me not ungrateful for thy song,
  If meant to cheer me in my lone retreat;
Ah! not to thee, my little friend! belong
  The pow’rs to soothe the pangs of adverse fate.

Fly, then! the window of the wretched, fly! 
  And be thy harmless life for ever blest;
I only can reward thee with a sigh,
  And wish that joys may crown thy peaceful nest.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.