ON SEEING A BUST OF MRS MONTAGUE.

  Had this fair figure which this frame displays,
  Adorn’d in Roman time the brightest days,
  In every dome, in every sacred place,
  Her statue would have breathed an added grace,
  And on its basis would have been enroll’d,
  ‘This is Minerva, cast in Virtue’s mould.’

* * * * *

  ANACREON, ODE NINTH.

  Lovely courier of the sky! 
  Whence and whither dost thou fly? 
  Scattering, as thy pinions play,
  Liquid fragrance all the way;
  Is it business? is it love? 
  Tell me, tell me, gentle dove!

   Soft Anacreon’s vows I bear,
  Vows to Myrtale the fair;
  Graced with all that charms the heart,
  Blushing nature, smiling art. 10
  Venus, courted by an ode,
  On the bard her dove bestow’d: 
  Vested with a master’s right,
  Now Anacreon rules my flight;
  His the letters that you see,
  Weighty charge, consign’d to me: 
  Think not yet my service hard,
  Joyless task without reward;
  Smiling at my master’s gates,
  Freedom my return awaits; 20
  But the liberal grant in vain
  Tempts me to be wild again. 
  Can a prudent dove decline
  Blissful bondage such as mine? 
  Over hills and fields to roam,
  Fortune’s guest without a home;
  Under leaves to hide one’s head,
  Slightly shelter’d, coarsely fed: 
  Now my better lot bestows
  Sweet repast, and soft repose:  30
  Now the generous bowl I sip,
  As it leaves Anacreon’s lip: 
  Void of care and free from dread,
  From his fingers snatch his bread;
  Then with luscious plenty gay,
  Round his chamber dance and play;
  Or from wine as courage springs,
  O’er his face extend my wings;
  And when feast and frolic tire,
  Drop asleep upon his lyre. 40
  This is all, be quick and go,
  More than all thou canst not know;
  Let me now my pinions ply,
  I have chatter’d like a pye.

* * * * *

  LINES

  WRITTEN IN RIDICULE OF CERTAIN POEMS PUBLISHED
  IN 1777.

  Wheresoe’er I turn my view,
  All is strange, yet nothing new;
  Endless labour all along,
  Endless labour to be wrong;
  Phrase that time has flung away,
  Uncouth words in disarray,
  Trick’d in antique ruff and bonnet,
  Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.

* * * * *

  PARODY OF A TRANSLATION

  FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.

  1 Err shall they not, who resolute explore
      Time’s gloomy backward with judicious eyes;
    And, scanning right the practices of yore,
      Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.

  2 They to the dome where smoke with curling play
      Announced the dinner to the regions round,
    Summon’d the singer blithe, and harper gay,
      And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound.