Epitaph On Fop, A Dog Belonging To Lady Throckmorton.

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim.
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chace
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
Yes,the indignant shade of Fop replies
And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies.

William Cowper

William Cowper was an English poet and hymnodist known for his contributions to English literature and the Evangelical revival of the 18th century. He suffered from periods of severe depression and mental illness, which influenced much of his work. Despite his struggles, Cowper produced notable works including 'Olney Hymns' in collaboration with John Newton and 'The Task,' which gained considerable popularity. His poetry is often characterized by its introspective, religious, and sometimes melancholic themes.

William Cowper

Exhortation To Prayer.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

Love Constraining To Obedience.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

On Flaxmans Penelope.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

On The Death Of Mrs. (Afterwards Lady) Throckmortons Bullfinch.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

English

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Epitaph On A Hare.

Here lies, whom hound did neer pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot neer tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsmans halloo;


Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.


Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.


His diet was of wheaten bread
And milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.


On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads faild,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.


A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bou...

William Cowper

The Dog.

Of all the speechless friends of man
    The faithful dog I deem
Deserving from the human clan
    The tenderest esteem:

This feeling creature form'd to love,
    To watch, and to defend,
Was given to man by powers above,
    A guardian, and a friend!

I sing, of all e'er known to live
    The truest friend canine;
And glory if my verse may give,
    Brave Fido! it is thine.

A dog of many a sportive trick,
    Tho' rough and large of limb.
Fido would chase the floating stick
    When Lucy cried, "go swim."

And what command could Lucy give,
    Her dog would not obey?
For her it seemed his pride to live,
    Blest in her gentle sway!

For conscious of her every care
    He strain'd each feeling nerve,
To...

William Hayley

An Epitaph.

Here lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet neer pulld trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obeyd;
At his signified desire
Would advance, present, and fire
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him!
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he calld, not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrowd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

William Cowper

Rover

No classic warrior tempts my pen
To fill with verse these pages
No lordly-hearted man of men
My Muses thought engages.

Let others choose the mighty dead,
And sing their battles over!
My champion, too, has fought and bled
My theme is one-eyed Rover.

A grave old dog, with tattered ears
Too sore to cock up, reader!
A four-legged hero, full of years,
But sturdy as a cedar.

Still, age is age; and if my rhyme
Is dashed with words pathetic,
Dont wonder, friend; Ive seen the time
When Rove was more athletic.

He lies coiled up before me now,
A comfortable crescent.
His night-black nose and grizzled brow
Fixed in a fashion pleasant.

But ever and anon he lifts
The one good eye I mention,
And tries a thousand ...

Henry Kendall

On A Spaniel, Called Beau, Killing A Young Bird.

A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.


But you have killd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.


Nor did you kill that you might eat
And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.


Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.


My dog! what remedy remains,
Since teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man?

William Cowper

Epitaph On A Tuft-Hunter.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
    Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
    A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
    Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a star he'd quit,
    And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
    He took of course to peers' relations;
And rather than not sport a Lord
    Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em
    With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;
And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum
    Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
    For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
    Than saved in vulga...

Thomas Moore