John Carr

Reader! I do not wish to brag;
But, to display Eliza's skill,
I'd proudly be the vilest rag
That ever went to paper-mill.

Content in pieces to be cut;
Tho' sultry were the summer-skies,
Pleas'd between flannel I'd be put,
And after bath'd in jellied size.

Tho' to be squeez'd and hang'd I hate,
For thee, sweet girl! upon my word,
When the stout press had forc'd me flat,
I'd be suspended on a cord.

And then, when dried and fit for use,
Eliza! I would pray to thee,
If with thy pen thou would'st amuse,
That thou would'st deign to write on me.

Gad's bud! how pleasant it would prove
Her pretty chit-chat to convey,
P'rhaps be the record of her love,
Told in some coy enchanting way.

Or, if her pencil she would try,

In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm, Upon Seeing An Idiotic Youth Seated In The Chimney-Corner, Caressing A Broom.


'Twas on a night of wildest storms,
When loudly roar'd the raving main, -
When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms,
And hail beat hard the cottage pane, -

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter'd broom was all his pride, -
It was his wife, his child, his prize!

Alike to him if tempests howl,
Or summer beam its sweetest day;
For still is pleas'd the silly soul,
And still he laughs the hours away.

Alas! I could not stop the sigh,
To see him thus so wildly stare, -
To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,
Callous alike to joy and care.

God bless thee, t...

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...

Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!
Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,
A wretched fugitive[A], oppress'd by woes,
The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.

Ne'er does the trump of war disturb this grove;
Throughout its deep recess the warbling bird
Discourses sweetly of its happy lore,
Or distant sounds of rural joy are heard.

Life's checquer'd scene is softly pictur'd here;
Here the proud moss-rose spreads its transient pride;
Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,
And gaudy flow'rs the modest lily hide.

Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been
For thee, if in these shades thy days had past,
If, well contented with the happy scene,
Thou ne'er again had fac'd life's stormy blast!

And Pity oft shall shed the ...

When thoughtless Delia unconcern'd surveys
Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing,
Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays
The little heaven of its airy wing.

Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart,
Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain;
And many a glance deludes my captive heart
To sigh in numbers, tho' I sigh in vain!

Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!
Ere your green fields again I view,
These looks may change their youthful hue.

Dependence sternly bids me part
From all that ye, lov'd scenes! impart,
Far from my treasure and my heart.

Tho' winter shall your bloom invade,
Fancy may visit ev'ry shade,
Each bow'r shall kiss the wand'ring maid.

To busier scenes of life I fly,
Where many smile, where many sigh,
As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.

Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
What diff'rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?
This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,
Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;
But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,
Time unremember'd moves, or seems to die.

Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles.

Poor Blind Bet.


The morning purple on the hill,
The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r,
The sparkling wheel of yonder mill,
The grove, green field, and op'ning flow'r,
Are lost to thee!

Dark child of Nature, as thou art!
Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh;
E'en now thy dimpling cheeks impart
Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh: -
'Tis good for thee!

Thou seem'st to say "I've sunshine too;
'Tis beaming in a spotless breast;
No shade of guilt obstructs the view,
And there are many not so blest,

Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love!
Unconscious of the ills so near;
May no rude noise thy dreams remote,
Or prompt the artless early tear; -

For she who gave thee life is gone,
Whose trust it was thy life to rear,
Now in the cold and mould'ring stone
Calls for that artless early tear.

Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;
For, long as I shall tarry here,
I'll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,
Tho' flows for thee the tend'rest tear.

Then be thy gentle visions blest,
Nor e'er thy bosom know that fear,
Which thro' the night disturbs my rest,
And prompts Affection's trembling tear.

Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,
Where Delia's charms renew'd appear,
Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast,
Ye trees whereon she lov'd to rest,
Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies,
If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes,
May some kind form, with hand benign,
My body with this earth enshrine,
That, when the fairest nymph shall deign
To visit this delightful plain,
That, when she views my silent shade,
And marks the change her love has made,
The tear may tremble down her face,
As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace;
Then, like the infant at the breast,
That feels a sorrow unexprest,
That pang shall gentle Delia know,
And silent treasure up her woe.

'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,
Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;
But, if the chill be too severe,
Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.

Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow,
Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow;
But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,
'Twill drop upon its bed, and die!

Given By Lieutenant-Colonel D ----    To His Friends In The Ruins Of Berry Castle, Devonshire.[A]


By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,
And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.
I do not mean in solemn verse to tell
What fate the race of Pomeroy befell;
To trace the castle-story of each year,
To learn how many owls have hooted here;
What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile,
Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile:
Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,
Nor any soul who loves festivity.
Past times I heed not; be the present hour
In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r,
For well I know, what Time cannot disown,
Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone,
That Hospitality was never seen
To spread more socia...

To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery
If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history,
To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir,
Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir.

In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye.
But what she did, and what she died - I hope you will excuse me:
A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir;
She kiss'd him, and she clos'd the scene by striking off his head, sir!
Detested be, &c.

Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir,
No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir,
The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir,
Nor ...

Rebecca was the fairest maid
That on the Danube's borders play'd;
And many a handsome nobleman
For her in tilt and tourney ran;
While fair Rebecca wish'd to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the gossips say,
"Alone from dusk till midnight stay
Within the church-porch drear and dark,
Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,
And, lovely maiden! you shall see
What youth your husband is to be."

Rebecca, when the night grew dark,
Upon the vigil of Saint Mark,
(Observ'd by Paul, a roguish scout,
Who guess'd the task she went about,)
Stepp'd to St Stephen's Church to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry,
And saw the black bat round her fly;
She sat, 'till, wild with fear, at last
Her...

A wreath from an immortal bough
Should deck that gen'rous victor's brow,
Who hears his captive's grateful praise
Augment the thanks his country pays;
For him the minstrel's song shall flow,
The canvass breathe, the marble glow.

Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,
This fond, this falling, tear
May yet thy dire intent restrain,
May yet dissolve my fear.

Th' unsparing wound that lays thee low
Will bend thy Julia too:
Could she survive the fatal blow
Who only lives in you?

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,
Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng,
With him to dwell in peaceful groves,
With him to hear the shepherd's song?

Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign
The homage by thy charms inspir'd?
To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine
What oft so many have admir'd?

Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love,
Till time shall bid it cease to flow;
With thee shall ev'ry moment prove
A little heaven form'd below!

Nature's imperfect child, to whom
The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,
Can unresisted still impart
The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear
The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,
Can bid his inmost soul appear
In clear, tho' silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest,
Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove, -
To feel each joy and hope supprest
That flow from pure, but hidden, love.