LINES, WRITTEN AT WEST COWES, IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT, August 1, 1793. DELIGHTFUL COWES! To thee a vagrant Muse, a-wash'd shore, But newly lighted on thy sea- And much she joys to see thy little strand, Their numerous train, to breathe salubrious air, The first and fairest of the English dames, Have here inhal'd the salt breeze, bath'd their limbs, Surveys the wide extent of sea and land Behold her highly cultivated fields— (Thy fields, not less with gen'rous culture rich) And sees thy ocean's bed of wavy green, And sees her fleets-the envy of the world: This fill'd with commerce, and that fraught with death, Or not a BRITON-wishes that he were ! But wherefore, Cowes-were thy commanding cliff's, Thy cleanly cots, and people cleanlier still, In honest ways industriously employ'd, And fam'd for much civility and worth; So long neglected, and so little known; Save by the sun-burnt tars who seek thy port, Or the brown husbandman who tills thy soil; Was it because the tender timid maid, Shrunk from the surging sea that parts this Isle, And scarcely parts it from the parent land? Banish such fears, ye Fair Ones i and be sure, When smooth the level surface of the deep, The smallest boat will bear you safely o'er; When rough, a simple skiff with loosen'd sails, Catching the breeze, will waft her beauteous freight, With equal safety o'er its billowy back. 'Tis yours, ye British Youths, to lead them on→→ Yes! let your boldness shew there's nought to fear; Teach them to like what they must after love— Lead them to view, from this enchanting spot, Scenes most romantic-ever shifting scenes, On ocean's swelling wave; and on the land, . Such as must ever fix and charm the sight, 'Till the sense ache with pleasurable pain. Then be thou, CowES! the safe and sweet retreat, New mansions rise,-light, picturesque, and neat ; Beauty and Fashion here have fix'd their seat, THE YEOMAN OF KENT. WHAT are riches, or titles, or power, I trow, Sung a hearty old YEOMAN of KENT- What tho' time o'er my forehead has scatter'd his snow, Yet this heart is unconquer'd by sorrow or care, From my youth with the lark I have welcom'd the morn, Sweet the rest I enjoy'd when my labour was o'er- T' improve my small farm, and my family rear, And tho' I ne'er sought the philosopher's stone, If as Quarter-day came, and my Landlord appear'd, My talent tho' small, yet I trust I have us'd, To most of the purposes meant,— For bugbears or dæmons ne'er haunted my dreams, From my door never yet the poor shiv'ring wretch, For I felt to deny the small pittance implor'd, If distress'd was my friend, and tho' scanty my store, Yet to give him some succour I went, Except once-when I own that I might have done more; And that once, why I knew not-Content. No fine fangled schemes, wealth or power to gain, No change wou'd I wish, and no man's prouder lot, Nor while in this world I am suffer'd to stay, Ah! why shou'd I risque for some bauble at best, |