THE EBB TIDE.

SLOWLY thy flowing tide

Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes,
As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side,
Perceive its gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, Yet little way they made, though labouring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along;
The solitary helm's-man sits to guide,
And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks that lay
So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way
Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon! I gaze and know

The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way;
It speaks of human joys that rise zo slow,
So rapidly decay.

VOL. II.

Kingdoms which long have stood,

And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood They ebb to ruin fast.

Thus like thy flow appears

Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage;
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age!

Westbury, 1799.

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.

AND wherefore do the Poor complain?
The Rich Man ask'd of me;...
Come walk abroad with me, I said,

And I will answer thee.

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,

And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were thin and white;

I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night;

The cold was keen indeed, he sadi,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold;
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold;

She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed,

And therefore was it she was sent

Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest,

She had a baby at her back
And another at her breast;

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there When the night-wind was so chill; She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind, be still;

Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,

And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.

We met a girl, her dress was loose
And sunken was her eye,
Who with a wanton's hollow voice
Address'd the passers-by;

I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure

To shame, disease, and late remorse;
She answer'd she was poor.

I turn'd me to the Rich Man then,
For silently stood he,

You ask'd me why the Poor complain,
And these have answer'd thee!

London, 1798.