Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng,Fair learning's train, are seen,Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along,And up her benches green.Unfolded to their mental eyeThy awful form, Sublimity!The moral teacher shows—Sublimity of Silence born,And Solitude 'mid caves forlornAnd dimly-vision'd woes;Or Stedfast Worth, that inly greatMocks the malignity of fate.While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet soundMurmurs the crowded room around,And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,Exulting hails her new dominions.Oh! both on me your influence shed,Dwell in my heart and deck my head!Where'er a broader, browner shadeThe shaggy beaver throws,And with the ample feather's aidO'er-canopies the nose;Where'er with smooth and silken pile,Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,The crimson velvet glows;From some high bench's giddy brink,Clinton with me begins to think(As bolt upright we sit)That dress, like dogs, should have its day,That beavers are too hot for May,And velvets quite unfit.Then taste, in maxims sweet, I drawFrom her unerring lip;How light, how simple are the straw,How delicate the chip!Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,The audience melt away,I fly to fix my final choiceAnd bless th' instructive day.The milliner officious poursOf hats and caps her ready stores,The unbought elegance of spring;Some wide, disclose the full round face,Some shadowy, lend a modest graceAnd stretch their sheltering wing.Here clustering grapes appear to shedTheir luscious juices on the head,And cheat the longing eye;So round the Phrygian monarch hungFair fruits, that from his parched tongueFor ever seem'd to fly.Here early blooms the summer rose;Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes—Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!Mine be the chip of purest white,Swan-like, and as her feathers lightWhen on the still wave spread;And let it wear the graceful dressOf unadorned simpleness.Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;Ah! hope indulged in vain;Of modest fancy cheaply bought,A stranger yet to Payne.With undissembled grief I tell,—For sorrow never comes too late,—The simplest bonnet in Pall MallIs sold for £1 8s.To Calculation's sober view,That searches ev'ry plan,Who keep the old, or buy the new,Shall end where they began.Alike the shabby and the gayMust meet the sun's meridian ray;The air, the dust, the damp.This, shall the sudden shower despoil;That, slow decay by gradual soil;Those, envious boxes cramp.Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;Who will, our taste deride;We'll scorn the fashion of the dayWith philosophic pride.Methinks we thus, in accents low,Might Sydney Smith address,'Poor moralist! and what art thou,Who never spoke of dress!'Thy mental hero never hungSuspended on a tailor's tongue,In agonizing doubt;Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,Who languish'd for the newest mode,Yet dar'd to live without.'
Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng,Fair learning's train, are seen,Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along,And up her benches green.Unfolded to their mental eyeThy awful form, Sublimity!The moral teacher shows—Sublimity of Silence born,And Solitude 'mid caves forlornAnd dimly-vision'd woes;Or Stedfast Worth, that inly greatMocks the malignity of fate.While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet soundMurmurs the crowded room around,And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,Exulting hails her new dominions.Oh! both on me your influence shed,Dwell in my heart and deck my head!Where'er a broader, browner shadeThe shaggy beaver throws,And with the ample feather's aidO'er-canopies the nose;Where'er with smooth and silken pile,Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,The crimson velvet glows;From some high bench's giddy brink,Clinton with me begins to think(As bolt upright we sit)That dress, like dogs, should have its day,That beavers are too hot for May,And velvets quite unfit.Then taste, in maxims sweet, I drawFrom her unerring lip;How light, how simple are the straw,How delicate the chip!Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,The audience melt away,I fly to fix my final choiceAnd bless th' instructive day.The milliner officious poursOf hats and caps her ready stores,The unbought elegance of spring;Some wide, disclose the full round face,Some shadowy, lend a modest graceAnd stretch their sheltering wing.Here clustering grapes appear to shedTheir luscious juices on the head,And cheat the longing eye;So round the Phrygian monarch hungFair fruits, that from his parched tongueFor ever seem'd to fly.Here early blooms the summer rose;Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes—Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!Mine be the chip of purest white,Swan-like, and as her feathers lightWhen on the still wave spread;And let it wear the graceful dressOf unadorned simpleness.Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;Ah! hope indulged in vain;Of modest fancy cheaply bought,A stranger yet to Payne.With undissembled grief I tell,—For sorrow never comes too late,—The simplest bonnet in Pall MallIs sold for £1 8s.To Calculation's sober view,That searches ev'ry plan,Who keep the old, or buy the new,Shall end where they began.Alike the shabby and the gayMust meet the sun's meridian ray;The air, the dust, the damp.This, shall the sudden shower despoil;That, slow decay by gradual soil;Those, envious boxes cramp.Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;Who will, our taste deride;We'll scorn the fashion of the dayWith philosophic pride.Methinks we thus, in accents low,Might Sydney Smith address,'Poor moralist! and what art thou,Who never spoke of dress!'Thy mental hero never hungSuspended on a tailor's tongue,In agonizing doubt;Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,Who languish'd for the newest mode,Yet dar'd to live without.'
Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng,Fair learning's train, are seen,Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along,And up her benches green.Unfolded to their mental eyeThy awful form, Sublimity!The moral teacher shows—Sublimity of Silence born,And Solitude 'mid caves forlornAnd dimly-vision'd woes;Or Stedfast Worth, that inly greatMocks the malignity of fate.While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet soundMurmurs the crowded room around,And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,Exulting hails her new dominions.Oh! both on me your influence shed,Dwell in my heart and deck my head!
Lo! where the gaily vestur'd throng,
Fair learning's train, are seen,
Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along,
And up her benches green.
Unfolded to their mental eye
Thy awful form, Sublimity!
The moral teacher shows—
Sublimity of Silence born,
And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn
And dimly-vision'd woes;
Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great
Mocks the malignity of fate.
While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound
Murmurs the crowded room around,
And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,
Exulting hails her new dominions.
Oh! both on me your influence shed,
Dwell in my heart and deck my head!
Where'er a broader, browner shadeThe shaggy beaver throws,And with the ample feather's aidO'er-canopies the nose;Where'er with smooth and silken pile,Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,The crimson velvet glows;From some high bench's giddy brink,Clinton with me begins to think(As bolt upright we sit)That dress, like dogs, should have its day,That beavers are too hot for May,And velvets quite unfit.
Where'er a broader, browner shade
The shaggy beaver throws,
And with the ample feather's aid
O'er-canopies the nose;
Where'er with smooth and silken pile,
Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,
The crimson velvet glows;
From some high bench's giddy brink,
Clinton with me begins to think
(As bolt upright we sit)
That dress, like dogs, should have its day,
That beavers are too hot for May,
And velvets quite unfit.
Then taste, in maxims sweet, I drawFrom her unerring lip;How light, how simple are the straw,How delicate the chip!Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,The audience melt away,I fly to fix my final choiceAnd bless th' instructive day.
Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw
From her unerring lip;
How light, how simple are the straw,
How delicate the chip!
Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,
The audience melt away,
I fly to fix my final choice
And bless th' instructive day.
The milliner officious poursOf hats and caps her ready stores,The unbought elegance of spring;Some wide, disclose the full round face,Some shadowy, lend a modest graceAnd stretch their sheltering wing.
The milliner officious pours
Of hats and caps her ready stores,
The unbought elegance of spring;
Some wide, disclose the full round face,
Some shadowy, lend a modest grace
And stretch their sheltering wing.
Here clustering grapes appear to shedTheir luscious juices on the head,And cheat the longing eye;So round the Phrygian monarch hungFair fruits, that from his parched tongueFor ever seem'd to fly.
Here clustering grapes appear to shed
Their luscious juices on the head,
And cheat the longing eye;
So round the Phrygian monarch hung
Fair fruits, that from his parched tongue
For ever seem'd to fly.
Here early blooms the summer rose;Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes—Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!Mine be the chip of purest white,Swan-like, and as her feathers lightWhen on the still wave spread;And let it wear the graceful dressOf unadorned simpleness.
Here early blooms the summer rose;
Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;
Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes—
Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!
Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!
Mine be the chip of purest white,
Swan-like, and as her feathers light
When on the still wave spread;
And let it wear the graceful dress
Of unadorned simpleness.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;Ah! hope indulged in vain;Of modest fancy cheaply bought,A stranger yet to Payne.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;
Ah! hope indulged in vain;
Of modest fancy cheaply bought,
A stranger yet to Payne.
With undissembled grief I tell,—For sorrow never comes too late,—The simplest bonnet in Pall MallIs sold for £1 8s.
With undissembled grief I tell,—
For sorrow never comes too late,—
The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall
Is sold for £1 8s.
To Calculation's sober view,That searches ev'ry plan,Who keep the old, or buy the new,Shall end where they began.
To Calculation's sober view,
That searches ev'ry plan,
Who keep the old, or buy the new,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the shabby and the gayMust meet the sun's meridian ray;The air, the dust, the damp.This, shall the sudden shower despoil;That, slow decay by gradual soil;Those, envious boxes cramp.
Alike the shabby and the gay
Must meet the sun's meridian ray;
The air, the dust, the damp.
This, shall the sudden shower despoil;
That, slow decay by gradual soil;
Those, envious boxes cramp.
Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;Who will, our taste deride;We'll scorn the fashion of the dayWith philosophic pride.
Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;
Who will, our taste deride;
We'll scorn the fashion of the day
With philosophic pride.
Methinks we thus, in accents low,Might Sydney Smith address,'Poor moralist! and what art thou,Who never spoke of dress!
Methinks we thus, in accents low,
Might Sydney Smith address,
'Poor moralist! and what art thou,
Who never spoke of dress!
'Thy mental hero never hungSuspended on a tailor's tongue,In agonizing doubt;Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,Who languish'd for the newest mode,Yet dar'd to live without.'
'Thy mental hero never hung
Suspended on a tailor's tongue,
In agonizing doubt;
Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,
Who languish'd for the newest mode,
Yet dar'd to live without.'
There is a river clear and fair,'Tis neither broad nor narrow;It winds a little here and there—It winds about like any hare;And then it takes as straight a courseAs on the turnpike road a horse,Or through the air an arrow.The trees that grow upon the shore,Have grown a hundred years or more;So long there is no knowing.Old Daniel Dobson does not knowWhen first those trees began to grow;But still they grew, and grew, and grew,As if they'd nothing else to do,But ever to be growing.The impulses of air and skyHave reared their stately stems so high,And clothed their boughs with green;Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—And when the wind blows loud and keen,I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,And shake their sides with merry glee—Wagging their heads in mockery.Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,Where winds can never blow;But visitings of deeper birthHave reached their roots below.For they have gained the river's brink,And of the living waters drink.There's little Will, a five years' child—He is my youngest boy;To look on eyes so fair and wild,It is a very joy:—He hath conversed with sun and shower,And dwelt with every idle flower,As fresh and gay as them.He loiters with the briar rose,—The blue bells are his play-fellows,That dance upon their slender stem.And I have said, my little Will,Why should not he continue stillA thing of Nature's rearing?A thing beyond the world's control—A living vegetable soul,—No human sorrow fearing.It were a blessed sight to seeThat child become a willow-tree,His brother trees among.He'd be four times as tall as me,And live three times as long.
There is a river clear and fair,'Tis neither broad nor narrow;It winds a little here and there—It winds about like any hare;And then it takes as straight a courseAs on the turnpike road a horse,Or through the air an arrow.The trees that grow upon the shore,Have grown a hundred years or more;So long there is no knowing.Old Daniel Dobson does not knowWhen first those trees began to grow;But still they grew, and grew, and grew,As if they'd nothing else to do,But ever to be growing.The impulses of air and skyHave reared their stately stems so high,And clothed their boughs with green;Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—And when the wind blows loud and keen,I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,And shake their sides with merry glee—Wagging their heads in mockery.Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,Where winds can never blow;But visitings of deeper birthHave reached their roots below.For they have gained the river's brink,And of the living waters drink.There's little Will, a five years' child—He is my youngest boy;To look on eyes so fair and wild,It is a very joy:—He hath conversed with sun and shower,And dwelt with every idle flower,As fresh and gay as them.He loiters with the briar rose,—The blue bells are his play-fellows,That dance upon their slender stem.And I have said, my little Will,Why should not he continue stillA thing of Nature's rearing?A thing beyond the world's control—A living vegetable soul,—No human sorrow fearing.It were a blessed sight to seeThat child become a willow-tree,His brother trees among.He'd be four times as tall as me,And live three times as long.
There is a river clear and fair,'Tis neither broad nor narrow;It winds a little here and there—It winds about like any hare;And then it takes as straight a courseAs on the turnpike road a horse,Or through the air an arrow.
There is a river clear and fair,
'Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there—
It winds about like any hare;
And then it takes as straight a course
As on the turnpike road a horse,
Or through the air an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore,Have grown a hundred years or more;So long there is no knowing.Old Daniel Dobson does not knowWhen first those trees began to grow;But still they grew, and grew, and grew,As if they'd nothing else to do,But ever to be growing.
The trees that grow upon the shore,
Have grown a hundred years or more;
So long there is no knowing.
Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they'd nothing else to do,
But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and skyHave reared their stately stems so high,And clothed their boughs with green;Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—And when the wind blows loud and keen,I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,And shake their sides with merry glee—Wagging their heads in mockery.
The impulses of air and sky
Have reared their stately stems so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee—
Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,Where winds can never blow;But visitings of deeper birthHave reached their roots below.For they have gained the river's brink,And of the living waters drink.
Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.
For they have gained the river's brink,
And of the living waters drink.
There's little Will, a five years' child—He is my youngest boy;To look on eyes so fair and wild,It is a very joy:—He hath conversed with sun and shower,And dwelt with every idle flower,As fresh and gay as them.He loiters with the briar rose,—The blue bells are his play-fellows,That dance upon their slender stem.
There's little Will, a five years' child—
He is my youngest boy;
To look on eyes so fair and wild,
It is a very joy:—
He hath conversed with sun and shower,
And dwelt with every idle flower,
As fresh and gay as them.
He loiters with the briar rose,—
The blue bells are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will,Why should not he continue stillA thing of Nature's rearing?A thing beyond the world's control—A living vegetable soul,—No human sorrow fearing.
And I have said, my little Will,
Why should not he continue still
A thing of Nature's rearing?
A thing beyond the world's control—
A living vegetable soul,—
No human sorrow fearing.
It were a blessed sight to seeThat child become a willow-tree,His brother trees among.He'd be four times as tall as me,And live three times as long.
It were a blessed sight to see
That child become a willow-tree,
His brother trees among.
He'd be four times as tall as me,
And live three times as long.