STROPHE.My twofold book! single in showBut double in contents,Neat, but not curiously adorn'd,Which, in his early youth,A poet gave, no lofty one in truth,Although an earnest wooer of the muse—Say, while in cool Ausonian shadesOr British wilds he roam'd,Striking by turns his native lyre,By turns the Daunian lute,And stepp'd almost in air—
STROPHE.
My twofold book! single in showBut double in contents,Neat, but not curiously adorn'd,Which, in his early youth,A poet gave, no lofty one in truth,Although an earnest wooer of the muse—Say, while in cool Ausonian shadesOr British wilds he roam'd,Striking by turns his native lyre,By turns the Daunian lute,And stepp'd almost in air—
Say, little book, what furtive handThee from thy fellow books convey'd,What time, at the repeated suitOf my most learned friend,I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,From our great city to the source of Thames,Cærulean sire!Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring,Of the Aonian choir,Durable as yonder spheres,And through the endless lapse of yearsSecure to be admired?
Say, little book, what furtive handThee from thy fellow books convey'd,What time, at the repeated suitOf my most learned friend,I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,From our great city to the source of Thames,Cærulean sire!Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring,Of the Aonian choir,Durable as yonder spheres,And through the endless lapse of yearsSecure to be admired?
Now what god, or demi-god,For Britain's ancient genius moved,(If our afflicted landHave expiated at length the guilty slothOf her degenerate sons)Shall terminate our impious feuds,And discipline with hallow'd voice recall?Recall the muses too,Driven from their ancient seatsIn Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore,And, with keen Phœbean shaftsPiercing the unseemly birds,Whose talons menace us,Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?
Now what god, or demi-god,For Britain's ancient genius moved,(If our afflicted landHave expiated at length the guilty slothOf her degenerate sons)Shall terminate our impious feuds,And discipline with hallow'd voice recall?Recall the muses too,Driven from their ancient seatsIn Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore,And, with keen Phœbean shaftsPiercing the unseemly birds,Whose talons menace us,Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?
But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd,Whether by treachery lost,Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault,From all thy kindred books,To some dark cell or cave forlorn,Where thou endurest, perhaps,The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,Be comforted—For lo! again the splendid hope appearsThat thou mayst yet escapeThe gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wingsMount to the everlasting courts of Jove!
But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd,Whether by treachery lost,Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault,From all thy kindred books,To some dark cell or cave forlorn,Where thou endurest, perhaps,The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,Be comforted—For lo! again the splendid hope appearsThat thou mayst yet escapeThe gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wingsMount to the everlasting courts of Jove!
Since Rouse desires thee, and complainsThat, though by promise his,Thou yet appear'st not in thy placeAmong the literary noble storesGiven to his care,But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete.He, therefore, guardian vigilantOf that unperishing wealth,Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,Where he intends a richer treasure farThan Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus' sonIllustrious, of the fair Creüsa born)In the resplendent temple of his god,Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.
Since Rouse desires thee, and complainsThat, though by promise his,Thou yet appear'st not in thy placeAmong the literary noble storesGiven to his care,But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete.He, therefore, guardian vigilantOf that unperishing wealth,Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,Where he intends a richer treasure farThan Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus' sonIllustrious, of the fair Creüsa born)In the resplendent temple of his god,Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.
Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,The muses' favourite haunt;Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,Dearer to himThan Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill!Exulting go,Since now a splendid lot is also thine,And thou art sought by my propitious friend;For there thou shalt be readWith authors of exalted note,The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.
Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,The muses' favourite haunt;Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,Dearer to himThan Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill!Exulting go,Since now a splendid lot is also thine,And thou art sought by my propitious friend;For there thou shalt be readWith authors of exalted note,The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.
Ye, then, my works, no longer vain,And worthless deem'd by me!Whate'er this sterile genius has produced,Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,An unmolested happy home,Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend,Where never flippant tongue profaneShall entrance find,And whence the coarse unletter'd multitudeShall babble far remote.Perhaps some future distant age,Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught,Shall furnish minds of powerTo judge more equally.Then, malice silenced in the tomb,Cooler heads and sounder hearts,Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praiseI merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.
Ye, then, my works, no longer vain,And worthless deem'd by me!Whate'er this sterile genius has produced,Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,An unmolested happy home,Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend,Where never flippant tongue profaneShall entrance find,And whence the coarse unletter'd multitudeShall babble far remote.Perhaps some future distant age,Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught,Shall furnish minds of powerTo judge more equally.Then, malice silenced in the tomb,Cooler heads and sounder hearts,Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praiseI merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.
Fair Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine,Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear,Base were indeed the wretch who could forbearTo love a spirit elegant as thine,That manifests a sweetness all divine,Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare,And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are,Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine.When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gaySuch strains as might the senseless forest move,Ah then—turn each his eyes and ears away,Who feels himself unworthy of thy love!Grace can alone preserve him ere the dartOf fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.
Fair Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine,Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear,Base were indeed the wretch who could forbearTo love a spirit elegant as thine,That manifests a sweetness all divine,Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare,And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are,Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine.When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gaySuch strains as might the senseless forest move,Ah then—turn each his eyes and ears away,Who feels himself unworthy of thy love!Grace can alone preserve him ere the dartOf fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.
As on a hill-top rude, when closing dayImbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fairWaters a lovely foreign plant with care,Borne from its native genial airs away,That scarcely can its tender bud display,So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare,Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there.While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essayThy praise in verse to British ears unknown,And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain;So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown,That what he wills, he never wills in vain—Oh that this hard and sterile breast might beTo Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free!
As on a hill-top rude, when closing dayImbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fairWaters a lovely foreign plant with care,Borne from its native genial airs away,That scarcely can its tender bud display,So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare,Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there.While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essayThy praise in verse to British ears unknown,And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain;So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown,That what he wills, he never wills in vain—Oh that this hard and sterile breast might beTo Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free!
They mock my toil—the nymphs and amorous swains—And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,Love-songs in language that thou little know'st?How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains?Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd,And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die?Then with pretence of admiration high—Thee other shores expect, and other tides,Rivers, on whose grassy sidesHer deathless laurel leaf, with which to bindThy flowing locks, already Fame provides;Why then this burden, better far declined?Speak, muse! for me—the fair one said, who guidesMy willing heart, and all my fancy's flights,"This is the language in which Love delights."
They mock my toil—the nymphs and amorous swains—And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,Love-songs in language that thou little know'st?How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains?Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd,And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die?Then with pretence of admiration high—Thee other shores expect, and other tides,Rivers, on whose grassy sidesHer deathless laurel leaf, with which to bindThy flowing locks, already Fame provides;Why then this burden, better far declined?Speak, muse! for me—the fair one said, who guidesMy willing heart, and all my fancy's flights,"This is the language in which Love delights."
Charles—and I say it wondering—thou must knowThat I, who once assumed a scornful airAnd scoff'd at Love, am fallen in his snare,(Full many an upright man has fallen so:)Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flowOf golden locks, or damask cheek; more rareThe heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair:A mien majestic, with dark brows that showThe tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,And song, whose fascinating power might bind,And from her sphere draw down the labouring moon;With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fillMy ears with wax, she would enchant me still.
Charles—and I say it wondering—thou must knowThat I, who once assumed a scornful airAnd scoff'd at Love, am fallen in his snare,(Full many an upright man has fallen so:)Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flowOf golden locks, or damask cheek; more rareThe heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair:A mien majestic, with dark brows that showThe tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,And song, whose fascinating power might bind,And from her sphere draw down the labouring moon;With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fillMy ears with wax, she would enchant me still.
Lady! It cannot be but that thine eyesMust be my sun, such radiance they display,And strike me e'en as Phœbus him whose wayThrough horrid Libya's sandy desert lies.Meantime, on that side steamy vapours riseWhere most I suffer. Of what kind are they,New as to me they are, I cannot say,But deem them, in the lover's language—sighs.Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,Which, if in part escaping thence, they tendTo soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals.While others to my tearful eyes ascend,Whence my sad nights in showers are ever drown'd,Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.
Lady! It cannot be but that thine eyesMust be my sun, such radiance they display,And strike me e'en as Phœbus him whose wayThrough horrid Libya's sandy desert lies.Meantime, on that side steamy vapours riseWhere most I suffer. Of what kind are they,New as to me they are, I cannot say,But deem them, in the lover's language—sighs.Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,Which, if in part escaping thence, they tendTo soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals.While others to my tearful eyes ascend,Whence my sad nights in showers are ever drown'd,Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.
Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground,Uncertain whither from myself to fly;To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sighLet me devote my heart, which I have foundBy certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound,Good, and addicted to conceptions high:When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky,It rests in adamant self-wrapt around,As safe from envy as from outrage rude,From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse,As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude,Of the resounding lyre and every muse.Weak you will find it in one only part,Now pierced by love's immedicable dart.
Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground,Uncertain whither from myself to fly;To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sighLet me devote my heart, which I have foundBy certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound,Good, and addicted to conceptions high:When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky,It rests in adamant self-wrapt around,As safe from envy as from outrage rude,From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse,As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude,Of the resounding lyre and every muse.Weak you will find it in one only part,Now pierced by love's immedicable dart.
'So when, from mountain tops, the dusky cloudsAscending,' &c.. . . . . . .Quales aërii montis de vertice nubesCum surgunt, et jam Boreæ tumida ora quiêrunt,Cœlum hilares abdit, spissâ caligine, vultus:Tum, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore,Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat,Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agrosBalatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.
'So when, from mountain tops, the dusky cloudsAscending,' &c.. . . . . . .
Quales aërii montis de vertice nubesCum surgunt, et jam Boreæ tumida ora quiêrunt,Cœlum hilares abdit, spissâ caligine, vultus:Tum, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore,Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat,Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agrosBalatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.
Tres tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vatesOstentant tribus è gentibus eximios.Græcia sublimem, cum majestate disertumRoma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem.Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est,Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos.
Tres tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vatesOstentant tribus è gentibus eximios.Græcia sublimem, cum majestate disertumRoma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem.Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est,Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos.
July, 1780.
Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,A worm is known to stray,That shows by night a lucid beam,Which disappears by day.Disputes have been, and still prevail,From whence his rays proceed;Some give that honour to his tail,And others to his head.But this is sure—the hand of nightThat kindles up the skies,Gives him a modicum of lightProportion'd to his size.Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,By such a lamp bestow'd,To bid the traveller, as he went,Be careful where he trod:Nor crush a worm, whose useful lightMight serve, however small,To show a stumbling stone by night,And save him from a fall.Whate'er she meant, this truth divineIs legible and plain,'Tis power almighty bids him shine,Nor bids him shine in vain.Ye proud and wealthy, let this themeTeach humbler thoughts to you,Since such a reptile has its gem,And boasts its splendour too.
Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,A worm is known to stray,That shows by night a lucid beam,Which disappears by day.
Disputes have been, and still prevail,From whence his rays proceed;Some give that honour to his tail,And others to his head.
But this is sure—the hand of nightThat kindles up the skies,Gives him a modicum of lightProportion'd to his size.
Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,By such a lamp bestow'd,To bid the traveller, as he went,Be careful where he trod:
Nor crush a worm, whose useful lightMight serve, however small,To show a stumbling stone by night,And save him from a fall.
Whate'er she meant, this truth divineIs legible and plain,'Tis power almighty bids him shine,Nor bids him shine in vain.
Ye proud and wealthy, let this themeTeach humbler thoughts to you,Since such a reptile has its gem,And boasts its splendour too.
There is a bird who, by his coatAnd by the hoarseness of his note,Might be supposed a crow;A great frequenter of the church,Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,And dormitory too.Above the steeple shines a plate,That turns and turns, to indicateFrom what point blows the weather.Look up—your brains begin to swim,'Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,He chooses it the rather.Fond of the speculative height,Thither he wings his airy flight,And thence securely seesThe bustle and the rareeshow,That occupy mankind below,Secure and at his ease.You think, no doubt, he sits and musesOn future broken bones and bruises,If he should chance to fall.No; not a single thought like thatEmploys his philosophic pate,Or troubles it at all.He sees that this great roundabout,The world, with all its motley rout,Church, army, physic, law,Its customs and its businesses,Is no concern at all of his,And says—what says he?—Caw.Thrice happy bird! I too have seenMuch of the vanities of men;And, sick of having seen 'em,Would cheerfully these limbs resignFor such a pair of wings as thineAnd such a head between 'em.
There is a bird who, by his coatAnd by the hoarseness of his note,Might be supposed a crow;A great frequenter of the church,Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,That turns and turns, to indicateFrom what point blows the weather.Look up—your brains begin to swim,'Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,Thither he wings his airy flight,And thence securely seesThe bustle and the rareeshow,That occupy mankind below,Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and musesOn future broken bones and bruises,If he should chance to fall.No; not a single thought like thatEmploys his philosophic pate,Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great roundabout,The world, with all its motley rout,Church, army, physic, law,Its customs and its businesses,Is no concern at all of his,And says—what says he?—Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seenMuch of the vanities of men;And, sick of having seen 'em,Would cheerfully these limbs resignFor such a pair of wings as thineAnd such a head between 'em.
Little inmate, full of mirth,Chirping on my kitchen hearth,Wheresoe'er be thine abode,Always harbinger of good,Pay me for thy warm retreatWith a song more soft and sweet;In return thou shalt receiveSuch a strain as I can give.Thus thy praise shall be express'd,Inoffensive, welcome guest!While the rat is on the scout,And the mouse with curious snout,With what vermin else infestEvery dish, and spoil the best;Frisking thus before the fire,Thou hast all thine heart's desire.Though in voice and shape they beForm'd as if akin to thee,Thou surpassest, happier far,Happiest grasshoppers that are;Theirs is but a summer's song,Thine endures the winter long,Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,Melody throughout the year.Neither night nor dawn of dayPuts a period to thy play:Sing, then—and extend thy spanFar beyond the date of man.Wretched man, whose years are spentIn repining discontent,Lives not, aged though he be,Half a span, compared with thee.
Little inmate, full of mirth,Chirping on my kitchen hearth,Wheresoe'er be thine abode,Always harbinger of good,Pay me for thy warm retreatWith a song more soft and sweet;In return thou shalt receiveSuch a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be express'd,Inoffensive, welcome guest!While the rat is on the scout,And the mouse with curious snout,With what vermin else infestEvery dish, and spoil the best;Frisking thus before the fire,Thou hast all thine heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they beForm'd as if akin to thee,Thou surpassest, happier far,Happiest grasshoppers that are;Theirs is but a summer's song,Thine endures the winter long,Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,Melody throughout the year.
Neither night nor dawn of dayPuts a period to thy play:Sing, then—and extend thy spanFar beyond the date of man.Wretched man, whose years are spentIn repining discontent,Lives not, aged though he be,Half a span, compared with thee.
parrotJ. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.THE PARROT."IN PAINTED PLUMES SUPERBLY DRESS'D,A NATIVE OF THE GORGEOUS EAST"
J. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.THE PARROT."IN PAINTED PLUMES SUPERBLY DRESS'D,A NATIVE OF THE GORGEOUS EAST"
J. Gilbert fecit.W. Greatbach sculp.
THE PARROT.
"IN PAINTED PLUMES SUPERBLY DRESS'D,A NATIVE OF THE GORGEOUS EAST"
In painted plumes superbly dress'd,A native of the gorgeous east,By many a billow toss'd;Poll gains at length the British shore,Part of the captain's precious store,A present to his toast.Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd,To teach him now and then a word,As Poll can master it;But 'tis her own important charge,To qualify him more at large,And make him quite a wit.Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries,Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,And calls aloud for sack.She next instructs him in the kiss;'Tis now a little one, like Miss,And now a hearty smack.At first he aims at what he hears;And, listening close with both his ears,Just catches at the sound;But soon articulates aloud,Much to the amusement of the crowd,And stuns the neighbours round.A querulous old woman's voiceHis humorous talent next employs,He scolds, and gives the lie.And now he sings, and now is sick,Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick,Poor Poll is like to die!Belinda and her bird! 'tis rareTo meet with such a well match'd pair,The language and the tone,Each character in every partSustain'd with so much grace and art,And both in unison.When children first begin to spell,And stammer out a syllable,We think them tedious creatures;But difficulties soon abate,When birds are to be taught to prate,And women are the teachers.
In painted plumes superbly dress'd,A native of the gorgeous east,By many a billow toss'd;Poll gains at length the British shore,Part of the captain's precious store,A present to his toast.
Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd,To teach him now and then a word,As Poll can master it;But 'tis her own important charge,To qualify him more at large,And make him quite a wit.
Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries,Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,And calls aloud for sack.She next instructs him in the kiss;'Tis now a little one, like Miss,And now a hearty smack.
At first he aims at what he hears;And, listening close with both his ears,Just catches at the sound;But soon articulates aloud,Much to the amusement of the crowd,And stuns the neighbours round.
A querulous old woman's voiceHis humorous talent next employs,He scolds, and gives the lie.And now he sings, and now is sick,Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick,Poor Poll is like to die!
Belinda and her bird! 'tis rareTo meet with such a well match'd pair,The language and the tone,Each character in every partSustain'd with so much grace and art,And both in unison.
When children first begin to spell,And stammer out a syllable,We think them tedious creatures;But difficulties soon abate,When birds are to be taught to prate,And women are the teachers.
Thracian parents, at his birth,Mourn their babe with many a tear,But, with undissembled mirth,Place him breathless on his bier.Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,"O the savages!" exclaim,"Whether they rejoice or mourn,Well entitled to the name!"But the cause of this concernAnd this pleasure would they trace,Even they might somewhat learnFrom the savages of Thrace.
Thracian parents, at his birth,Mourn their babe with many a tear,But, with undissembled mirth,Place him breathless on his bier.
Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,"O the savages!" exclaim,"Whether they rejoice or mourn,Well entitled to the name!"
But the cause of this concernAnd this pleasure would they trace,Even they might somewhat learnFrom the savages of Thrace.
Androcles, from his injured lord, in dreadOf instant death, to Lybia's desert fled,Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat;But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:He roar'd approaching: but the savage dinTo plaintive murmurs changed—arrived within,And with expressive looks, his lifted pawPresenting, aid implored from whom he saw.The fugitive, through terror at a stand,Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand;But bolder grown, at length inherent foundA pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,And firm and free from pain the lion stood.Again he seeks the wilds, and day by dayRegales his inmate with the parted prey.Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.But thus to live—still lost—sequester'd still—Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill.Home! native home! O might he but repair!He must—he will, though death attends him there.He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sandsOf the full theatre unpitied stands:When lo! the selfsame lion from his cageFlies to devour him, famish'd into rage.He flies, but viewing in his purposed preyThe man, his healer, pauses on his way,And, soften'd by remembrance into sweetAnd kind composure, crouches at his feet.Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze:But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?All this is natural: nature bade him rendAn enemy; she bids him spare a friend.
Androcles, from his injured lord, in dreadOf instant death, to Lybia's desert fled,Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat;But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:He roar'd approaching: but the savage dinTo plaintive murmurs changed—arrived within,And with expressive looks, his lifted pawPresenting, aid implored from whom he saw.The fugitive, through terror at a stand,Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand;But bolder grown, at length inherent foundA pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,And firm and free from pain the lion stood.Again he seeks the wilds, and day by dayRegales his inmate with the parted prey.Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.But thus to live—still lost—sequester'd still—Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill.Home! native home! O might he but repair!He must—he will, though death attends him there.He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sandsOf the full theatre unpitied stands:When lo! the selfsame lion from his cageFlies to devour him, famish'd into rage.He flies, but viewing in his purposed preyThe man, his healer, pauses on his way,And, soften'd by remembrance into sweetAnd kind composure, crouches at his feet.Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze:But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?All this is natural: nature bade him rendAn enemy; she bids him spare a friend.
MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.
There is a book, which we may call(Its excellence is such)Alone a library, though small;The ladies thumb it much.Words none, things numerous it contains:And things with words compared,Who needs be told, that has his brains,Which merits most regard?Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hueA golden edging boast;And open'd, it displays to viewTwelve pages at the most.Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,Adorns its outer part;But all within 'tis richly lined,A magazine of art.The whitest hands that secret hoardOft visit: and the fairPreserve it in their bosoms stored,As with a miser's care.Thence implements of every size,And form'd for various use,(They need but to consult their eyes,)They readily produce.The largest and the longest kindPossess the foremost page;A sort most needed by the blind,Or nearly such, from age.The full charg'd leaf which next ensues,Presents in bright arrayThe smaller sort, which matrons use,Not quite so blind as they.The third, the fourth, the fifth supplyWhat their occasions ask,Who with a more discerning eyePerform a nicer task.But still with regular decrease,From size to size they fall,In every leaf grow less and less;The last are least of all.O! what a fund of genius, pentIn narrow space is here!This volume's method and intentHow luminous and clear!It leaves no reader at a lossOr posed, whoever reads:No commentator's tedious gloss,Nor even index needs.Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!No book is treasured there,Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,That may with this compare.No!—rival none in either hostOf this was ever seen,Or, that contents could justly boast,So brilliant and so keen.
There is a book, which we may call(Its excellence is such)Alone a library, though small;The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous it contains:And things with words compared,Who needs be told, that has his brains,Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hueA golden edging boast;And open'd, it displays to viewTwelve pages at the most.
Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,Adorns its outer part;But all within 'tis richly lined,A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoardOft visit: and the fairPreserve it in their bosoms stored,As with a miser's care.
Thence implements of every size,And form'd for various use,(They need but to consult their eyes,)They readily produce.
The largest and the longest kindPossess the foremost page;A sort most needed by the blind,Or nearly such, from age.
The full charg'd leaf which next ensues,Presents in bright arrayThe smaller sort, which matrons use,Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supplyWhat their occasions ask,Who with a more discerning eyePerform a nicer task.
But still with regular decrease,From size to size they fall,In every leaf grow less and less;The last are least of all.
O! what a fund of genius, pentIn narrow space is here!This volume's method and intentHow luminous and clear!
It leaves no reader at a lossOr posed, whoever reads:No commentator's tedious gloss,Nor even index needs.
Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!No book is treasured there,Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,That may with this compare.
No!—rival none in either hostOf this was ever seen,Or, that contents could justly boast,So brilliant and so keen.
A needle, small as small can be,In bulk and use surpasses me,Nor is my purchase dear;For little, and almost for nought,As many of my kind are boughtAs days are in the year.Yet though but little use we boast,And are procured at little cost,The labour is not light;Nor few artificers it asks,All skilful in their several tasks,To fashion us aright.One fuses metal o'er the fire,A second draws it into wire,The shears another plies;Who clips in length the brazen threadFrom him who, chafing every shred,Gives all an equal size.A fifth prepares, exact and round,The knob with which it must be crown'd;His follower makes it fast:And with his mallet and his fileTo shape the point, employs awhileThe seventh and the last.Now, therefore, Œdipus! declareWhat creature, wonderful, and rare,A process that obtainsIts purpose with so much adoAt last produces!—tell me true,And take me for your pains!
A needle, small as small can be,In bulk and use surpasses me,Nor is my purchase dear;For little, and almost for nought,As many of my kind are boughtAs days are in the year.
Yet though but little use we boast,And are procured at little cost,The labour is not light;Nor few artificers it asks,All skilful in their several tasks,To fashion us aright.
One fuses metal o'er the fire,A second draws it into wire,The shears another plies;Who clips in length the brazen threadFrom him who, chafing every shred,Gives all an equal size.
A fifth prepares, exact and round,The knob with which it must be crown'd;His follower makes it fast:And with his mallet and his fileTo shape the point, employs awhileThe seventh and the last.
Now, therefore, Œdipus! declareWhat creature, wonderful, and rare,A process that obtainsIts purpose with so much adoAt last produces!—tell me true,And take me for your pains!
None ever shared the social feast,Or as an inmate or a guest,Beneath the celebrated domeWhere once Sir Isaac had his home,Who saw not (and with some delightPerhaps he view'd the novel sight)How numerous, at the tables there,The sparrows beg their daily fare.For there, in every nook and cellWhere such a family may dwell,Sure as the vernal season comesTheir nest they weave in hope of crumbs,Which kindly given, may serve with foodConvenient their unfeather'd brood;And oft as with its summons clearThe warning bell salutes their ear,Sagacious listeners to the sound,They flock from all the fields around,To reach the hospitable hall,None more attentive to the call.Arrived, the pensionary band,Hopping and chirping, close at hand,Solicit what they soon receive.The sprinkled, plenteous donative.Thus is a multitude, though large,Supported at a trivial charge;A single doit would overpayThe expenditure of every day,And who can grudge so small a graceTo suppliants, natives of the place?
None ever shared the social feast,Or as an inmate or a guest,Beneath the celebrated domeWhere once Sir Isaac had his home,Who saw not (and with some delightPerhaps he view'd the novel sight)How numerous, at the tables there,The sparrows beg their daily fare.For there, in every nook and cellWhere such a family may dwell,Sure as the vernal season comesTheir nest they weave in hope of crumbs,Which kindly given, may serve with foodConvenient their unfeather'd brood;And oft as with its summons clearThe warning bell salutes their ear,Sagacious listeners to the sound,They flock from all the fields around,To reach the hospitable hall,None more attentive to the call.Arrived, the pensionary band,Hopping and chirping, close at hand,Solicit what they soon receive.The sprinkled, plenteous donative.Thus is a multitude, though large,Supported at a trivial charge;A single doit would overpayThe expenditure of every day,And who can grudge so small a graceTo suppliants, natives of the place?
As in her ancient mistress' lapThe youthful tabby lay,They gave each other many a tap,Alike disposed to play.But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,And with protruded clawsPloughs all the length of Lydia's arm,Mere wantonness the cause.At once, resentful of the deed,She shakes her to the groundWith many a threat that she shall bleedWith still a deeper wound.But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:It was a venial stroke:For she that will with kittens jestShould bear a kitten's joke.
As in her ancient mistress' lapThe youthful tabby lay,They gave each other many a tap,Alike disposed to play.
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,And with protruded clawsPloughs all the length of Lydia's arm,Mere wantonness the cause.
At once, resentful of the deed,She shakes her to the groundWith many a threat that she shall bleedWith still a deeper wound.
But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:It was a venial stroke:For she that will with kittens jestShould bear a kitten's joke.
Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains—And seldom another it can—To seek a retreat while he reignsIn the well-shelter'd dwellings of man,Who never can seem to intrude,Though in all places equally free,Come oft as the season is rude,Thou art sure to be welcome to me.At sight of the first feeble rayThat pierces the clouds of the east,To inveigle thee every dayMy windows shall show thee a feast.For, taught by experience, I know,Thee mindful of benefit long;And that, thankful for all I bestow,Thou wilt pay me with many a song.Then, soon as the swell of the budsBespeaks the renewal of spring,Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,Or where it shall please thee to sing:And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost,Come again to my window or door,Doubt not an affectionate host,Only pay as thou paid'st me before.This music must needs be confess'dTo flow from a fountain above;Else how should it work in the breastUnchangeable friendship and love?And who on the globe can be found,Save your generation and ours,That can be delighted by sound,Or boasts any musical powers?
Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains—And seldom another it can—To seek a retreat while he reignsIn the well-shelter'd dwellings of man,Who never can seem to intrude,Though in all places equally free,Come oft as the season is rude,Thou art sure to be welcome to me.
At sight of the first feeble rayThat pierces the clouds of the east,To inveigle thee every dayMy windows shall show thee a feast.For, taught by experience, I know,Thee mindful of benefit long;And that, thankful for all I bestow,Thou wilt pay me with many a song.
Then, soon as the swell of the budsBespeaks the renewal of spring,Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,Or where it shall please thee to sing:And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost,Come again to my window or door,Doubt not an affectionate host,Only pay as thou paid'st me before.
This music must needs be confess'dTo flow from a fountain above;Else how should it work in the breastUnchangeable friendship and love?And who on the globe can be found,Save your generation and ours,That can be delighted by sound,Or boasts any musical powers?
The shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet PhilomelEssay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain,And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,The numbers, echo'd note for note again.The peevish youth, who ne'er had found beforeA rival of his skill, indignant heard,And soon (for various was his tuneful store)In loftier tones defied the simple bird.She dared the task, and, rising as he rose,With all the force that passion gives inspired,Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the closeExhausted fell, and at his feet expired.Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife,By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;And, O sad victory, which cost thy life,And he may wish that he had never won!
The shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet PhilomelEssay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain,And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,The numbers, echo'd note for note again.
The peevish youth, who ne'er had found beforeA rival of his skill, indignant heard,And soon (for various was his tuneful store)In loftier tones defied the simple bird.
She dared the task, and, rising as he rose,With all the force that passion gives inspired,Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the closeExhausted fell, and at his feet expired.
Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife,By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;And, O sad victory, which cost thy life,And he may wish that he had never won!
WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.
Ancient dame, how wide and vastTo a race like ours appears,Rounded to an orb at last,All thy multitude of years!We, the herd of human kind,Frailer and of feebler powers;We, to narrow bounds confined,Soon exhaust the sum of ours.Death's delicious banquet—wePerish even from the womb,Swifter than a shadow flee,Nourish'd but to feed the tomb.Seeds of merciless diseaseLurk in all that we enjoy;Some that waste us by degrees,Some that suddenly destroy.And, if life o'erleap the bournCommon to the sons of men,What remains, but that we mourn,Dream, and dote, and drivel then?Fast as moons can wax and waneSorrow comes; and, while we groan,Pant with anguish, and complain,Half our years are fled and gone.If a few (to few 'tis given),Lingering on this earthly stage,Creep and halt with steps unevenTo the period of an age,Wherefore live they, but to seeCunning, arrogance, and force,Sights lamented much by thee,Holding their accustom'd course?Oft was seen, in ages past,All that we with wonder view;Often shall be to the last;Earth produces nothing new.Thee we gratulate, contentShould propitious Heaven designLife for us as calmly spent,Though but half the length of thine.
Ancient dame, how wide and vastTo a race like ours appears,Rounded to an orb at last,All thy multitude of years!
We, the herd of human kind,Frailer and of feebler powers;We, to narrow bounds confined,Soon exhaust the sum of ours.
Death's delicious banquet—wePerish even from the womb,Swifter than a shadow flee,Nourish'd but to feed the tomb.
Seeds of merciless diseaseLurk in all that we enjoy;Some that waste us by degrees,Some that suddenly destroy.
And, if life o'erleap the bournCommon to the sons of men,What remains, but that we mourn,Dream, and dote, and drivel then?
Fast as moons can wax and waneSorrow comes; and, while we groan,Pant with anguish, and complain,Half our years are fled and gone.
If a few (to few 'tis given),Lingering on this earthly stage,Creep and halt with steps unevenTo the period of an age,
Wherefore live they, but to seeCunning, arrogance, and force,Sights lamented much by thee,Holding their accustom'd course?
Oft was seen, in ages past,All that we with wonder view;Often shall be to the last;Earth produces nothing new.
Thee we gratulate, contentShould propitious Heaven designLife for us as calmly spent,Though but half the length of thine.
Two neighbours furiously dispute;A field—the subject of the suit.Trivial the spot, yet such the rageWith which the combatants engage,'Twere hard to tell who covets mostThe prize—at whatsoever cost.The pleadings swell. Words still suffice:No single word but has its price.No term but yields some fair pretenceFor novel and increased expense.Defendant thus becomes a name,Which he that bore it may disclaim,Since both in one description blended,Are plaintiffs—when the suit is ended.
Two neighbours furiously dispute;A field—the subject of the suit.Trivial the spot, yet such the rageWith which the combatants engage,'Twere hard to tell who covets mostThe prize—at whatsoever cost.The pleadings swell. Words still suffice:No single word but has its price.No term but yields some fair pretenceFor novel and increased expense.Defendant thus becomes a name,Which he that bore it may disclaim,Since both in one description blended,Are plaintiffs—when the suit is ended.
The beams of April, ere it goes,A worm, scarce visible, disclose;All winter long content to dwellThe tenant of his native shell.The same prolific season givesThe sustenance by which he lives,The mulberry leaf, a simple store,That serves him—till he needs no more!For, his dimensions once complete,Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;Though till his growing time be pastScarce ever is he seen to fast.That hour arrived, his work begins.He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins;Till circle upon circle, woundCareless around him and around,Conceals him with a veil, though slight,Impervious to the keenest sight.Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,At length he finishes his task;And, though a worm when he was lost,Or caterpillar at the most,When next we see him, wings he wears,And in papilio pomp appears;Becomes oviparous; suppliesWith future worms and future fliesThe next ensuing year—and dies!Well were it for the world, if allWho creep about this earthly ball,Though shorter-lived than most he be,Were useful in their kind as he.
The beams of April, ere it goes,A worm, scarce visible, disclose;All winter long content to dwellThe tenant of his native shell.The same prolific season givesThe sustenance by which he lives,The mulberry leaf, a simple store,That serves him—till he needs no more!For, his dimensions once complete,Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;Though till his growing time be pastScarce ever is he seen to fast.That hour arrived, his work begins.He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins;Till circle upon circle, woundCareless around him and around,Conceals him with a veil, though slight,Impervious to the keenest sight.Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,At length he finishes his task;And, though a worm when he was lost,Or caterpillar at the most,When next we see him, wings he wears,And in papilio pomp appears;Becomes oviparous; suppliesWith future worms and future fliesThe next ensuing year—and dies!Well were it for the world, if allWho creep about this earthly ball,Though shorter-lived than most he be,Were useful in their kind as he.
Not a flower can be found in the fields,Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,From the largest to the least, but it yieldsThe bee never wearied a treasure.Scarce any she quits unexploredWith a diligence truly exact;Yet, steal what she may for her hoardLeaves evidence none of the fact.Her lucrative task she pursues,And pilfers with so much address,That none of their odour they lose,Nor charm by their beauty the less.Not thus inoffensively preysThe cankerworm, in-dwelling foe!His voracity not thus allaysThe sparrow, the finch, or the crow.The worm, more expensively fed,The pride of the garden devours;And birds peck the seed from the bed,Still less to be spared than the flowers.But she with such delicate skillHer pillage so fits for her use,That the chemist in vain with his stillWould labour the like to produce.Then grudge not her temperate meals,Nor a benefit blame as a theft;Since, stole she not all that she steals,Neither honey nor wax would be left.
Not a flower can be found in the fields,Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,From the largest to the least, but it yieldsThe bee never wearied a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexploredWith a diligence truly exact;Yet, steal what she may for her hoardLeaves evidence none of the fact.
Her lucrative task she pursues,And pilfers with so much address,That none of their odour they lose,Nor charm by their beauty the less.
Not thus inoffensively preysThe cankerworm, in-dwelling foe!His voracity not thus allaysThe sparrow, the finch, or the crow.
The worm, more expensively fed,The pride of the garden devours;And birds peck the seed from the bed,Still less to be spared than the flowers.
But she with such delicate skillHer pillage so fits for her use,That the chemist in vain with his stillWould labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals,Nor a benefit blame as a theft;Since, stole she not all that she steals,Neither honey nor wax would be left.