THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

In this mimic form of a matron in years,How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!The matron herself, in whose old age we seeNot a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on the brow!Her forehead indeed is here circled aroundWith locks like the ribbon with which they are bound;While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skinOf a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,Or that indicates life in its winter—is here.Yet all is express'd with fidelity due,Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd from the view.Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a tasteFor the labours of art, to the spectacle haste.The youths all agree, that, could old age inspireThe passion of love, hers would kindle the fire,And the matrons with pleasure confess that they seeRidiculous nothing or hideous in thee.The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.Strange magic of art! which the youth can engageTo peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age;And force from the virgin a sigh of despair,That she when as old shall be equally fair!How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd,Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd.

Apelles, hearing that his boyHad just expired—his only joy!Although the sight with anguish tore him,Bade place his dear remains before him.He seized his brush, his colours spread;And—"Oh! my child, accept,"—he said,"('Tis all that I can now bestow,)This tribute of a father's woe!"Then, faithful to the twofold part,Both of his feelings and his art,He closed his eyes with tender care,And form'd at once a fellow pair.His brow with amber locks beset,And lips he drew not livid yet;And shaded all that he had doneTo a just image of his son.Thus far is well. But view againThe cause of thy paternal pain!Thy melancholy task fulfil!It needs the last, last touches still.Again his pencil's powers he tries,For on his lips a smile he spies:And still his cheek unfaded showsThe deepest damask of the rose.Then, heedful to the finish'd whole,With fondest eagerness he stole,Till scarce himself distinctly knewThe cherub copied from the true.Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.Long lives this image of thy son;Nor short-lived shall thy glory proveOr of thy labour or thy love.

From right to left, and to and fro,Caught in a labyrinth you go,And turn, and turn, and turn again,To solve the mystery, but in vain;Stand still, and breathe, and take from meA clue, that soon shall set you free!Not Ariadne, if you met her,Herself could serve you with a better.You enter'd easily—find where—And make with ease your exit there!

The lover, in melodious verses,His singular distress rehearses;Still closing with a rueful cry,"Was ever such a wretch as I!"Yes! thousands have endured beforeAll thy distress; some, haply, more.Unnumber'd Corydons complain,And Strephons, of the like disdain;And if thy Chloe be of steel,Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;Not her alone that censure fits,Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,As if he grew there, house and allTogether.Within that house secure he hides,When danger imminent betidesOf storm, or other harm besidesOf weather.Give but his horns the slightest touch,His self-collecting power is such,He shrinks into his house, with muchDispleasure.Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,Except himself has chattels none,Well satisfied to be his ownWhole treasure.Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,Nor partner of his banquet needs,And if he meets one, only feedsThe faster.Who seeks him must be worse than blind,(He and his house are so combined,)If, finding it, he fails to findIts master.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,As if he grew there, house and allTogether.

Within that house secure he hides,When danger imminent betidesOf storm, or other harm besidesOf weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,His self-collecting power is such,He shrinks into his house, with muchDispleasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,Except himself has chattels none,Well satisfied to be his ownWhole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,Nor partner of his banquet needs,And if he meets one, only feedsThe faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,(He and his house are so combined,)If, finding it, he fails to findIts master.

With two spurs or one, and no great matter which,Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a switch,Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast,Paid part into hand;—you must wait for the rest.Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse,And out they both sally for better or worse;His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather;And in violent haste to go not knowing whither.Through the fields and the towns; (see!) he scampers along:And is look'd at and laugh'd at by old and by young.Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear'd with blood,Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud.In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route?Oh! scandalous fate! he must do it on foot.Young gentlemen, hear!—I am older than you!The advice that I give I have proved to be true,Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it,The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.

A Spartan, his companion slain,Alone from battle fled;His mother, kindling with disdainThat she had borne him, struck him dead;For courage, and not birth alone,In Sparta, testifies a son!

A Spartan 'scaping from the fight,His mother met him in his flight,Upheld a falchion to his breast,And thus the fugitive address'd:"Thou canst but live to blot with shameIndelible thy mother's name,While every breath that thou shalt drawOffends against thy country's law;But, if thou perish by this hand,Myself indeed, throughout the land,To my dishonour, shall be knownThe mother still of such a son;But Sparta will be safe and free,And that shall serve to comfort me."

My name—my country—what are they to thee!What, whether base or proud my pedigree?Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men—Perhaps I fell below them all—what then?Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb—Thou know'st its use—it hides—no matter whom.

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swainWith much hard labour in thy service worn!He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain,And he these olives that the vale adorn.He fill'd with grain the glebe; the rills he ledThrough this green herbage, and those fruitful bowers;Thou, therefore, earth! lie lightly on his head,His hoary head, and deck his grave with flowers.

Painter, this likeness is too strong,And we shall mourn the dead too long.

At threescore winters' end I diedA cheerless being sole and sad;The nuptial knot I never tied,And wish my father never had.

At morn we placed on his funeral bierYoung Melanippus; and, at eventide,Unable to sustain a loss so dear,By her own hand his blooming sister died.Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race,Annihilated by a double blow,Nor son could hope nor daughter more to embrace,And all Cyrene sadden'd at his woe.

Miltiades! thy valour best(Although in every region known)The men of Persia can attest,Taught by thyself at Marathon.

Bewail not much, my parents! me, the preyOf ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here.An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year,He found all sportive, innocent, and gay,Your young Callimachus; and if I knewNot many joys, my griefs were also few.

In Cnidus born, the consort I becameOf Euphron. Aretimias was my name.His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride,But bore two children at a birth, and died.One child I leave to solace and upholdEuphron hereafter, when infirm and old.And one, for his remembrance' sake, I bearTo Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there.

I was of late a barren plant,Useless, insignificant,Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore,A native of the marshy shore;But, gather'd for poetic use,And plunged into a sable juice,Of which my modicum I sipWith narrow mouth and slender lip,At once, although by nature dumb,All eloquent I have become,And speak with fluency untired,As if by Phœbus' self inspired.

Eldest born of powers divine!Bless'd Hygeia! be it mineTo enjoy what thou canst give,And henceforth with thee to live:For in power if pleasure be,Wealth or numerous progeny,Or in amorous embrace,Where no spy infests the place;Or in aught that Heaven bestowsTo alleviate human woes,When the wearied heart despairsOf a respite from its cares;These and every true delightFlourish only in thy sight;And the sister graces threeOwe, themselves, their youth to thee,Without whom we may possessMuch, but never happiness.

Far happier are the dead, methinks, than theyWho look for death, and fear it every day.

The astrologers did all alike presageMy uncle's dying in extreme old age;One only disagreed. But he was wise,And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries.

Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said:But 'tis a foul aspersion;She buys them black; they therefore needNo subsequent immersion.

No mischief worthier of our fearIn nature can be foundThan friendship, in ostent sincere,But hollow and unsound.For lull'd into a dangerous dreamWe close infold a foe,Who strikes, when most secure we seem,The inevitable blow.

Hast thou a friend? thou hast indeedA rich and large supply,Treasure to serve your every need,Well managed, till you die.

Attic maid! with honey fed,Bear'st thou to thy callow broodYonder locust from the mead,Destined their delicious food?Ye have kindred voices clear,Ye alike unfold the wing,Migrate hither, sojourn here,Both attendant on the spring!Ah, for pity drop the prize;Let it not with truth be saidThat a songster gasps and dies,That a songster may be fed.

Attic maid! with honey fed,Bear'st thou to thy callow broodYonder locust from the mead,Destined their delicious food?

Ye have kindred voices clear,Ye alike unfold the wing,Migrate hither, sojourn here,Both attendant on the spring!

Ah, for pity drop the prize;Let it not with truth be saidThat a songster gasps and dies,That a songster may be fed.

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenesRich to no end, I curse my natal hour,Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the means;And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the power.

Did Cytherea to the skiesFrom this pellucid lymph arise?Or was it Cytherea's touch,When bathing here, that made it such?

With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air,Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare.No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss,Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss.Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirsHis seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snares.

Charon! receive a family on board,Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl,Apollo and Diana, for a wordBy me too proudly spoken, slew us all.

Traveller, regret not me; for thou shalt findJust cause of sorrow none in my decease,Who, dying, children's children left behind,And with one wife lived many a year in peace:Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three,And oft their infants in my bosom lay,Nor saw I one of all derived from me,Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away.Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow'd,And me, by blameless manners fitted wellTo seek it, sent to the serene abodeWhere shades of pious men for ever dwell.

They call thee rich—I deem thee poor,Since, if thou darest not use thy store,But savest it only for thine heirs,The treasure is not thine, but theirs.

A miser, traversing his house,Espied, unusual there, a mouse,And thus his uninvited guestBriskly inquisitive address'd:"Tell me, my dear, to what cause is itI owe this unexpected visit?"The mouse her host obliquely eyed,And, smiling, pleasantly replied:"Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard!I come to lodge, and not to board."

Art thou some individual of a kindLong-lived by nature as the rook or hind?Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such,Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breastThis lust of treasure—folly at the best!For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,

Rich, thou hadst many lovers—poor, hast none,So surely want extinguishes the flame,And she who call'd thee once her pretty one,And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where,In what strange country can thy parents live,Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet awareThat want's a crime no woman can forgive?

Rich, thou hadst many lovers—poor, hast none,So surely want extinguishes the flame,And she who call'd thee once her pretty one,And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.

Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where,In what strange country can thy parents live,Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet awareThat want's a crime no woman can forgive?

Happy songster, perch'd above,On the summit of the grove,Whom a dewdrop cheers to singWith the freedom of a king.From thy perch survey the fieldsWhere prolific nature yieldsNought that, willingly as she,Man surrenders not to thee.For hostility or hateNone thy pleasures can create.Thee it satisfies to singSweetly the return of spring,Herald of the genial hours,Harming neither herbs nor flowers.Therefore man thy voice attendsGladly—thou and he are friends;Nor thy never-ceasing strains,Phœbus or the muse disdainsAs too simple or too long,For themselves inspire the song.Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,Ever singing, sporting, playing,What has nature else to showGodlike in its kind as thou?

Hermocratia named—save only one—Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none;For neither Phœbus pierced my thriving joys,Nor Dian—she my girls, or he my boys.But Dian rather, when my daughters layIn parturition, chased their pangs away.And all my sons, by Phœbus' bounty, sharedA vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair'd.O Niobe! far less prolific! seeThy boast against Latona shamed by me!

Fond youth! who dream'st that hoarded goldIs needful, not alone to payFor all thy various items sold,To serve the wants of every day;Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat,For savoury viands season'd high;But somewhat more important yet—I tell thee what it cannot buy.No treasure, hadst thou more amass'dThan fame to Tantalus assign'd,Would save thee from a tomb at last,But thou must leave it all behind.I give thee, therefore, counsel wise;Confide not vainly in thy store,However large—much less despiseOthers comparatively poor;But in thy more exalted stateA just and equal temper show,That all who see thee rich and great,May deem thee worthy to be so.

Fond youth! who dream'st that hoarded goldIs needful, not alone to payFor all thy various items sold,To serve the wants of every day;

Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat,For savoury viands season'd high;But somewhat more important yet—I tell thee what it cannot buy.

No treasure, hadst thou more amass'dThan fame to Tantalus assign'd,Would save thee from a tomb at last,But thou must leave it all behind.

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise;Confide not vainly in thy store,However large—much less despiseOthers comparatively poor;

But in thy more exalted stateA just and equal temper show,That all who see thee rich and great,May deem thee worthy to be so.

Nor oils of balmy scent produce,Nor mirror for Minerva's use,Ye nymphs who lave her; she, array'dIn genuine beauty, scorns their aid.Not even when they left the skies,To seek on Ida's head the prizeFrom Paris' hand, did Juno deign,Or Pallas in the crystal plainOf Simois' stream her locks to trace,Or in the mirror's polish'd face,Though Venus oft with anxious careAdjusted twice a single hair.

It flatters and deceives thy view,This mirror of ill-polish'd ore;For, were it just, and told thee true,Thou wouldst consult it never more.

You give your cheeks a rosy stain,With washes dye your hair;But paint and washes both are vainTo give a youthful air.Those wrinkles mock your daily toil,No labour will efface 'em,You wear a mask of smoothest oil,Yet still with ease we trace 'em.An art so fruitless then forsake,Which though you much excel in,You never can contrive to makeOld Hecuba young Helen.

You give your cheeks a rosy stain,With washes dye your hair;But paint and washes both are vainTo give a youthful air.

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil,No labour will efface 'em,You wear a mask of smoothest oil,Yet still with ease we trace 'em.

An art so fruitless then forsake,Which though you much excel in,You never can contrive to makeOld Hecuba young Helen.

Beware, my friend! of crystal brook,Or fountain, lest that hideous hook,Thy nose, thou chance to see;Narcissus' fate would then be thine,And self-detested thou wouldst pine,As self-enamour'd he.

Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy,A multifarious store!A mask at once would all supplyNor would it cost you more.

When Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prizeOf Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies,Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine,Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine,And whom, as arbiter and overseerOf our gymnastic sports, we planted here;"Hermes," he cried, "you meet no new disaster;Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond his master."

FROM EPICHARMUS.

MY mother! if thou love me, name no moreMy noble birth! Sounding at every breathMy noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly,As to their only refuge, all from whomNature withholds all good besides; they boastTheir noble birth, conduct us to the tombsOf their forefathers, and, from age to ageAscending, trumpet their illustrious race:But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name,Derived from no forefathers? Such a manLives not; for how could such be born at all?And, if it chance that, native of a landFar distant, or in infancy deprivedOf all his kindred, one, who cannot traceHis origin, exist, why deem him sprungFrom baser ancestry than theirs who can?My mother! he whom nature at his birthEndow'd with virtuous qualities, althoughAn Æthiop and a slave, is nobly born.

Pity, says the Theban bard,From my wishes I discard;Envy, let me rather be,Rather far, a theme for thee.Pity to distress is shown,Envy to the great alone—So the Theban—But to shineLess conspicuous be mine!I prefer the golden mean,Pomp and penury between;For alarm and peril waitEver on the loftiest state,And the lowest to the endObloquy and scorn attend.

I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bedA Cupid in her beauteous hand she led,A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:"Shepherd, receive my little one! I bringAn untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing."She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought,Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught,How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound,How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound,How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quireOf Phœbus owe to Phœbus' self the lyre.Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he,But ditties sang of amorous sort to me,The pangs that mortals and immortals proveFrom Venus' influence and the darts of love.Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught;His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent,And give them bulk beyond what nature meant.A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry—"He's dead indeed, but he was born to die"—Such temperate grief is suited to the sizeAnd burden of the loss; is just and wise.But to exclaim, "Ah! wherefore was I born,Thus to be left for ever thus forlorn?"Who thus laments his loss invites distress,And magnifies a woe that might be less,Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd,And leaving reason's remedy behind.

Lusus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit,Simplice ni nexus fœdere, lusus amor.Incerto genitore puer, non sæpe paternæTutamen novit, deliciasque domûs:Quique sibi fidos fore multos sperat, amicusMirum est huic misero si ferat ullus opem.Comis erat, mitisque, et nolle et velle paratusCum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus.Ille, quot in sylvis et quot spatiantur in agrisQuadrupedes, nôrat conciliare sibi;Et quisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquamLabra tenus saltem fidus amicus erat.Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit,Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens,Venatorum audit clangores ponè sequentem,Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit.Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures,Respicit, et sentit jam prope adesse necem.Utque canes fallat latè circumvagus, illuc,Unde abiit, mirâ calliditate redit;Viribus at fractis tandem se projicit ultroIn mediâ miserum semianimemque viâ.Vix ibi stratus, equi sonitum pedis audit, et, oh speQuam lætâ adventu cor agitatur equi!Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, tuoqueAuxilio nares fallere, vimque canum.Me meus, ut nosti, pes prodit—fidus amicusFert quodcunque, lubens, nec grave sentit, onus.Belle, miselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) amaraOmnia quæ tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi.Verum age—sume animos—multi, me pone, boniqueAdveniunt, quorum sis citò salvus ope.Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatusAuxilium his verbis se dare posse negat:Quando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullus amicumMe nescire potest usque fuisse tibi,Libertate æquus, quam cedit amicus amico,Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam;Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta istum messis acervumMe mea, præ cunctis chara, juvenca manet;Et quis non ultro quæcunque negotia linquit,Pareat ut dominæ cum vocat ipsa suæ?Nec me crudelem dicas—discedo—sed hircus,Cujus ope effugias integer, hircus adest.Febrem (ait hircus) habes. Heu, sicca ut lumina languent!Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet!Hirsutum mihi tergum; et forsan læserit ægrum,Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit.Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit, anhelansSustineo lanæ pondera tanta meæ;Me nec velocem nec fortem jacto, solentqueNos etiam sævi dilacerare canes.Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur,Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat.Remne ergo, respondet vitulus, suscepero tantam,Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri?Te, quem maturi canibus validique relinquunt,Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego?Præterea tollens quem illi aversantur, amicisForte parum videar consuluisse meis.Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissocianturCorda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum.Ecce autem ad calces canis est! te quanta peremptoTristitia est nobis ingruitura!—Vale!

Icta fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarusEx somno trepidus surgit, opumque memor.Lata silenter humi ponit vestigia, quemqueRespicit ad sonitum, respiciensque tremit;Angustissima quæque foramina lampade visit,Ad vectes, obices, fertque refertque manum.Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcamExultansque omnes conspicit intus opes.Sed tandem furiis ultricibus actus ob artesQueis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum.Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsansAurum execratur, perniciemque vocat;O mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset,Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum!Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis; et aurumQuid contra vitii tormina sæva valet?O inimicum aurum? O homini infestissima pestis;Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas?Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid honestum est,Et præter nomen nil retinere boni.Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit;Aurum nocturnis furibus arma dedit.Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessima ducit,Fœdifragas artes, multiplicesque dolos,Nec vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortumEx malesuadâ auri sacrilegâque fame.Dixit, et ingemuit; Plutusque suum sibi numenAnte oculos, irâ fervidus, ipse stetit.Arcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugisOstendens; tremulum sic Deus increpuit.Questibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis aures?Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit.Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe? Culpa,Dum rapis, et captas omnia, culpa tua est.Mene execrandum censes, quia tam pretiosaCriminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis?Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictusQuisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit.Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durumEt dirum subito vergit ad imperium.Hinc, nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam.Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax.Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspendere aduncoSuadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet.Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instarRoris dilapsi ex æthere cuncta beat:Tum, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat orbos,Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat.Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus,Aurum animæ pretium qui cupit atque capit?Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atroxCæso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum.

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit,Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur, olet.

Thou mayst of double ignorance boast,Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st.

That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be,And serpent-like, that none may injure thee!

I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend;For when at worst, they say, things always mend.

The works of ancient bards divine,Aulus, thou scorn'st to read;And should posterity read thine,It would be strange indeed!When little more than boy in age,I deem'd myself almost a sage:But now seem worthier to be styled,For ignorance, almost a child.

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