At sight of the first feeble ray
That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day
My 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 buds
Bespeaks the renewal of Spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,
Or where it shall please thee to sing :
And shouldst thou, compelled by a frost,
Come again to my window or door,
Doubt not an affectionate host,
Only pay, as thou payedst me before.
Thus music must needs be confest
To flow from a fountain above;
Else how should it work in the breast
Unchangeable 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 touched his reed; sweet Philomel
Essayed, and oft essayed to catch the strain,
And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,
The numbers, echoed note for note again.
The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before
A 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,
Returned the sounds awhile, but in the close,
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.
Thus strength, not skill, prevailed. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun!
And oh, sad victory, which cost thy life,
And he may wish that he had never won.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY
WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.
ANCIENT dame, how wide and vast,
To 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, we
Perish even from the womb, Swifter than a shadow flee,
Nourished but to feed the tomb.
Seeds of merciless disease
Lurk in all that we enjoy ;
Some that waste us by degrees,
Some that suddenly destroy.
And if life o'erleap the bourn
Common to the sons of men,
What remains, but that we mourn,
Dream, and dote, and drivel then?
Fast as moons can wax and wane,
Sorrow 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 uneven
To the period of an age,
Wherefore live they, but to see
Cunning, arrogance, and force,
Sights lamented much by thee,
Holding their accustomed 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; content
Should propitious Heaven design Life 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 rage
With which the combatants engage,
'Twere hard to tell, who covets most
The prize-at whatsoever cost.
The pleadings swell. Words still suffice;
No single word but has its price:
No term but yields some fair pretence
For 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 dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The 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 past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins;
He spins and weaves, and weaves and
spins;
Till circle upon circle wound
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-inclosed, 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; supplies
With future worms and future flies
The next ensuing year-and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who 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 least, but it yields
The Bee, never wearied, a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexplored,
With a diligence truly exact; Yet, steal what she may for her hoard,
Leaves 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 preys
The canker-worm, indwelling foe!
His voracity not thus allays
The 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 skill,
Her pillage so fits for her use,
That the chemist in vain with his still
Would labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft ;
Since, stole sne not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.
DENNER'S OLD WOMAN.
IN this mimic form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,
No wrinkle, or deep-furrowed frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around
With locks like the riband
While glossy and smooth,
Of a delicate peach, is the
But nothing unpleasant, or
Or that indicates life in its winter, is here.
Yet all is expressed, with fidelity due,
with which they are bound;
and as soft as the skin
down of her chin;
sad, or severe,
Nor a pimple or freckle concealed from the view.
Many, fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste
For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste;
The youths all agree, that could old age inspire
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire,
And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see
Ridiculous 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 engage
To peruse, half-enamoured, 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 gained,
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtained !
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