ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
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,-
Nourish'd 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 doat, 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 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, 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-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; 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.
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-furrow'd frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around
With locks like the ribbon with which they are bound;
While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of 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 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 art! which the youth can engage
To 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!
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 me
A clew, that soon shall set you free!
Not Ariadne, if you meet her,
Herself could serve you with a better.
You enter'd easily find where-
And make with ease your exit there!
XVIII. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE
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 before
All 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.
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