On eager wing the fpoiler came,
And fearch'd for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every fide,
To every pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.
Methinks, I faid, in thee I find
The fin and madness of mankind;
To joys forbidden man afpires,
Confumes his foul with vain defires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles, as fhe paffes,
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the Pine Apple, and he
The filly unsuccessful Bee.
The maid who views with penfive air
The show-glafs fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But fighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!
Our dear delights are often fuch,
Exposed to view, but not to touch;
The fight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine apples in frames;
With hopeless with one looks and lingers;
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead
Can gather honey from a weed.
ECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So fhalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous fhore.
He that holds faft the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blaft; the loftieft tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's fide
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.
The well inform'd philofopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain;
If Winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,
And Nature laughs again.
What if thine heaven be overcast,
The dark appearance will not laft;
Expect a brighter sky.
The God that strings the filver bow
Awakes fometimes the Mufes too,
And lays his arrows by.
If hinderances obftruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,
And let thy ftrength be seen;
But O! if Fortune fill thy fail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvass in.
A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING
ND is this all? Can Reafon do no more
Than bid me shun the deep, and dread
the shore ?
Sweet moralift! afloat on life's rough sea,
The Chriftian has an art unknown to thee:
He holds no parley with unmanly fears;
Where Duty bids he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, furmounts them all.
HE nymph must lose her female friend,
If more admired than fhe-
But where will fierce contention end,
If flowers can difagree?
Within the garden's peaceful fcene
Appear'd two lovely foes,
Afpiring to the rank of
The Rofe foon redden'd into
And, fwelling with difdain, Appeal'd to many a poet's page her right to reign.
The Lily's height befpoke command,
A fair imperial flower;
She feem'd defign'd for Flora's hand,
The fceptre of her power.
This civil bickering and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to fave, ere yet too late,
The pride of the parterre;
Yours is, the faid, the nobler hue,
And yours the ftatelier mien;
And, till a third furpaffes you,
Let each be deem'd a queen.
Thus foothed and reconciled, each seeks
The fairest British fair;
The feat of empire is her cheeks,
They reign united there.
IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.
EU inimicitias quoties parit æmula forma, Quam raro pulchræ, pulchra placere poteft!
Sed fines ultrà folitos difcordia tendit,
Cum flores ipfos bilis et ira movent.
Hortus ubi dulces præbet tacitofque receffus,
Se rapit in partes gens animofa duas,
Hic fibi regales Amaryllis candida cultûs,
Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rofa.
Ira Rofam et meritis quæfita fuperbia tangunt,
Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda finû,
Dum fibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatûm,
Jufque fuum, multo carmine fulta, probat.
Altior emicat illa, et celfo vertice nutat,
Ceu flores inter non habitura parem,
Faftiditque alios, et nata videtur in ufûs
Imperii, fceptrum, Flora quod ipfa gerat.
Nec Dea non fenfit civilis murmura rixæ,
Cui curæ eft pictas pandere ruris opes.
Deliciafque fuas nunquam non prompta tueri,
Dum licet et locus eft, ut tueatur, adeft.
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