Scarce any fhe quits unexplored
With a diligence truly exact; Yet, fteal what she may for her hoard, Leaves evidence none of the fact.
Her lucrative task fhe pursues,
And pilfers with fo much addrefs, That none of their odour they lose, Nor charm by their beauty the lefs.
Not thus inoffenfively preys
The canker-worm, in-dwelling foe! His voracity not thus allays
The fparrow, the finch, or the crow.
The worm, more expensively fed,
The pride of the garden devours;
And birds peck the feed from the bed, Still lefs to be spared than the flowers.
But he with fuch delicate skill Her pillage fo fits for her use, That the chemist in vain with his ftill Would labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals, Nor a benefit blame as a theft; Since, ftole fhe not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.
N this mimic form of a matron in years, How plainly the pencil of Denner ap- pears!
The matron herself, in whofe old age we fee Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is fhe! 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 riband with which they are bound;
While gloffy and smooth, and as foft as the skin Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;' But nothing unpleasant, or fad, 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 fights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste. The youths all agree, that could old age inspire The paffion 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 enamour'd, the features of age;
And force from the virgin a figh of despair, That she when as old fhall be equally fair! How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd.
PELLES, hearing that his boy Had juft expired-his only joy!
Altho' the fight 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 beftow,) This tribute of a father's woe!" Then, faithful to the twofold part, Both of his feelings and his art, He clofed his eyes with tender care, And form'd at once a fellow pair. His brow with amber locks befet, And lips he drew not livid yet; And fhaded all that he had done To a juft image of his fon.
Thus far is well. But view again The cause of thy paternal pain! Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the laft, laft touches still. Again his pencil's powers he tries, For on his lips a smile he spies: And still his cheek unfaded shows
The deepest damask of the rose. Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, With fondeft eagerness he ftole, Till scarce himself distinctly knew The cherub copied from the true.
Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done. Long lives this image of thy fon; Nor short lived shall the glory prove Or of thy labour or thy love.
ROM right to left, and to and fro, Caught in a labyrinth you go,
And turn, and turn, and turn again,
To folve the mystery, but in vain ; Stand ftill, and breathe, and take from me A clue, that foon fhall fet you free! Not Ariadne, if you meet her,
Herself could ferve you with a better. You enter'd eafily-find where— And make with ease your exit there!
NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE
HE lover, in melodious verses, His fingular distress rehearses. Still clofing with a rueful cry, "Was ever fuch a wretch as I?"
Yes! thousands have endured before All thy distress; fome, 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 cenfure fits, Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
O grafs, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The Snail sticks clofe, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Within that houfe fecure he hides, When danger imminent betides Of ftorm, or other harm befides
Give but his horns the flightest touch, His felf-collecting power is fuch, He fhrinks into his house with much
Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well fatisfied to be his own
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