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 dar'd the task, and rising, as he rose,
With all the force, that passion gives, inspir'd,
Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expir'd.
Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;
And O 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 pow'rs;
We, to narrow bounds confin'd,
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 giv'n)
Ling'ring on this earthly stage,
Creep, and halt with steps unev'n,
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 Heav'n design
Life for us, as calmly spent,
Though but half the length of thine.
THE CAUSE WON
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 increas'd 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 SILK WORM
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 mulb'ry-leaf, a simple store,
That serves him-till he needs no more!
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Tho', till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arriv'd, 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, tho' slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-inclos'd, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task;
And, tho' 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-liv'd than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.
THE INNOCENT THIEF
NOT a flow'r 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 unexplor'd,
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, in-dwelling 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 spar'd than the flow'rs.
But she, with such delicate skill,
Her pillage so fits for her use,
That the chymist 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 she 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-furrow'd frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around
With locks, like the ribbon, with which they are
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.
20
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 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!
THE TEARS OF A PAINTER
APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expir'd--his only joy!
Altho' the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seiz'd 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 two-fold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He clos'd 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 done,
To the just image of his son.
Thus far is well. But view again
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's pow'rs 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 fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.
Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.
Long lives this image of thy son;
Nor short-liv'd shall the glory prove,
Or 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 myst'ry, but in vain.
Stand still, and breathe, and take from me
A clew, 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!
NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER
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 endur'd before
All thy distress; some haply more.
Unnumber'd Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
16 the] a Hayley (1803), * 21 pow'r Hayley (1803),
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