Lo! where the enchanted captive dreams
Of warbling groves and purling streams;
Of painted meads, of flowers that shed
Their odours round her fragrant bed.
Quick shifts the scene, the charm is lost,
She wakes upon a desert coast!
No friendly hand to lend its aid,
No guardian bower to spread its shade;
Exposed to every chilling blast,
She treads the' inhospitable waste;
And down the drear decline of life
Sinks a forlorn, dishonour'd wife.
Neglect not thou the voice of Fame,
But clear from crime, be free from blame!
Though all were innocence within,
'Tis guilt to wear the garb of sin.
Virtue rejects the foul disguise:
None merit praise who praise despise.
Slight not, in supercilious strain,
Long practised modes, as low or vain!
The world will vindicate their cause,
And claim blind faith in custom's laws.
Safer with multitudes to stray
Than tread alone a fairer way;
To mingle with the erring throng
Than boldly speak ten millions wrong.
Beware of the relentless train
Who forms adore, whom forms maintain!
Lest prudes demure or coxcombs proud
Accuse thee to the partial crowd;
Foes who the laws of honour slight,
A judge who measures guilt by spite.
Behold the sage Aurelia stand,
Disgrace and fame at her command!
As if Heaven's delegate design'd,
Sole arbiter of all her kind.
Whether she try some favour'd piece,
By rules devised in ancient Greece;
Or whether, modern in her flight,
She tells what Paris thinks polite.
For much, her talents to advance,
She studied Greece and travel'd France.
There learn'd the happy art to please,
With all the charms of labour'd ease;
Through looks and nods with meaning fraught,
To teach what she was never taught.
By her each latent spring is seen,
The workings foul of secret spleen;
The guilt that sculks in fair pretence,
Or folly veil'd in specious sense.
And much her righteous spirit grieves,
When worthlessness the world deceives;
Whether the erring crowd commends
Some patriot sway'd by private ends;
Or husband trust a faithless wife,
Secure in ignorance from strife.
Averse she brings their deeds to view,
But justice claims the rigorous due;
Humanely anxious to produce
At least some possible excuse.
O, ne'er may virtue's dire disgrace
Prepare a triumph for the base!
Mere forms the fool implicit sway,
Which witlings with contempt survey.
Blind folly no defect can see,
Half wisdom views but one degree;
The wise remoter uses reach,
Which judgment and experience teach.
Whoever would be pleased and please
Must do what others do with ease.
Great precept undefined by rule,
And only learn'd in Custom's school;
To no particular form confined,
It spreads through all the human kind;
Beauty and wit and worth supplies,
Yet graceful in the good and wise.
Rich with this gift and none beside,
In fashion's stream how many glide!
Secure from every mental woe,
From treacherous friend or open foe;
From social sympathy that shares
The public loss or private cares:
Whether the barbarous foe invade,
Or merit pines in fortune's shade.
Hence gentle Anna ever gay,
The same to-morrow as to-day,
Save where perchance, when others weep,
Her cheek the decent sorrow steep.
Save when, perhaps, a melting tale
O'er every tender breast prevail.
The good, the bad, the great, the small,
She likes, she loves, she honours all;
And yet if slanderous malice blame,
Patient she yields a sister's fame.
Alike if satire or if praise,
She says whate'er the circle says;
Implicit does whate'er we do,
Without one point or wish in view;
Sure test of others, faithful glass
Through which the various phantoms pass.
Wide blank, unfeeling when alone,
No care, no joy, no thought her own.
Not thus succeeds the peerless dame,
Who looks and talks and acts for fame;
Intent, so wide her cares extend,
To make the universe her friend.
Now with the gay in frolics shines,
Now reasons deep with deep divines.
With courtiers now extols the great,
With patriots sighs o'er Britain's fate.
Now breathes with zealots holy fires,
Now melts in less refined desires.
Doom'd to exceed in each degree,
Too wise, too weak, too proud, too free;
Too various for one single word,
The high sublime of deep absurd.
While every talent nature grants
Just serves to show how much she wants.
Although in
The virtues of our sex and thine:
Her hand restrains the widow's tears,
Her sense informs and soothes and cheers;
Yet like an angel in disguise,
She shines but to some favour'd eyes;
Nor is the distant herd allow'd
To view the radiance through the cloud.
But thine is every winning art,
Thine is the friendly honest heart;
And should the generous spirit flow
Beyond where prudence fears to go,
Such sallies are of nobler kind
Than virtues of a narrow mind.
ON THE LIFE OF MAN.
LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,-
E'en such is man-whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring intomb'd in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is pass'd-and man forgot.
C. Whittingham, College House, Chiswick.
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