Then, soon as the swell of the buds
Bespeaks the renewal of spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,

Or where it shall please thee to sing: And shouldst thou, compelled by a frost, Come again to my window or door, Doubt not an affectionate host,

Only pay as thou pay'dst me before.

Thus music must needs be confest,

To flow from a fountain above; Else how should it work in the breast Unchangeable friendship and love! And who on the globe can be found, Save your generation and ours, That can be delighted by sound, Or boasts any musical powers?

XII. STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

THE Shepherd touched his reed; sweet Philomel Essayed, and oft assayed to catch the strain, And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,

The numbers, echoed note for note again.

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 dared the task, and rising, as he rose,

With all the force, that passion gives, inspired, Returned the sounds awhile, but in the close, Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill, prevailed. 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!

XIII. 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 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, Nourished 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 accustomed 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, has calmly spent,
Though but half the length of thine.

XIV. 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 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.

XV. THE SILKWORM. 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.

XVI. THE INNOCENT THIEF.

NOT a flower can be found in the fields,

Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,
From the largest to least, but it yields
To the bee, never-wearied, a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexplored,

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, indwelling 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 pick the seed from the bed, Still less to be spared than the flowers.

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.

XVII. 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-furrowed 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 expressed, with fidelity due,

Nor a pimple, or freckle, concealed 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 of art! which the youth can engage To peruse, half-enamoured, 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 gained, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtained!

XVIII THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expired-his only joy!
Although the sight 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 bestow,)
This tribute of a father's wo!"
Then, faithful to the twofold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And formed 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 a just image of his son.
P

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 power he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies:
And still his cheek, unfaded, shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedless to the finished 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-lived shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.

XIX. THE MAZE. 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 whereAnd make, with ease, your exit there!

XX. 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 endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumbered 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.

XXI. THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure ne hides, When danger imminent betides Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather

THE CONTRITE HEART.

THE Lord will happiness divine

On contrite hearts bestow; Then tell me, gracious God, is mine

A contrite heart or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;

If aught is felt, 'tis only pain
To find I can not feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined
To love thee, if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that's good.

My best desires are faint and few,

I fain would strive for more;
But when I cry, "My strength renew,"
Seem weaker than before.

I see thy saints with comfort filled,
When in thy house of prayer;
But still in bondage I am held,
And find no comfort there.

Oh, make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break,
And heal it if it be.

THE SHINING LIGHT.

My former hopes are dead;
My terror now begins;
I feel, alas! that I am dead
In trespasses and sins

THIRSTING FOR GOD.

I THIRST, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share ;
Thy words, Immanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasure there.

It was the sight of thy dear cross

First weaned my soul from earthly things, And taught me to esteem as dross

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

I want that grace that springs from thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me,
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose.

Dear fountain of delight unknown,
No longer sink below the brim:
But overflow and pour me down

A living and life-giving stream.

For sure, of all the plants that share
The notice of thy Father's eye,
None proves less grateful to his care,
Or yields him meaner fruit than I.