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On the WIG of a SCARE-CROW.
Alas for this world's changes and the lot
Of sublunary things ! yon wig that there
Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. Was it for this its curious caw) was wrought
Close as the tender tendrils of the vine With clustered curls ? Perhaps the artist's care Its borrowed beauties for some Lady fair
Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine ;
Or for the forehead fram'd of some Divine Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey ;
Or whether on some stern Schoolmaster's brow
Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now? On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day
Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow,
Till of its former form no trace remains, None of its ancient honours ! I survey
Its alter'd state with moralizing eye, And journey sorrowing on my lonely way, And muse on Fortune's mutability.
To a YOUNG MAN,
Who considered the perfeâion of human nature as consisting in
the vigor and indulgence of the more boisterous passions.
By CHARLES LLOYD.
This is not pleasure ! can’st thou look within
that thou art blest ? at close of day
Its dancing flashes and its growling thunder?
Oh have these things within thee aught besides Human remembrance ? Have they passion, love? Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts Add images of purity and peace
? It is not so, cannot be so, to those Who in the revels of the midnight cup, Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gift, God's supreme gift, the motion, and the fire, That stirs, and warms the faculty of thought ! If thou defile thyself, that joy minute, Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet mild, Must never be thy portion ! Thou hast lost That most companiable and aweful sense, That sense which tells us of a God in Heaven And beauty on the earth : that sense which lends A voice to silence, and to vacancy A multitude of shapes and hues of life!
Go then, relinquish pleasure, would'st thou know