ANDROCLES from his injured lord, in dread
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled.
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parched with heat,
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat;
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came :
He roared approaching; but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed,―arrived within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand;
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day
Regales his inmate with the parted prey;
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live-still lost-sequestered still-
Scarce seemed his lord's revenge a heavier ill.
Home! native home! oh might he but repair!
He must, he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doomed to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands;
When lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famished into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And, softened by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment the assembly gaze :
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is natural: Nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.
MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE
FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.
THERE is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)
Alone a library, though small;
The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous, it con-
tains ;
And, things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
And, opened, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most,
Nor name, nor title, stamped behind,
Adorns its outer part;
But all within 'tis richly lined,
A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit; and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,
As with a miser's care.
Thence implements of every size,
And formed for various use,
(They need but to consult their eyes,)
They readily produce.
At sight of the first feeble ray
That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day
My windows shall show thee a feast;
For, taught by experience, I know
Thee mindful of benefit long,
And that, thankful for all I bestow,
Thou wilt pay me with many a song.
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 payedst 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?
THE shepherd touched his reed; sweet Philomel
Essayed, and oft essayed 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 oh, 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 vas',
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 dote, 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.
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