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.
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!
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 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 a 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 powers 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 thy 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 clue, that soon shall set you free!
Not Ariadne, if you met her,
Herself could serve you with a better.
You entered 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! thousar ds have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply more.
Unnumber'd 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.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much
Displeasure.
Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined)
If, finding it, he fails to find
WITH two spurs or one, and no great matter which,
Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a switch,
Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast,
Paid part into hand;-you must wait for the rest.
Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse,
And out they both sally for better or worse;
His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather:
And in violent haste to go not knowing whither:
Through the fields and the towns, (see!) he scampers
along,
And is look'd at, and laugh'd at, by old and by young.
Till at length overspent, and his sides smear'd with
blood,
Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud.
In a waggon or chaise shall he finish his route?
Oh! scandalous fate! he must do it on foot.
Young gentlemen, hear!-I am older than you!
The advice that I give, I have proved to be true.
Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it,
The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.
THE winter-night now well-nigh worn away,
The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day,
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,
Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied,
By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook,
And poking in the dark explored the nook,
Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around,
And with burnt fingers-ends the treasure found.
It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose,
Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose;
When, trimming with a pin th' incrusted tow,
And stooping it towards the coals below,
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite
The ling'ring flame, and gains at length a light;
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before
The quiv'ring lamp, and opes his gran'ry door.
Translated June 8, 1799, when the sufferings of Cowper were most d nd fearful. Hayley remarks that, "To those who are used to philosophize on the powers of the human mind under affliction, this production appear a highly interesting curiosity." The diction, in several places, ahoice and happy.
Small was his stock, but taking for the day
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away,
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,
Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:
Then, baring both his arms, a sleeveless coat
He girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat;
And with a rubber, for that use design'd,
Cleansing his mill within-begins to grind;
Each hand has its employ; lab'ring amain,
This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.
The stone, revolving rapidly, now glows,
And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;
While he, to make his heavy labour light,
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile
His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.
And now, “Dame Cybale, come forth!" he cries;
But Cybale, still slumb'ring, nought replies.
From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid,
Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd:
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,
Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,
Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat ;-
Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his command
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd,
And made in haste her simm'ring skillet steam,
Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream.
The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieve The mingled flour and bran must next receive, Which, shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refined, And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. This done, at once, his future plain repast, Unleaven❜d, on a shaven board he cast, With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all, Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, And spreading it again with both hands wide, With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied; At length, the stubborn substance, duly wrought, Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought, Becomes an orb-and quarter'd into shares, The faithful mark of just division: bears. Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, For Cybale before had swept the place,
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