"Once more at least look back," said I,
"Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good humour drest;
When gentle reason rules thy breast;
The sun upon the calmest sea
Appears not half so bright as thee:
"T is then that with delight I rove
Upon the boundless depth of love:
I bless my chain; I hand my oar;
Nor think on all I left on shore.
"But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me, the rising storm is nigh;
"T is then, thou art yon angry main,
Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain.
And the poor sailor, that must try
Its fury, labours less than I.
66 Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make, While love and fate still drive me back: Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey:
Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die."
I HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame:
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride;
With both all rivals are decried.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature;
For the kind flattery 's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day,
A poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends;
A rose he pluck'd, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing, as the Muse inspired:
"Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place,
There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
"Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find 25
More fragrant roses there:
I see thy withering head reclined,
With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love."
"Spare your comparisons," replied
An angry Rose, who grew beside;
"Of all mankind you should not flout us! What can a poet do without us?
In every love-song Roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume:
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To sound her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?"
THE man to Jove his suit preferr'd;
He begg'd a wife. His prayer was heard.
Jove wonder'd at his bold addressing:
For how precarious is the blessing!
A wife he takes. And now for heirs
Again he worries Heaven with prayers.
Jove nods assent. Two hopeful boys
And a fine girl reward his joys.
Now, more solicitous he grew,
And set their future lives in view;
He saw that all respect and duty
Were paid to wealth, to power, and beauty.
"Once more," he cries, "accept my prayer; Make my loved progeny thy care:
Let my first hope, my favourite boy,
All fortune's richest gifts enjoy.
My next with strong ambition fire
May favour teach him to aspire;
Till he the step of power ascend,
And courtiers to their idol bend.
With every grace, with every charm,
My daughter's perfect features arm.
If Heaven approve, a Father's bless'd."
Jove smiles, and grants his full request.
The first, a miser at the heart,
Studious of every griping art,
Heaps hoards on hoards with anxious pain,
And all his life devotes to gain.
He feels no joy, his cares increase,
He neither wakes nor sleeps in peace;
In fancied want (a wretch complete)
He starves, and yet he dares not eat.
The next to sudden honours grew;
The thriving art of courts he knew;
He reach'd the height of power and place,
Then fell, the victim of disgrace.
Beauty with early bloom supplies
His daughter's cheek, and points her eyes.
The vain coquette each suit disdains,
And glories in her lover's pains.
With age she fades, each lover flies;
Contemn'd, forlorn, she pines and dies.
When Jove the Father's grief survey'd, And heard him Heaven and Fate upbraid, Thus spoke the God:-" By outward show, 45
Men judge of happiness and woe:
Shall ignorance of good and ill
Dare to direct the eternal will?
Seek virtue; and, of that possest,
To Providence resign the rest."
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
BE wise to-day! 't is madness to defer:
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life !
Procrastination is the thief of time:
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange ?
That 't is so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born:
pay themselves the compliment to think
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