Flowers.

§ 204.
UNEQUAL to my theme with desperate feet
I sought the Muse's bow'r;
Anxious to see though all asham'd to meet
Some bland inspiring power;
When fleet along the rising gale
The queen fair Fancy past;
And through her rainbow-tinged veil
A glance benignant cast!
Then beck'ning to a secret glade,
"Come see," she cry'd," the train,
Who own beneath this mystic shade,
My visionary reign!"

Proud to obey the glad command,
I took with awe my stand:-
Meanwhile, in many a varying vest
Of rich expression aptly dress'd,
Ideal myriads seem'd to rove

Promiscuous through the cultur'd grove:
And each, as inbred impulse led,
From every flow'r-embroider'd bed
Some certain plant, whose blossoms rose
Significantly pleasing, chose.

With frank, firm look, and light though steady tread

Came Courage first, and cropt a dew-charg'd
Rose;

For in the tender rose might best be read
His very essence-bloom that gently glows
Impell'd by gentle breath-prone to dispense
To all, sweetness, yet alert to show,
If rash invasion ruder deeds commence,
That warm resentment points a thorn below.
Retiring from the public eye,
The maiden meek Humility
Was seen to turn with mildest grace

To heav'n her thoughts, to earth her face;
And all unconscious what fair fame

Merit like hers might well assume,
Preferr'd to every juster claim

The lowly Daisy's simple bloom.

Some bauble each moment arranging,
Admiring, exploding, or changing,

The coquet Affectation skimm'd wantonly by;

On her breast a Narcissus she bore,
As if with Narcissus of yore.
Heedless of the scorner's joke,
Smiling at the ruffian's stroke,
Persevering Patience stood,
Conqu'ring evil still with good!
Binding for her brow the while
Artless wreaths of Camomile,
Hardy plant whose vigorous shoot
Springs beneath the trampler's foot.
Pure constant Love (whose hallow'd fires
Time still exalts, and truth inspires,

In spite of absence, grief, or pain)
Approv'd the faithful Marigold,
Whose leaves their saffron blaze unfold,
When first the sun asserts his reign,
Hail his glad progress through the day,
Close gradual with his parting ray,
Nor open, till he shines again.

beads,

A chaplet of Monkshood she pluck'd for her head,

And Rosemary sprigs for the graves of the dead.
Tiptoe o'er the level plain,

Ardent Hope all panting flew ;
Prompt her eager eye to strain
Far beyond the present view;
Quick from hint to hint to stray,
She the Primrose held most dear;
First-born of returning May,

Promise of the future year.

Ill-nature to a corner stole,
And taught her bloodshot eyes to roll,
As if she long'd to blight"

Each flower of happier scent and hue,
For none she chose of all that grew,

Save pois'nous Aconite.

Hand in hand, for they never asunder are seen,
All cheerful their features, all easy their mien,
Contentment and Innocence tript it along;
By the soft virgin Snow-drop was Innocence

known:

Books, my dear girl, when well design'd,
Are moral maps of human kind;
Where, sketch'd before judicious eyes,
The road to worth and wisdom lies.
Serene Philosophy portrays

The steep, the rough, the thorny ways:
Cross woods and wilds, the learned tribe,
A dark and doubtful path describe :
But Poesy her votaries leads
O'er level lawns, and verdant meads;
And if, perchance, in sportful vein,
Through Fable's scenes she guides her train,
fall is at once enchanted ground,
All Fancy's garden glitters round.

And mark how Moore could once display
A scene so varied, and so gay!
Beg you, for introduction's sake,
A short excursive trip to take,
O'er one poor plat, unlike the rest,
Which my more humble care hath drest;
Where if a little flowret blows,
From pure affection's root it grows.

A virgin rose, in all the pride
Of spring's luxuriant blushes dy'd,
Above the vulgar flow'rs was rais'd,
And with excess of lustre blaz'd.
In full career of heedless play,
Chance brought a Butterfly that way;
She stopp'd at once her giddy flight,
Proud on so sweet a spot to light;
Spread wide her plumage to the sun,
And thus in fancy-strain begun :
"Why but to soften my repose,
Could nature rear so bright a rose?
Why but on roses to recline,
Make forms so delicate as mine?
Fate destin'd by the same decree,
Me for the rose-the rose for me!"

:

A tiny Bug, who close between Th' unfolding bloom had lurk'd unseen, Heard, and in angry tone address'd This rude invader of his rest: "For thee, consummate fool, the rose! No to a nobler end it blows:~ The velvet o'er its foliage spread, Secures to me a downy bed: So thick its crowding leaves ascend To hide, to warm me, and defend. For me those odours they exhale, Which scent at second-hand the gale; And give such things as thee to share What my superior claim can spare!"

While thus the quarrel they pursu'd, A Bee the petty triflers view'd; For once reluctant rais'd her head A moment from her toil, and said, "Cease, abject an'mals, to contest! They claim things most who use them best. Would nature finish works like these, That butterflies might bask at ease? Or bugs intrench'd in splendor lie, Born but to crawl, and dose, and die? The rose you vainly ramble o'er, Breathes balmy dews from ev'ry pore; Which yield their treasur'd sweets alone To skill and labor like my own: With sense as keen as yours, I trace The expanding blossom's glossy grace; Its shape, its fragrance, and its hue, But while I trace, improve them too : Still taste; but still from hour to hour Bear home new honey from the flow'r."

Conceit may read for mere pretence, For mere amusement, indolence; True spirit deems no study right, Till profit dignify delight.

HAIL! Contemplation! grave majestic dame, In thee glad Science greets a parent's name: Thine is each art of speech, each rapt'rous strain,

The Graces lead, the Virtues fill thy train !
From all of evil, life or dreads or knows,
Its real trifles, and its fancied woes,

O lead thy votary! pensive, yet serene,
To some lone seat, thy favorite, hallow'd scene,
Where his calm breast may every pow'r em-
ploy,

Feel self-born peace and independent joy.
And see! the Library iny steps invites ;
Fraught with true profit and with pure de-
lights:

Calls to a feast, whose elegance and love,
The man must relish, and the heart approve.

How awful is the spot!-each honor'd name, Each theme of modern praise, and early fame; Bards, statesmen, sages, lov'd, rever'd, admir'd,

Whom sense enlighten'd and whom glory fir'd,

Rise to my view, still sweet, still great, still bold,

Alive in pow'r, and active, as of old.

Yes! wasteful time! here, here, thy rage is

Survives coeval with the worth he prais'd.
If deeds exalted gave his breast to glow,
Or pity bade him sympathize with woe;
If sweetly soft he chose the lover's part,
Or truth to satire urg'd his honest heart;
His verse still lives, his sentiment still warms,
His lyre still warbles, and his wit still charms.
Here by the past to form the rising age,
The grave historian spreads his ample page;
Whose faithful care preserves the hero's fame,
Or damns to infamy the traitor's name;
Whose records bid fair virtue ever live,
And share immortal in the life they give.
Here the firm patriot, on whose winning

In such lov'd sport (if fortune deign'd to smile),

Calm let me live, and ev'ry care beguile;
Hold converse with the great of every time,
The learn'd of ev'ry class-the good of ev'ry
clime.

There better still, as wiser grow: and there
(Tis just ambition, though 'tis hopeless pray'r)
Sull found, like them, on real worth my claim,
And catch their merit to partake their fame.

§ 207. Water. BISHOP.

In right ἄριστον ὕδωρ Pindar sings,
That simple Water is the best of things,
Would Water-poets were the best of bards!
But, Oh! that chance is not upon the cards!
Vain were th' attempt such logic to apply;
My verse would give my arguments the lie.
Yet what I can I will:-not he whose lyre
Leads on the Aonian mount the sister choir,
(Though all the inspiring potions he explore,
From Water up to Nectar) can no more.
From earth's deep wound-for earth their store
supplies

Through countless pores the moist effluvia rise,
Distinct below, where oozing strata shed
Drop after drop; till from their humid bed
Th' emergent vapors steam; and as they go,
Condense, incorporate, extend, and flow.
Thanks, kind Philosophy! whose lore pro-

found

Thus helps me bring my Water above ground.
Henceforth to trace it, little will suffice,
Obvious to common sense, and common eyes.
If in the mental calm of joy serene,
I seek, through fancy's aid, the sylvan scene,
There Water meets me, by the pebbled side
Of sedgy-fringed brooks, expanding wide
In dimpled eddies-or with murmurs shrill,
Running sweet unisons, where responsive still
In cadence meet, impending aspens hail
Heav'n's mildest breath, soft quiv'ring to the
gale.

Too charming visions of intense delight!
Why? whither vanish ye? Her eagle flight
Fancy renews; and full athwart mine eye
Throws an enormous cataract :—from on high,
In awful stillness deep'ning Waters glide,
Een to the rude rock's ridge abrupt, then slide
Pond'rous down, down the void; and pitch
below

In thunders :-Dash'd to foam, a while they

know

No certain current; till again combin'd,
In boiling tides along the waves they wind.
Oh! bear me hence, where Water's force
displays

More useful energy; where classic praise Adorns the names of chiefs long dead, who brought

Through channel'd rocks concentring streams, and taught

One aqueduct divided lands to lave,

And hostile realms to drink one common

wave.

But soft-methinks some horrid sounds I hear!

What throbbing passion speaks?-"Tis fear, 'tis fear.

Water where yonder spout to heav'n ascends,
Rides in tremendous triumphs; Ocean bends;
And ruin raising high her baleful head,
Broods o'er the waste, the bursting mass will
spread.

Enough of wat'ry wonders:-all dismay'd E'en Fancy starts at forms herself hath made. Let them whom terror can inspire, pursue Themes too terrific: I with humble view, Retire unequal, nor will e'er again

To Water's greater works devote my strain; Content to praise it, when with gentle sway, Profuse of rich increase, it winds its way Through the parch'd glebe; or fills with influence bland

The cup of temperance in the peasant's hand.

§ 208. On Instruments of Music. BISHOP. WHERE health and high spirits awaken the

Or shall we stray,

Where stately through the public way, Amidst the trumpet's clangors, and th' acclaim Of civic zeal, in long procession move Nobles and chiefs of venerable fame; Or haply sovereign majesty displays To public view the lustre of its rays, And proves at once, and wins, a nation's love?

Hark! how the solemn organ calls
Where meek, yet warm, beneath the temple's
Attention's sober ears to hallow'd walls,
Devotion seeks, with stedfast eyes, [shade,
The God whose glories every gloom pervade,
To whom for ever prayer is made,
And daily praises rise.

What notes, in swiftest cadence running,
Through many a maze of varied measure,
Mingled by the master's cunning,

Give th' alarm to festive pleasure?
Cambria, 'twas thy harps of old

Each gallant heart's recess explor'd, Announcing feats of chieftains bold, To grace the hospitable board.

Mark how the soldier's eye
Looks proud defiance! How his heart beats
high,

With glorious expectation! What inspires,
What fans his martial fires?
What but the power of sound?
The clam'rous drums his anxious ardor raise,
His blood flows quicker round;
At once he hears, he feels, enjoys, obeys.

Where gathering storms incessant lower,
And niggard nature chills th' abortive grain,
From her bleak heights see Scotland pour
Blithe lads and lasses trim; a hardy train,
Down the crag, and o'er the lea,
Following still with hearty glee,
The bagpipe's mellow minstrelsy.
Where cloudless suns, with glowing dies,
Tinge Italy's serener skies,
Soft the winding lawns along

The lover's lute complains;
While ling ring Echo learns the song,
Gives it the woods; and, loth to lose
One accent of the impassion'd muse,

Bids woods return it to the plains. Time was, when, stretch'd beneath the beechen shade,

The simple shepherd warbled his sweet lay; Lur'd to his rustic reed, the gentle maid Welcom'd the morn, and caroll'd down the day.

Why do our swains depart from ancient lore? Why sounds no pastoral reed on Britain's shore? -The innocence which tun'd it is no more!

§ 209. The Art of Dancing. Inscribed to the Rt. Honorable the Lady Fanny Fielding. IN the smooth dance to move with graceful mien,

Easy with care, and sprightly, though serene, To mark th' instructions echoing strains convey,

And with just steps each tuneful note obey,
I teach; be present, all ye sacred choir,
Blow the soft lute, and strike the sounding
lyre;

When Fielding bids, your kind assistance bring,
And at her feet the lowly tribute fing;
Oh, may her eyes (to her this verse is due)
What first themselves inspir'd vouchsafe to view.
Hail, loftiest art! thou canst all hearts ensnare,
And make the fairest still appear more fair;
Beauty can little execution do,

Unless she borrows half her charms from you!
Few, like Pygmalion, doat on lifeless charms,
Or care to clasp a statue in their arms;
But breasts of fint must melt with fierce desire,
When art and motion wake the sleeping fire.
A Venus drawn by great Apelles' hand
May for a while our wond'ring eyes conimand;
But still, tho' form'd with all the pow'rs of art,
The lifeless piece can never warm the heart:
So fair a nymph, perhaps, may please the eye,
Whilst all her beauteous limbs unactive lie;
But when her charms are in the dance display'd,
Then every heart adores the lovely maid`;

This sets her beauty in the fairest light,
And shows each grace in full perfection bright;
Then, as she turns around, from every part,
Like porcupines, she sends a piercing dart:
In vain, alas! the fond spectator tries
To shun the pleasing dangers of the eyes,
For, Parthian-like, she wounds as sure behind
With flowing curls, on ivory neck reclin'd.
Whether her steps the minuet's mazes trace,
Or the slow Louvre's more majestic pace;
Whether the rigadoon employs her care,
Or sprightly jig displays the nimble fair;
At ev'ry step new beauties we explore,
And worship now what we admir'd before.
So when Æneas, in the Tyrian grove,
Fair Venus met, the charming queen of love,
The beauteous goddess, whilst unmov'd she
stood,

Seem'd some fair nymph, the guardian of the wood;

But when she mov'd, at once her heavenly mien, And graceful step, confess'd bright beauty's

queen :

New glories o'er her form each moment rise, And all the goddess opens to his eyes.

Now haste, my muse, pursue thy destin'd way; What dresses best become the dancer say; The rules of dress forget not to impart, A lesson precious to the dancing art.

The soldier's scarlet glowing from afar, Shows that his bloody occupation's war; Whilst the lawn band, beneath the double chin, As plainly speaks divinity within;

The milk-maid safe through driving rains and

snows,

Wrapp'd in her cloak and propp'd on pattens,

goes;

Whilst the soft belle, immur'd in velvet chair, Needs but the silken shoe, and trusts her bosom bare.

warm,

The woolly drab, and English broad-cloth [storm; Guard well the horseman from the beating But load the dancer with too great a weight, And call from every pore the dewy sweat. Rather let him his active limbs display In camblets thin, or glossy paduasoy. Let no unwieldy pride his shoulders press, But airy, light, and easy, be his dress; Thin be his yielding sole, and low his heel, So shall he nimbly bound, and safely wheel.

But let not precepts known my verse prolong, Precepts which use will better teach than song; For why should I the gallant spark command With clean white gloves to fit his ready hand? Or in his fob enlivening spirits wear, And pungent salts to raise the fainting fair? Or hint the sword that dangles at his side, Should from its silken bandage be untied?

Why should my lays the youthful tribe advise, Lest snowy clouds from out their wigs arise? So shall their partners mourn their laces spoil'd, And shining silks with greasy powder soil'd. Nor need I, sure, bid prudent youths beware, Lest with erected tongues their buckles stare: The pointed steel shall oft their stocking rend, And oft the approaching petticoat offend.

And now, ye youthful fair, I sing to you,
With pleasing smiles my useful labors view:
For you the silk-worms fine-wrought webs dis-
play,

And lab'ring spin their little lives away;
For you bright gems with radiant colors glow,
Fair as the dies that paint the heavenly bow;
For you the sea resigns its pearly store,
And earth unlocks her mines of treasur'd ore;
In vain yet nature thus her gifts bestows,
Unless yourselves with art those gifts dispose.
Yet think not, nymphs, that in the glitt'ring
ball,

One form of dress prescrib'd can suit with all;
One brightest shines when wealth and art com-
bine

To make the finish'd piece completely fine:
When least adorn'd, another steals our hearts,
And, rich in native beauties, wants not arts.
In some are such resistless graces found,
That in all dresses they are sure to wound;
Their perfect forms all foreign aids despise,
And gems but borrow lustre from their eyes.
Let the fair nymph, in whose plump cheek
is seen

A constant blush, be clad in cheerful green;
In such a dress the sportive sea-nymphs go,
So in their grassy beds fresh roses blow:
The lass whose skin is like the hazel brown,
With brighter yellow should o'ercome her own;
While maids grown pale with sickness or
despair,

The sable's mournful dye should choose to wear:
So the pale moon still shines with purest light,
Cloth'd in the dusky mantle of the night.

But far from you be all those treach'rous arts, That wound with painted charms unwary hearts;

Dancing 's a touchstone that true beauty tries,
Nor suffers charms that nature's hand denies:
Though for a while we may with wonder view
The rosy blush and skin of lovely hue,
Yet soon the dance will cause the cheeks to
glow,

And melt the waxen lips and neck of snow.
So shine the fields in icy fetters bound,
Whilst frozen gems bespangle all the ground;
Thro' the clear crystal of the glitt'ring snow,
With scarlet die the blushing hawthorns glow;
O'er all the plains unnumber'd glories rise,
And a new bright creation charms our eyes,
Till Zephyr breathes, then all at once decay
The splendid scenes, the glories fade away;
The fields resign the beauties not their own,
And all their snowy charms run trickling
down.

Dare I in such momentous points advise,
I should condemn the hoop's enormous size.
Of ills I speak by long experience found:
Oft have I trod th' unmeasurable round,
And mourn'd my shins bruis'd black with
many a wound.

Nor should the tighten'd stays, too straitly lac'd

In whalebone bondage, gall the slender waist; Nor waving lappets should the dancing fair,

Nor ruffles edged with dangling fringes, wear;

Oft will the cobweb-ornaments catch hold
On the approaching button rough with gold;
Nor force, nor art, can then the bonds divide,
When once th' entangled Gordian knot is tied
So the unhappy pair, by Hymen's pow'r
Together join'd in some ill-fated hour,
The more they strive their freedom to regain,
The faster binds th' indissoluble chain.

Let each fair maid, who fears to be disgraced,
Ever be sure to tie her garter fast,
Lest the loose string, amidst the public ball,
A wish'd-for prize to some proud fop should
fall,

Who the rich treasure shall triumphant show, And with warm blushes cause her cheek to glow.

But yet (as Fortune by the self-same ways She humbles many, some delights to raise) It happen'd once, a fair illustrious dame By such neglect acquired immortal fame: And thence the radiant star and garter blue, Britannia's noble grace, if fame says true; Hence still, Plantagenet, thy beauties bloom, Though long since moulder'd in the dusky tomb;

Still thy lost garter is thy sovereign's care, And what each royal breast is proud to wear.

But let me now my lovely charge remind, Lest they forgetful leave their fans behind: Lay not, ye fair, the pretty toy aside, A toy at once display'd for use and pride; A wondrous engine, that by magic charms Cools your own breasts, and every other's

warms.

What daring hand shall e'er attempt to tell
The powers that in this little weapon dwell?
What verse can e'er explain its various parts,
Its numerous uses, motions, charms, and arts?
Its painted folds, that oft, extended wide,
Th'afflicted fair one's blubber'd beauties hide,
When secret sorrows her sad bosom fill,
If Strephon is unkind, or Shock is ill:
Its sticks, on which her eyes dejected pore,
And pointing fingers number o'er and o'er,
When the kind virgin burns with secret shame,
Dies to consent, yet fears to own her flame;
Its shake triumphant, its victorious clap,
Its
angry flutter, and its wanton tap.

Forbear, my muse, th' extensive theme to sing,

Nor trust in such a flight thy tender wing;
Rather do you in humble lines proclaim
From whence this engine took its form and