Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
And nightly, to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, *
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole,
What though, in solemn silence, all,
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid these radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain!
Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease!
Seats of iny youth, when ev'ry sport could please!
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm!
The shelter'd cot the cultivated farm,
The never failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church, that topp'd the neighb'ring hill;
The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play,
And all the village train from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!
While many a pastime cirled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd:
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And slights of art and feats of strength went round
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd:
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire eace other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the places
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung;
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all, in soft confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
V.-The Painter who pleased Nobody and every Body.
LEST men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view,
The trav'ller, leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds,
Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
Make e'en his real courage doubted.
But flatt'ry never seems absurd;
The flatter'd always take your word;
Impossibilities seem just;
They take the strongest praise on trust;
Hyperboles, though e'er so great,
Will still come short of self conceit.
So very like a painter drew,
That ev'ry eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just that life itself was there;
No flatt'ry with his colours laid,
To bloom restor❜d the fades aid;
He gave each muscle all it
The mouth, the chin, the no
His honest pencil touch'd with auth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.
He lost his friends; his practice fail'd,
Truth should not always be reveal'd ;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two busto's, fraught with every grace, A Venus' and Apolo's face,
He plac'd in view, resolv'd to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these;
From these corrected every feature,
And spirited each awkward creature.
All things were set; the hour was come,
His palette ready o'er his thumb;
My lord appear'd, and seated right,
In proper attitude and light,
The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece;
Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece,
Of Titan's tints, of Guido's air,
"Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there,
Might well a Raphael's hand require,
To give them all the native fire;
The features, fraught with sense and wit,
You'll grant, are very hard to hit:
But yet, with patience, you shall view
As much as paint or art can do:
Observe the work."-My lord reply'd,
"Till now I thought my mouth was wide;
Besides, my nose is somewhat long;
Dear sir, for me 'tis far too young."
"O pardon me," the artist cry'd,
"In this, we painters must decide.
The piece e'en common eyes must strike;
I'll warrant it extremely like."
My lord examin'd it anew,
No lookingglass seem'd half so true.
A lady came, With borrow'd grace He from his Venus form'd her face, Her lover prais❜d the painter's art, So like the picture in his heart! To every age some charm he lent; E'en beauties were almost content. Through all the town his art they prais'd, His custom grew, his price was rais'd.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.
VI.-Diversity in the Human Character.
VIRTUOUS and vicious every man must be,
Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree;
The rogue and fool by fits are fair and wise,
And e'en the best, by fits what they despise.
'Tis but by part we follow good or ill,
For, Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still;
Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal;
But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole.
That counterworks each folly and caprice;
That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice;
That happy frailties to all ranks apply'd→
Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride,
Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief,
To kings presumption, and to crowds belief.
That Virtue's end from vanity can raise,
Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise;
And build on wants, and on defects of mind,
The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind.
Heaven, forming each on other to depend,
A master, or a servant, or a friend,
Bids each on other for assistance call,
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of al!.
Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally
The common int'rest or endear the tie.
To those we owe true friendship, love sincere,
Each homefelt joy that life inherits here;
Yet from the same, we learn, in its decline,
Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign.
Taught, half by reason, half by mere decay,
To welcome death, and calmly pass away.
Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame or pelf,
Not one would change his neighbour with himself.
The learn'd is happy, nature to explore,
The fool is happy that he knows no more;
The rich is happy in the plenty given,
The poor contents him with the care of heaven:
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing,
The sot a hero, lunatic a king;
The starving chymist in his golden views
Supremely blest, the poet in his muse.
See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend,
And pride, bestow'd on all, a common friend;
See some fit passion ev'ry age supply,
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.
Behold the child, by nature's kindly law,
Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw;
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,
And cards and counters are the toys of age:
Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before;
Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.
Mean while opinion gilds, with varying rays,
Those painted clouds that beautify our days;
Each want of happiness by hope supply'd
And each vacuity of sense by pride.
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy:
Ju folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy;
One prospect lost, another still we gain,
And not a vanity is given in vain :
E'en mean selflove becomes, by force divine,
The scale to measure other's wants by thine.
See! and confess, one comfort still must rise;
"Tis this: Though man's a fool, yet God is wise.
AND now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears; To that she bends, to that her eye she rears. Th' inferiour priestess, at the altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls, with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.
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