« EelmineJätka »
To one, in all the pride of thoughtless May,
Of health improvident, and nature gay;
Untutor'd yet in wisdom's sacred school,
And in the one great needful thing--a fool.
To say that beauty's frail will seem more odd,
Than doubt of providence, or doubt a God:
Your cares devoted only to employ
The golden hours, to deck a sparkling toy;
To spin the thread, to spread the guileful art,
To catch the idle, giddy, Autt'ring heart :
In affectation every charm express,
And torture every feature into dress.
The fop, the coxcomb, buzzing round you fly,
Live, if you smile, and if you frown, they die,
On air-blown bubbles flattery's altar raise,
Diffusing round the smoak of empty praise,
Despoil all nature's works of every grace,
To shape your person, and adorn your face.
Not all the blooming colours of the field,
Sufficient strength of epithet can yield;
Your white and red how delicate to show
The lily and the rose not only blow,
Earth's bowels rent, GOLCOND, and VISAPOUR
Lend their assistance to th' imperfect flower.
Your eye--the diamond's brightest water shows;
Your lips-the ruby's crimson blush disclose;
Your veins the fapphire's comely blue deride,
Within the garnet rolls a scarlet tide.
* Two places in the Mogul's dominions famous for jewels.
Old father ocean too must give his share,
And yield his gems to compliment the fair :
Upon your cheek the ruddy corals dwell;
Of orient pearl your mouth a little cell.
Nor these enough to dignify the lie,
Şun, moon, and stars, th’ hyperbole supply:
Sun, moon, and stars, lose their diminish'd light,
In their meridian dim, to make you bright:
Some planet falls each beauty to refine,
And in your locks whole constellations fhine.
Thus deckt in all the glory of the skies,
A goddess, or an angel's form you rise.
Such is the froth that spumy flattery throws,
And such the founding nothing from her flows :
How frail ! how light !---yet frailer, ligliter they
That by such emptiness deceiv'd can be.
My serious numbers truths severe explain,
Beauty to the most perfect point, is vain.
Sylvia, awhile your mighty cares suspend,
And from the toilet's anxious work descend;
The noisy scenes of idleness disown,
And dare one single hour to be alone;
Your wither'd monitor emphatic tells,
On what a weak unsteady base it divells;
Or if you'll have the doctrine more explain'd,
Behold yon cloud with circling colours stain'd.
In what a graceful lofty arch it bends!
From hill to hill the varying dye extends ;
But when a few distilling drops are o'er,
The gay deluding phantom is no more.
See how the froth-blown bubbles mount on high,
Reflecting all creation as they. fly;
Breathe soft, ye zephyrs ! as the globe revolves,
The zephyrs softest breath its frame diffolves.
Nor this, nor that, more exquisitely weak,
Than the carnation of a beauteous cheek;
Alike constructed, and alike enjoy’d,
The wonder of a minute- -then destroy’d.
Flattery, avaunt !- O SYLVIA, cease thy care,
To gild a gaudy phantom made of air ;
Nor to the changes of a painted cloud
More adoration pay, than to your
God. Let not the busy moments drive away In busy nothing through the posted day; Your manners change, your giddy thoughts redress, And break that houshold god--the looking-glass. Come like the penitent with off'rings meet, And lay your follies at your Saviour's feet; Studious of thought, collect the mental ray, Turn inward on yourself, and learn to pray. The understanding form, the judgment clear, Lift up the
-behold-vand fear, And in retired filence try to find Wisdom, the sacred council of the mind : From strong reflection then you'll quickly know, Beauty's the vainest vanity below.
OR, THE VANITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.
OW folemn is the pile !-how still the scenes!
What serious dread !-whatawfulfilence reigns!
The list ning ear receives no other sound,
But echoes whisp’ring thro’ the vaulted round.
No other objects strike the wond'ring eyes,
But venerable columns that arise,
And on their capitals uprear aloof
The pond'rous arches of yon distant roof.
Or where the PARIAN stone, and figur'd brass,
A group of melancholy forms express;
In mimic art, the weeping marble breathes,
And twisted pillars (well with mournful wreaths :
In pomp of fad magnificence, to spread
Their monumental honors o'er the dead.
Such, and so folitary the retreat
Of royal splendor, and the stately grcat;
Here all the heads that wore the Gallic crown,
From DAGOBERT to mighty LEWIS down;
Within the leaden arms of death are prest,
And all their cares and conquests laid to rest :
One common fate with other mortals scan,
For he who liv'd a monarch dies a man.
* The church where the kings of France are buried.
No courtier here, no sycophant attends,
The practis'd knee no cringing flatterer bends;
No armed guards in glittring order wait,
No shining equipages croud the gate !
The robe, the crown, the sceptre; laid aside,
With all the pageant toys of regal pride;
Who rous’d the sons of war to deeds of arms,
And shook the trembling nations with alarms;
Whose rapid conquests o'er the rivers flew,
And whose ambition with his conquests grew;
Is now confin’d within the lonesome cave,
A shroud his mantle, and his realín a grave i
Without one flave his orders to perform,
And no attendant but the crawling worm.
What tho' from Italy or Egypt's womb,
* De LORME, TUBY, or PONTIUS raise the tomb;
The sculptor's nicest touch can only show,
A child of duft, a mortal lies below.
Ye sons of pomp ! say, does it much avail,
To rot enshrin’d in gold, or common deal?
If porphiry, and jafper load the dead?
Or moffy turf lie lighter on the head ?
When to the grave the lifeless corpse descends,
The curtain drops, and all distinction ends :
Nor will the dust of GALLIA's royal line,
With majesty distinguish'd, brighter shine,
Than what the wretched LAZAR's putrid wound,
Corrupted crumbles in its parent ground,
# Three famous sculptorse