I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trode th' Arcadian plain.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd the scaly brood,
In myriads, cleave thy crystal flood:
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen;
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.
III. Ode from the 19 Psalm.
HE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's pow'r display;
And publishes to ev'ry land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:
While 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 poll to poll.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound;
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason's ear they all rejoice
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
loveliest village of the plain!
S
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease!
Seats of my 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 brock, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighboring 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 labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!.
While many a pastime circled 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,
the mirthful band
Succeeding sports
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown
By holding holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long 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 milk-maid 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 Bodiy.
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,
Makes ev'n 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 every eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just, that life itself was there.
No flatt'ry with his colors laid,
To bloom restor'd the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength;
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length,
His honest pencil touch'd with truth,
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 ev'ry grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He plac'd in view; resolv'd to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these;
From these corrected ev'ry 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 dip'd 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 ev'n common eyes must strike;
I warrant it extremely like."
My Lord examin'd it anew-
No looking-glass 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 ev'ry age some charm he lent;
Ev'n 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.
IRTUOUS and vicious ev'ry man must be,
Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree;
The rogue and fool by fits are fair and wise,
And ev'n the best, by fits, what they despise.
'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill,
For Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still:
Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal;
But Heav'n's great view is One, and that the Whole.
That counter-works 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 ends from Vanity can raise,
Which seeks no int'rest, 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 all.
Wants, frailties, passsions, closer still ally
The common int'rest, or endear the tie.
To these we owe true friendship, love sincere,
Each home-felt 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 will change his neighbor 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 Heav'n;
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 play-thing 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 bubble 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;
In Folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy;
One prospect lost, another still we gain;
And not a vanity is giv'n in vain;
Ev'n mean self-love 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 in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears: To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears. Th' inferior priestess, at the altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear: From each, she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil: This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise, here, and elephant, unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white.
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