Scarce any she quits unexplor'd,
With a diligence truly exact:
Yet, steal what she may for her hoard, Leaves evidence none of the fact.
Her lucrative task she pursues,
And pilfers with so much address, That none of their odour they lose, Nor charm by their beauty the less.
Not thus inoffensively preys
The canker-worm, indwelling foe ' His voracity not thus allays
The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.
The worm, more expensively fed,
The pride of the garden devours;
And birds pick the seed from the bed, Still less to be spar'd than the flowers
But she with such delicate skill
Her pillage so fits for her use, That the chymist in vain with his still Would labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.
DOCTUм anus artificem juste celebrata fatetur.
Denneri pinxit quam studiosa manus.
Nec stupor est oculis, fronti nec ruga severa,
Flaccida nec sulcis pendet utrinque gena.
Nil habet illepidum, morosum, aut triste tabella
Argentum capitis præter, anile nihil,
Apparent nivei vitiæ sub margine cani,
Fila colorati qualia Seres habent;
Lanugo mentum, sed quæ tenuissima, vestit,
Mollisque, et qualis Persica mala tegit.
Nulla vel e minimis fugiunt spiracula visum ;
At neque lineolis de cutis ulla latet.
Spectatum veniunt, novitas quos allicit usquam,
Quosque vel ingenii fama, vel artis amor.
Adveniunt juvenes; et anus si possit amari,
Dennere, agnoscunt hoc meruisse tuam.
Adveniunt hilares nymphæ; similemque senecta
Tam pulchram et placidam dent sibi fata, rogant.
Matronæ adveniunt, vetulæque fatentur in ore
Quod nihil horrendum, ridiculumve vident.
Quantus honos arti, per quam placet ipsa senectus
Quæ facit, ut nymphis invideatur anus!
Pictori cedit quæ gloria, cum nec Apelli
Majorcm famam det Cytherea suo!
* Diu publico fuit spectaculo egregia hæc tabula in area Palatina exteriori, juxta fanum Westmonastre riense.
In this mimick form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,
No wrinkle, or deep furrow'd frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around
With locks like the ribbon, with which they are
While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,
Or that indicates life in its winter-is here.
Yet all is express'd, with fidelity due,
Nor a pimple, nor freckle, conceal'd from the view.
Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a tasto For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste; The youths all agree, that could old age inspire The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, And the matrons, with pleasure, confess that they sce Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.
Strange magick of art! which the youth can engage To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age; And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, That she when as old, shall be equally fair! How great is the glory, that Denner has gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd' VOL. III.
INFANTEM audivit puerum, sua gaudia, Apelles
Intempestivo fato obiisse diein.
Ille, licet tristi perculsus imagine mortis,
Proferri in medium corpus inane jubet,
Et calamum, et succos poscens, " Hos accipe luctus,
"Mærorem hunc," dixit, “nate, parentis habe 1*
Dixit; et, ut clausit, clausos depinxit ocelos ;
Officio pariter fidus utrique pater :
Frontemque et crines, nec adhuc pallentia formans
Oscula, adumbravit lugubre pictor opus
Perge parens, morendo tuos expendere luctus;
Nondum opus absolvit triste suprema manus.
Vidit adhuc nolles genitor super oscula risus;
Vidit adhuc veneres irrubuisse genis,
Et teneras raptim veneres, blandosque lepores,
Et tacitos risus transtulit in tabulam.
Pingendo desiste tuum signare dolorem ;
Filioli longum vivet imago tui;
Vivet, et æterna vives tu laude, nec arte
Vincendus pictor, nec pietate pater.
APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expir'd-his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him,
He seiz'd his brush, his colours spread;
And-" Oh! my child, accept," he said,
"('Tis all that I can now bestow,)
"This t:ibute of a father's wo!"
Ther, faithful to the two-fold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He clos'd his eyes, with tender care,
And form'd at once a fellow pair.
His brow, with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew, not livid yet,
And shaded all, that he had done,
To a just image of his son.
Thu. far is well. But view again,
The use of thy paternal pain!
Thy relancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's pow'rs he tries,
For on his lips a sinile he spies:
And still his cheek, unfaded, shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedless to the finish'd whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the truc.
Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done,
Long lives this image of thy son ;
Nor short liv'd shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.
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