PHILOSOPHERS, dear girl, have toil'd Two thousand years, and still been foil'd, To find that far-fam'd precious Stone They arrogantly call their own;
And they yet rack their sapient brains, And get but Labour for their Pains.
Alas! they all agree, at length, To make it out is past their strength; And so conclude, with reason sound, This Stone is no where to be found: But still they talk and write about it, And wonder how they live without it.
Some place the precious Stone in Gold, Beyond what Croesus ever told; Some give it to corporeal Health; And some will have it mental Wealth: Others determine it to mix
In Fashion and a Coach-and-Six;
And some have labour'd hard to prove
It is a Cottage bless'd by Love:
This thinks 'tis Shade, that swears 't is Sun,
And finish just where they begun.
The grand discovery then is mine;—
Since I can prove, sweet Maid! 'tis thine.
If in true Happiness it lies,
It revels in ELIZA's eyes:
And if it blooms in Health's fair rose, In dear ELIZA's face it glows;
Like morning-beams we see it break, And sport upon ELIZA's cheek. And when she takes her playful round, In every step it seems to bound.
Or if, as Sages oft have told, The charm consists in making gold Pure as if stamp'd in mint divine,- ELIZA, still that mint is thine;
And your sweet Alchemy shall claim, Beyond the Sage, superior fame. From that rich mine-a merry heart- You draw, with more than chemic art, Of happy thoughts a copious store, And radiant Gold without the Ore, And the gay vein of sportive Sense Enrich'd by sterling Innocence; Th' undrossy treasures of the Mind, Good-humour'd, graceful, and refin'd; And, rivalling the Seers of old, Whate'er you touch transmutes to Gold, The Brass of Life, and e'en the Lead, Turn to this envied Stone instead, And, by the power of Transmutation, Grow better by their alteration. And hence 'tis plain this envied Stone Belongs to Innocence alone; And those who are as good as you, May, if they please, possess it too; For to be good, and gay, and free, IS STILL THE BEST PHILOSOPHY,
WITH A NEEDLE-CASE, SENT FROM BATH.
IN Friendship's estimate, 'tis said, Small gifts are great, if kindly made, And great ones small, if they impart No token of a willing heart:- :- Hence you, who know me for a Friend, Will prize the trifling gift I send.
Yet think not lightly of the CASE, Presented from this idle place; For, when the Furniture you buy, Which Birmingham can best supply, To solid use you can employ, And wisely too, this paper Toy;
When stor'd with that same Furniture, Some faults 'twill mend, and others cure.
The Muse of Hist'ry could unfold
What Miracles were wrought of old, What mighty Wonders have been done,` What Trophies and what Triumphs won, By that mysterious Instrument
For which a Cover I have sent
E'en from the days of charming Folly; Blest Days of Infancy and Dolly. Dear to the heart of Babyhood
The Nurseling-altho' made of wood
It shines the mark of Women sage,
Froin earliest Youth to latest Age. This may ELIZA's Sampler tell,
This may her daily tasks reveal; this explain,
Whate'er she wears may
From Ball-night Frock to Bed-gown plain. The Needle! a long-honour'd name, Stands proudly in the Ranks of Fame; Its magic powers of Industry
Can all but conqu❜ring Time defy.
In every venerable Dome, Where'er the Traveller can roam, Some token of the Needle's art Doth fair Economy impart : It gives a rich and goodly grace, Where'er our Ancestors we trace: It decks the chambers of the Great, And adds a pomp to rooms of State : In tap'stried Parlour, trophied Hall, In Palace vast, in Cottage small,
In back-stitch, tent-stitch, netting, knitting, In all that 's seemly, fair, and fitting, We view it in each fold and pucker, E'en from the shoe-string to the tucker; We view it in each darn and plait Of matron thrift and maiden neat ; Things poor and rich it holds together, In spite of wearing, wind, and weather; And still preserves when Beauty's fled, And matters hang but by a Thread: In short, 't is obvious, more or less, every thing but Idleness.
But why to You the Needle's praise, Who prove its worth a thousand ways? Have I not seen you mend and make, And tear, as if for mending's sake; And then again your work undo, Mending the rent, to rend anew? And when too happy to reflect On what, when grave, you ne'er neglect, Have I not seen-when play has ended—
When thrice you've rent what twice you mended, How hard you work'd?-no doubt to show You are both Romp and Housewife too.
And looking hence to after-time, Your Bard shall prophesy in rhyme; He sees that all which Art can give, And Nature from such aid receive, And all which springs from work or play, From all that's grave and all that's gay, Your Worth and Talents will unfold, Richer than Needlework of Gold; The native treasures of the soul, True-as the Needle to the Pole.
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