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THE PICTURE:

A TALE.

A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command,
Completed by a curious hand:
For dabblers in the nice vertâ
His lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their connoisseurships tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.

Why" says the loudest, " on my word,
"Tis not a likeness, good my lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.”
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each to deliver what be thought.
"Worse than the first"-the critics bawl;
"O what a mouth! how monstrous small!
Look at the cheeks-how lank and thin!
See, what a most prepost'rous chin!"
After remonstrance made in vain,

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I'll," says the painter, "once again, (If my good lord vouchsafes to sit) Try for a more successful hit: If you'll to morrow deign to call, We'll have a piece to please you all.” To morrow comes-a picture 's plac'd Before those spurious sons of TasteIn their opinions all agree, This is the vilest of the three. "Know-to confute your envious pride, (His lordship from the canvass cry'd) "Know-that it is my real face, Where you could no resemblance trace: I've try'd you by a lucky trick, And prov'd your GENIUS to the quick. Void of all judgment-justice-sense, Out-ye pretending varlets-hence."

The connoisseurs depart in haste, Despis'd-detected-and disgrac'd.

THE WITCH:

A TALE.

A WITCH, that from her ebon chair
Could hurl destruction through the air,
Or, at her all-commanding will,
Make the tumultuous ocean still:
Once, by an incantation fell,
(As the recording Druids tell)

Pluck'd the romid Moon, whose rad'ant light
Silver'd the sober noon of night,
From the domain she held above,
Down to a dark, infernal grove.

"Give me," the goddess cry'd, " a cause,
Why you disturb my sacred laws?
Look at my train,-yon wand'ring host!
See how the trembling stars are lost!
Through the celestial regions wide,
Why do they range without a guide!
Chaos, from our confusion, may
Hope for his old detested sway."

"I'm," says the Witch, "severely crost, Know that my fav'rite squirrel's lost :

Search -for I'll have creation torn,
If he 's not found before the morn."
Soon as the impious charge was giv'n--
From the tremendous stores of Heaven,
Jove with a bolt-revengeful!--red!
Struck the detested monster dead.

If there are slaves to pity blind,
With power enough to plague mankind,
That for their own nefarious ends
Tread upon Freedom and her friends,
Let 'em beware the Witch's fate!
When their presumption 's at the height,
Jove will his angry powers assume,

And the curs'd miscreants meet their doom.

REPUTATION:

AN ALLEGORY.

To travel far as the wide world extends, Seeking for objects that deserv'd their care, Virtue set forth, with two selected friends, Talent refin'd, and Reputation fair.

As they went on, in their intended round.
Talent first spoke, "My gentle comrades, say,
Where each of you may probably be found,
Should accident divide us on the way.

"If torn (she added) from my lov'd allies,
A friendly patronage I hope to find,
Where the fine arts from cultivation rise,
And the sweet Muse hath harmoniz'd mankind.”

Says Virtue, "Did Sincerity appear,

Or meek-ey'd Charity among the great; Could I find courtiers from corruption clear, 'Tis among these I'd seek for my retreat. "Could I find patriots, for the public weal

Assiduous, and without their selfish views; Could I find priests of undissembled zcal, "Tis among those my residence I'd choose.

"In glitt'ring domes let Luxury reside;

I must be found in some sequester'd cell, Far from the paths of Avarice or Pride,

Where homebred Happiness delights to dwell."

"Ye may be trac'd, my gentle friends, 'tis true,
But who," says Reputation, "can explore
My slipp'ry steps?- -Keep, keep me in your view,
If I'm once lost, you'll never find me more. "

THE ROSE AND BUTTERFLY:

A FABLE.

Ar day's early dawn a gay Butterfly spied
A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his bride:
She blush'd when she heard him his passion declare,
And tenderly told him-he need not despair.

Their faith was soon plighted, as lovers will do,
He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.
It had not been prudent to deal with delay,
The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,
And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.

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When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, till the Sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.
The Rose thus reproach'd him-" Already so cold!
How feign'd, O you false one, the passion you told!
'Tis an age since you left me:" she meant a few
hours;

But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers:
"I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
How-how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
Find favour, O Love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
Dull daffodils too were with ardour address'd,
And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd."
The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,
"That you 're first to complain, I commend you,
my dear!

But know, from your conduct ny maxims I drew,
And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.
I saw the boy Zephirus rifle your charms,
I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;
The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,
You favour'd besides-O dishonour!--a drone;
Yet worse-'tis a crime that you must not deny,
Your sweets were made common,false Rose, to a fly."

MORAL.

This law, long ago, did Love's providence make, That ev'ry coquet should be curs'd with a rake.

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THE SHEEP AND THE BRAMBLE-BUSH: How high the tides of fancy swell,

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THE Fox and the Cat, as they travell'd one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way: ""Tis great," says the Fox, " to make justice our guide!"

"How godlike is mercy!" Grimalkin reply'd.

Whilst thus they proceeded,— -a wolf from the Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, [wood, Rush'd forth-as he saw the dull shepherd asleep, And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. "In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand," says the wolf, "I must eat."

Expression must despair to tell.

A painter call'd,--Nicander cries, Descending from the radiant skies, "Draw me a bright, a beauteous boy, The herald of connubial joy! Draw him with all peculiar care, Make him beyond Adonis fair; Give to his cheeks a roseate hue, Let him have eyes of heav'nly blue, Lips soft'ning in nectarious dew; A lustre o'er his charms display, More glorious than the beams of day. Expect, sir, if you can succeed, A premium for a prince indeed.”

His talents straight the painter try'd, And ere the nuptial knot was ty'd, A picture in the noblest taste Before the fond Nicander plac'd.

The lover thus arraign'd his skill, "Your execution 's monstrous ill! A different form my fancy made; You 're quite a bungler at the trade. Where is the robe's luxuriant flow? Where is the cheek's celestial glow? Where are the looks so fond and free? 'Tis not an Hymen, sir, for me."

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"Take it away,"-the husband cry'd, "I have repeated cause to chide: Sir, you should all excesses shun; This is a picture overdone!

There's too much ardour in that eye,
The tincture on the cheeks too high!
The robes have a lascivious play,
The attitude 's too loosely gay.
Friend, on the whole, this piece, for me,
Is too luxuriant-far too free."

The painter thus--"The faults you find
Are form'd in your capricious mind;
To passion a devoted slave,
The first directions, sir, you gave;
Possession has repell'd the flame,
Nor left a sentiment the same.

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The plaintiff could articulate no more:

His bosom heav'd a most tremendous groan! The race of long-ear'd wretches join'd the roar,

Till Jove seem'dott'ring on his high-built throne.

The monarch, with an all-commanding sound, (Deepen'd like thunder through the rounds of space)

Gave order "That dame Fortune should be found, To answer, as she might, the plaintiff's case."

Soldiers and citizens, a seemly train!

And lawyers and physicians, sought her cell: With many a schoolman-but their search was vain: Few can the residence of Fortune tell.

Where the wretch Avarice was wont to hide
His gold, his emeralds, and rubies rare;
'Twas rumour'd that dame Fortune did reside,
And Jove's ambassadors were posted there.

Meagre and wan, in tatter'd garments drest,
A feeble porter at the gate they found:
Doubled with wretchedness-with age distrest,
And on his wrinkled forehead Famine frown'd.
"Mortals avaunt," (the trembling spectre cries)
"Ere you invade those sacred haunts, beware!
To guard lord Avarice from rude surprise,
I am the centinel-my name is Care.

"Doubts, Disappointments, Anarchy of Mind, These are the soldiers that surround his hall: And ev'ry fury that can lash mankind,

Rage, Rancour, and Revenge attend his call.

"Fortune's gone forth, you seek a wand'ring dame, A settled residence the harlot scorns: Curse on such visitants, she never came,

But with a cruel hand she scatter'd thorns!

"To the green vale, yon shelt'ring hills surround,
Go for ward, you'll arrive at Wisdom's cell :
Would you be taught where Fortune may be found,
None can direct your anxious search so well."

Forward they went, o'er many a dreary spot:
(Rough was the road, as if untrod before)
Till from the casement of a low-roof'd cot
Wisdom perceiv'd them, and unbarr'd her door.
Wisdom (she knew of Fortune but the name)
Gave to their questions a serene reply:
"Hither," she said, "if e'er that goddess came
I saw her not-she pass'd unnotic'd by.

"Abroad with Contemplation oft I roam,
And leave to Poverty my humble cell:
She 's my domestic, never stirs from home,
If Fortune has been here, 'tis she can tell.

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As on the painted turf the shepherd lies, Sleep's downy curtain shades his lovely eyes; And now a sporting breeze his bosom shows,

Jolly Health springs aloft at the loud sounding horn, As marble smooth, and white as Alpine snows:

Unlock'd from soft Slumber's embrace;

And Joy sings an hymn to salute the sweet Morn,
That smiles on the nymphs of the chase:
The rage of fell Cupid no bosom profanes,
No rancour disturbs our delight,

All the day with fresh vigour we sweep o'er the plains,
And sleep with contentment all night.

RECIT.

Their clamour rouse the slighted god of Love:
He flies, indignant, to the sacred grove:
Immortal myrtles wreath his golden hair,
His rosy wings perfume the wanton air;
Two quivers fill'd with darts his fell designs declare.
A crimson blush o'erspread Diana's face,

A frown succeeds-she stops the springing chase,
And thus forbids the boy the consecrated place.

AIR.

Fond disturber of the heart,

From these sacred shades depart:

Here's a blooming troop disdains

Love, and his fantastic chains.

Sisters of the silver bow,

Pure and chaste as virgin snow,
Melt not at thy feeble fires,
Wanton god of wild desires!

RECIT.

Rage and revenge divide Love's little breast, Whilst thus the angry goddess he addrest:

'Mount Latmos.

The goddess gaz'd, in magic softness bound;
Her silver bow falls useless to the ground!

Love laugh'd, and, sure of conquest, wing'd a dart
Unerring, to her undefended heart.

She feels in ev'ry vein the fatal fire,
And thus persuades her virgins to retire:

AIR.

Ye tender maids be timely wise!
Love's wanton fury shun!
In flight alone your safety lies,
The daring are undone !

Do blue-ey'd doves, serenely mild,
With vultures fell engage!
Do lambs provoke the lion wild,
Or tempt the tiger's rage!

No, no, like fawns, ye virgins fly,
To secret cells remove;
Nor dare the doubtful combat try
Twixt Chastity and Love.

AMPHITRION.

RECITATIVE.

AMPHITRION and his bride, a godlike pair!
He brave as Mars, and she as Venus fair;
On thrones of gold in purple triumph plac'd,
With matchless splendour held the nuptial feast:
Whilst the high roof with loud applauses rung,
Enraptur'd, thus, the happy hero sung:

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