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So very like a painter drew,

Sat proudly perking on a rose, That every eye the picture knew;

With pert conceit his bosom glows; He hit complexion, feature, air,

His wings (all glorious to behold) So just, the life itself was there.

Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
No flattery, with his colours laid,

Wide he displays; the spangled dew
To bloom restor'd the faded maid;

Reflects his eyes and various hue.
He gave each muscle all its strength;

His now-forgotten friend a snail, The mouth, the chin, the nose's length;

Beneath his house, with slimy trail, His honest pencil touch'd with truth,

Crawls o'er the grass; whom when he spies, And mark'd the date of age and youth.

In wrath he to the gardener cries :
He lost his friends, his practice fail'd ;

“ What means yon peasant's daily toil, Truth should not always be reveal'd:

From choking weeds to rid the soil ? In dusty piles his pictures lay,

Why wake you to the morning's care ? For no one sent the second pay.

Why with new arts correct the year? Two bustos, fraught with every grace,

Why grows the peach with crimson hue ? A Venus' and Apollo's face,

And why the plum's inviting blue? He plac'd in view ; resolv'd to please,

Were they to feast his taste design'd, Whoever sat he drew from these ;

That vermin of voracious kind! From these corrected every feature,

Crush then the slow, the pilfering race, And spirited each aukward creature.

So purge thy garden from disgrace." All things were set; the hour was come,

" What arrogance !” the snail reply'd; His pallet ready o'er his thumb.

“ How insolent is upstart pride ! My lord appear'd ; and seated right,

Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain, In proper attitude and light,

Provok'd my patience to complain, The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece,

I had conceal'd thy meaner birth, Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece,

Nor trac'd thee to the scum of earth: Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air:

For scarce nine suns have wak'd the hours, Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there,

To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, Might well a Raphael's hand require,

Since I thy humbler life survey'd, To give them all the native fire;

In base, in sordid guise array’d; The features, fraught with sense and wit,

A hideous insect, vile, unclean, You'll grant, are very hard to hit;

You dragg'd a slow and noisome train ; But yet with patience you shall view

And from your spider bowels drew
As much as paint and art can do.”

Foul film, and spun the dirty clue.
Observe the work. My lord replied,

I own my humble life, good friend; “ Till now I thought my mouth was wide;

Snail was I born, and snail shall end. Besides, my nose is somewhat long:

And what's a butterfly? at best Dear sir, for me, 'tis far too young."

He's but a caterpillar drest; “Oh! pardon me,” the artist cry'd;

And all thy race (a numerous seed) " In this we painters must decide.

Shall prove of caterpillar breed.” The piece ev’n common eyes must strike,

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH, I warrant it extremely like.” My lord examin'd it anew ;

A fox, in life's extreme decay,
No looking-glass seem'd half so true.

Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay :
A lady came; with borrow'd grace

All appetite had left his maw,
He from his Venus form'd her face.

And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw. Her lover prais'd the painter's art;

His numerous race around him stand, So like the picture in his heart!

To learn their dying sire's command:

He rais'd his head with whining moan, To every age some charm he lent; Ev'n beauties were almost content.

And thus was heard the feeble tone:

“ Ah! sons! from evil ways depart; Through all the town his art they prais'd ;

My crimes lie heavy on my heart.
His custom grew, his price was rais’d.
Had be the real likeness shown,

See, see,
the murder'd

geese appear!

Why are those bleeding turkeys there? Would any man the picture own ?

Why all around this cackling train,
But, when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

Who haunt my ears for chickens slain ?"

The hungry foxes round them star'd,

And for the promis'd feast prepar'd.
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL.

" Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer? All upstarts, insolent in place,

Nor turkey, goose, nor hen, is here. Remind us of their vulgar race.

These are the phantoms of your brain; As in the sunshine of the morn

And your sons lick their lips in vain.”. A butterfly (but newly born)

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THE TWO MONKIES,

The learned, full of inward pride,
The fops of outward show deride ;
The fop, with learning at defiance,
Scoffs at the pedant and the science:
The Don, a formal solemn strutter,
Despises Monsieur's airs and Autter;
While Monsieur mocks the formal fool,
Who looks, and speaks, and walks, by rule.
Britain, a medley of the twain,
As pert as France, as grave as Spain,
In fancy wiser than the rest,
Laughs at them both, of both the jest.
Is not the poet's chiming close
Censur'd by all the sons of prose ?
While bards of quick imagination

Men laugh at apes: they men contemn;

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Who our mean mimics thus reward.

“ Ogluttons !" says the drooping sire,

Insult not thus the meek and low; “ Restrain inordinate desire.

In me thy benefactor know; Your liquorish taste you shall deplore,

My warm assistance gave thee birth, When peace of conscience is no more.

Or thou hadst perish'd low in earth; Does not the hound betray our pace,

But upstarts, to support their station,
And gins and guns destroy our race?

Cancel at once all obligation.”
Thieves dread the searching eye of power,
And never feel the quiet hour.
Old age (which few of us shall know)
Now puts a period to my woe.
Would you true happiness attain,
Let honesty your passions rein;
So live in credit and esteem,
And the good name you lost redeem.”

“ The counsel's good," a fox replies,
“ Could we perform what you advise.
Think what our ancestors have done ;
A line of thieves from son to son.
To us descends the long disgrace,
And infamy hath mark'd our race.
Though we, like harmless sheep, should feed,
Honest in thought, in word, and deed,
Whatever hen-roost is decreas’d,
We shall be thought to share the feast.

Despise the sleepy prose narration.
The change shall never be believ'd.
A lost good name is ne'er retriev’d.”

For what are we but apes to them?
Nay, then,” replies the feeble fox,

Two monkies went to Southwark fair, “ (But, lark! I hear a hen that clucks),

No critics had a sourer air; Go; but be moderate in your food;

They forc'd their way through draggled folks, A chicken, too, might do me good."

Who gap'd to catch Jack Pudding's jokes ;

Then took their tickets for the show, THE BARLEY-MOW AND THE DUNGHILL.

And got by chance the foremost row. How many saucy airs we meet

To see their grave observing face, From Temple-bar to Aldgate-street!

Provok'd a laugh through all the place. Proud rogues, who shared the South-sea prey, “ Brother," says Pug, and turn'd his head, And sprung like mushrooms in a day!

“ The rabble's monstrously ill-bred.” They think it mean to condescend

Now through the booth loud hisses ran, To know a brother or a friend ;

Nor ended till the show began. They blush to hear their mother's name,

The tumbler whirls the flip-Aap round, And by their pride expose their shame.

With somersets he shakes the ground; As cross his yard, at early day,

The cord beneath the dancer springs ; A careful farmer took his way,

Aloft in air the vaulter swings; He stopp'd; and, leaning on his fork,

Distorted now, now prone depends, Observ'd the flail's incessant work.

Now through his twisted arm ascends. In thought he measur'd all his store,

The crowd, in wonder and delight,
His geese, his hogs, he number'd o'er;

With clapping hands applaud the sight.
In fancy weigh’d the fleeces shorn,
And multiply'd the next year's corn.

The giant apes of reason please,
A barley-mow, which stood beside,
Thus to its musing master cry'd:

Say, good sir, is it fit or right
To treat me with neglect and slight?
Me, who contribute to your cheer,
And raise your mirth with ale and beer?
Why thus insulted, thus disgrac'd,
And that vile dunghill near me plac'd?
Are those poor sweepings of a groom,
That filthy sight, that nauseous fume,
Meet objects here ? Command it hence;
A thing so mean must give offence.”

The humble dunghill thus reply'd:
Thy master hears, and mocks thy pride :

With smiles, quoth Pug, “ If pranks like these

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How would they wonder at our arts!
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've seen you cling,
Play, twist, and turn in airy ring;
How can those clumsy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find,
These emulators of our kind
Discern our worth, our parts regard,

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“ Brother," the grinning mate replies,
In this I grant that man is wise :
While good example they pursue,
We must allow some praise is due ;

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But, when they strain beyond their guide,

Comply'd with every thing, like Gay, I laugh to scorn the mimic pride;

Was known by all the bestial train For how fantastic is the sight,

Who haunt the wood or graze the plain ; To meet men always bolt upright,

Her care was never to offend; Because we sometimes walk on two!

And every creature was her friend. I hate the imitating crew.

As forth she went at early dawn,

To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
THE POET AND THE ROSE.

Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
I hate the man who builds his name

And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies. On ruins of another's fame.

She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,

She hears the near advance of death ; Imagine that they raise their own.

She doubles to mislead the hound, Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,

And measures back her maży round; Think slander can transplant the bays.

Till, fainting in the public way, i Beauties and bards have equal pride,

Half dead with fear she gasping lay. With both all rivals are decry’d.

What transport in her bosom grew, Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,

When first the horse appear'd in view ! Must call her sister aukward creature;

“ Let me,” says she, “ your back ascend, For the kind flattery's sure to charm,

And owe my safety to a friend. When we some other nymph disarm.

You know my feet betray my flight; As in the cool of early day

To friendship every burden's light." A poet sought the sweets of May,

The horse reply'd,“ Poor honest puss, The garden's fragrant breath ascends,

It grieves my heart to see thee thus : And every stalk with odour bends ;

Be comforted, relief is near; A rose he pluck’d, he gaz'd, admir'd,

For all your friends are in the rear." Thus singing, as the Muse inspir’d:

She next the stately bull implor'd; “Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;

And thus reply'd the mighty lord : How happy shall I prove,

“ Since every beast alive can tell Might I supply that envy'd place

That I sincerely wish you well, With never fading love!

I may, without offence, pretend There, phenix-like, beneath her eye,

To take the freedom of a friend. Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die.

Love calls me hence; a favourite cow Know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find

Expects me near yon barley-mow; More fragrant roses there !

And, when a lady's in the case, I see thy withering head reclin'd

You know, all other things give place. With envy and despair !

To leave you thus might seem unkind; One common fate we both must prove ;

But see, the goat is just behind." You die with envy, I with love.”

The goat remark'd“ her pulse was high, “ Spare your comparisons,” reply'd

Her languid head, her heavy eye: An angry rose, who grew beside.

My back, says he, may do you harm; * Of all mankind you should not flout us;

The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." What can a poet do without us?

The sheep was feeble, and complain'd In every love-song roses bloom;

“ His sides a load of wool sustain'd;" We lend you colour and perfume.

Said, he was slow, confess'd his fears; Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,

“ For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.” To found her praise on our abuse ?

She now the trotting calf address'd, Must we, to flatter her, be made

To save from death a friend distress'd. To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?”

“ Shall I,” says he, “ of tender age, In this important care engage?

Older and abler pass’d you by ; Friendship, like love, is but a name,

How strong are those ! how weak am I; Unless to one you stint the flame.

Should I presume to bear you hence, The child, whom many fathers share,

Those friends of mine may take offence. Hath seldom known a father's care,

Excuse me, then ; you know my heart; Tis thus in friendships; who depend

But dearest friends, alas! must part. On many, rarely find a friend.

How shall we all lament! Adieu ; A hare who, in a civil way,

For see the hounds are just in view."

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THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.

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BLAIR-A.D. 1700-46.

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THE GRAVE.
Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade,
Some flee the city, some the hermitage ;
Their aims as various, as the roads they take
In journeying through life ;--the task be mine
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet.—Thy succours I implore,
Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains [thing!
The keys of hell and death.--The grave, dread
Men shiver when thou’rt nam'd: Nature appallid,
Shakes off her wonted firmness.-Ah! how dark
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes!
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun (night,
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.—The sickly taper,
By glimm'ring through thy low-brow'd misty vaults,
Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs, and worms;
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embody'd, thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallow'd fane !—the pious work
Of names once fam’d, now dubious or forgot,
And bury'd midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up: hark! how it howls ! Methinks
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: [bird,
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul
Rook'd in the spire,screams loud : the gloomy aisles
Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of

scutcheons
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.—Rous'd from their
In grim array the grisly spectres rise, [slumbers,
Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!
l'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.

Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms,
(Coeval near with that) all ragged show,
Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down
Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top,
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd

here:

ure
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs:
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd.
Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.

Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonshine cheq'ring through the

s'hi
The school-boy with his satchel in his hand, trees,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,

Rest SE
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new open’d grave; and (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

madin
The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spied,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead;
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling memory
In barbarous succession musters up
The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

Invidious grave! how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul;
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,
Anxious to please.—O! when my friend and I

some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood
Sweet murm’ring; methought the shrill-longu'd

thrush
Mended his song of love ;
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note :

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the sooty

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BLAIR

The eglantine smellid sweeter, and the rose

Of conquerors, and coronation-pomps,
Assum'd a dye more deep, whilst ev'ry flower In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Vied with its fellow plant in luxury

Retard th' unwieldy show; whilst from the case-
Of dress.-Oh! then, the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks close wedgid
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness

Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,

Why this ado in earthing up a carcass
Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! That's fall’n into disgrace, and in the nostril
Dull grave—thou spoil'st the dance of youthful Smells horrible ?-Ye undertakers, tell us,
blood,

Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Strik’st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, Why is the principal conceal'd, for which
And ev'ry smirking feature froin the face ;

You make this mighty stir ?—'Tis wisely done:
Branding our laughter with the name of madness. What would offend the eye in a good picture,
Where are the jesters now? the man of health The painter casts discreetly into shades.
Complexionally pleasant? where the droll,

Proud lineage, now how little thou appear’st!
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke

Below the envy of the private man!
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,

Honor, that meddlesome officious ill,
And made ev’n thick-lip'd musing Melancholy Pursues thee ev'n to death ; nor there stops short.
To gather up her face into a smile

Strange persecution! when the grave itself
Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now,

Is no protection from rude sufferance.
And dumb as the green turf that covers them.

Absurd ! to think to over-reach the grave,
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?

And from the wreck of names to rescue ours ! The Roman Cæsars, and the Grecian chiefs,

The best concerted schemes men lay for fame The boast of story? Where the hot-brain's youth Die fast away: only themselves die faster. Who the tiara at his pleasure tore

The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laureld bard,
From kings of all the then discover'd globe ;

Those bold insurers of eternal fame,
And cry'd, forsooth, because his arm was hamper’d, Supply their little feeble aids in vain.
And had not room enough to do its work?

The tapering pyramid, the Egyptian's pride,
Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim,

And wonder of the world! whose spiky top
And cram'd into a space we blush to name !

Has wounded the thick cloud, and long ontliv'd
Proud royalty! how alter'd in thy looks!

The angry shaking of the winter's storm;
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!

Yet spent at last by th' injuries of heav’n,
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone ?

Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years,
Whiere hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,

The mystic cone with bieroglyphics crusted,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes

Gives way. O lamentable sight! at once
Felt from afar: Pliant and powerless now

The labor of whole ages lumbers down ;
Like new-born infant bound up in bis swathes,

A hideous and mis-shapen length of ruins.
Or victim tumbled flat upon his back,

Sepulchral columns wrestle but in vain
That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife.

With all-subduing Time; his cankering hand
Mute, must thou bear the strife of little tongues,

With calm deliberate malice wasteth them:
And coward insults of the base-born crowd;

Worn on the edge of days, the brass consumes,
That grudge a privilege thou never hadst,

The busto moulders, and the deep cut marble,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful grave,

Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge.
Of being unmolested and alone.

Ambition, half convicted of her folly,
Arabia's
gums and odoriferous drugs,

Hangs down the head and reddens at the tale.
And honours by the herald duly paid

Here all the mighty troublers of the earth, In mode and form, ev'n to a very scruple ;

Who swam to sov'reign rule thro' seas of blood; Oh cruel irony! these come too late;

The oppressive, sturdy man-destroying villains,
And only mock, whom they were meant to honour. Who ravay'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste,

And in a cruel wantomess of power
Surely there's not a dungeon-slave that's bury'd

Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up
In the high-way, unshrouded and uncoffin'd,

To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent, But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he.

Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind thy covert. Sorry pre-eminence of high descent,

Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn Above the baser-born, to rot in state.

That haunts and dogs them like an injur'd ghost
But see! the well-plum'd herse comes nodding on,

Implacable. Here too the petty tyrant,
Stately and slow; and properly attended

Whose scant domains geographer ne'er notic'd,
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch

And, well for neighb'ring grounds, of arm as short, The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,

Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor,

prey, By letting out their persons by the hour,

And grip'd thein like some lordly beast of
Deaf 10 the forceful cries of gnawing hunger,
And piteous plaintive voice of misery

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To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad.
How rich the trappings! how they're all unfurld,
And glittering in the sun; triumphant entries

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