XVI. THE INNOCENT THIEF.
NOT a flower can be found in the fields,
Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,
From the largest to least, but it yields
To the bee, never-wearied, a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexplored,
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 spared 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.
XVII. DENNER'S OLD WOMAN.
In this mimic 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-furrowed frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around
With locks like the ribbon, with which they are bound;
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 expressed, with fidelity due,
Nor a pimple, or freckle concealed from the view.
Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste
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 see
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,
O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.
Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage To peruse, half-enamoured, 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 gained, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtained!
XVIII. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.
APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expired-his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And-"Oh! my child, accept," he said,
('Tis all that I can now bestow,)
This tribute of a father's wo!"
Then, faithful to the twofold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And formed 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.
Thus far is well. But view again,
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's power he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies :
And still his cheek, unfaded, shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedless to the finished whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.
Now, painter, cease! thy task is done,
Long lives this image of thy son;
Nor shortlived shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.
XIX. THE MAZE.
FROM right to left, and to and fro
Caught in a labyrinth, you go,
And turn, and turn, and turn again,.
To solve the mystery, but in vain;
Stand still and breathe, and take from me
A clew that soon shall set you free!
Not Ariadne, if you meet her,
Herself could serve you with a better.
You enter'd easily-find where-
And make with ease, your exit there!
XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE
THE lover, in melodious verses
His singular distress rehearses.
Still closing with a rue ul cry,
"Was ever such a wretch as I!"
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumbered Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
XXI. THE SNAIL.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Together.
Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much
Displeasure.
Wherever he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined)
If finding it, he fails to find
THE CONTRITE HEART.
THE Lord will happiness divine
On contrite hearts bestow;
Then tell me, Gracious God, is mine
A contrite heart or no?
I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain
To find I cannot feel.
I sometimes think myself inclined
To love thee, if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that's good.
My best desires are faint and few,
I fain would strive for more;
But when I cry, "My strength, renew,"
Seem weaker than before.
I see thy saints with comfort filled,
When in thy house of prayer;
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