THE TRIUMPH OF BEAUTY. THO' on my birth Euterpe smil'd, And science fann'd the latent fire, I heeded not, ungracious child, To mingle with the Thespian choir. For oh! with Sloth, enfeebling fair, Tho' younger Bion snatch'd the bays, Sloth bade me smile at deathless fame. Yet oft when Homer's work was read, But soon, too soon her arts prevail'd, Grey morn unbarr'd the gates of light, In vain grey morn unbarr'd the light, At last a form came tripping by, My sweep the dulcet shell obey'd, Smiling, she listen'd to the song, Then whisper'd, if her heart I'd gain, That I must soar above the throng By deeds, and Honour's palm obtain. As when a snake benumb'd with cold New vigour swells each bright'ning spire: I burnish'd up the warrior-shield, Encyclopædia of Wit. A QUACK DOCTOR'S NOTE CHANGED. WHEN Doctor Lotion first began Each morn his hospitable door 'Twas then, "No cure no pay." At length, with cane, and pond'rous wig, In eminence secure; The former system quite derang'd, The poor forgot, the motto chang'd, 'Tis now, "No pay no cure." Ibid. THE RESOLUTION. WHEN faithless Clara was my theme, When I her mind or person prais'd, To bow'rs of bliss beyond the skies Where beauties more than earthly rise, Vi'lets and roses cease to blow, Each flow'r of fragrance droops its head; To bow'rs of bliss beyond the skies, Encyclopedia of Wit. THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. By the side of a mountain, o'ershadow'd with trees, With thick clusters of vine intermingled and wove, I behold my thatch'd cottage, dear mansion of ease, The seat of contentment, of friendship, and love. Each morn when I open the latch of my door, My heart throbs with rapture to hear the birds sing; And at night when the dance in the village is o'er, On my pillow I strew the fresh roses of spring. When I hide in the forest from noon's scorching beam, I sing, and my song is the carol of joy, My cheek glows with health like the wild rose in bloom; I dance, yet forget not, tho' blithsome and gay, That I measure the footsteps that lead to the tomb; Contented to live, yet not fearful to die, With a conscience unspotted I pass thro' life's scene, On the wings of delight ev'ry moment shall fly, And the end of my days be resign'd and serene. Myrtle and Vine. |