THE CAUSE WON.

Two neighbours furiously dispute;
A field-the subject of the suit.
Trivial the spot, yet such the rage
With which the combatants engage,
"Twere hard to tell, who covets most
The prize-at whatsoever cost.

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice;
No single word but has its price:
No term but yields some fair pretence
For novel and increased expense.

Defendant thus becomes a name,
Which he, that bore it, may disclaim;
Since both, in one description blended,
Are plaintiffs-when the suit is ended.

THE SILK-WORM.

THE beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance by which he lives,
The mulberry-leaf, a simple store,
That serves him-till he needs no more!
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though, till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins;
He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins;
Till circle upon circle wound
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task:

And, though a worm when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,
When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous; supplies
With future worms and future flies
The next ensuing year;-and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter-lived than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.

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 peck 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 chemist 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.

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-furrow'd 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 express'd, with fidelity due,
Nor a pimple, or freckle, conceal'd 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-enamour'd, 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 gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd!

THE INNOCENT THIEF.

Nor 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
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.

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 woe!"
Then, faithful to the two-fold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And form'd 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 powers he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies:
And still his cheek unfaded shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedful to the finish'd 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 short-lived shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.

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 met her,
Herself could serve you with a better.
You enter'd easily find where-
And make, with ease, your exit there!

NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER.

THE lover, in melodious verses,
His singular distress rehearses,
Still closing with a rueful cry,
"Was ever such a wretch as I?"
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply more.
Unnumber'd 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.

WITH two spurs or one; and no great matter which,
Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a switch,
Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast,
Paid part into hand,-you must wait for the rest;
Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse,
And out they both sally for better or worse;
His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather;
And in violent haste to go not knowing whither;
Through the fields and the towns, (see!) he scam-
pers along,

And is look'd at, and laugh'd at, by old and by young.

Till at length overspent, and his sides smear'd with blood,

Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud. In a waggon or chaise shall he finish his route? Oh! scandalous fate! he must do it on foot.

Young gentlemen, hear;-I am older than you! The advice, that I give, I have proved to be true. Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.

THE NEAPOLITAN, JOHN BAPTIST MANSO,

MARQUIS OF VILLA,

TO THE ENGLISHMAN, JOHN MILTON.

Zeuxis, all energy and flame,

Set ardent forth in his career; Urged to his task by Helen's fame Resounding ever in his ear;

To make his image to her beauty true,

[drew.

O how intelligent! and how refined!

Were but thy piety from fault as free, Thou would'st no Angle but an Angel be.

EXALT me, Clio, to the skies,

That I may form a starry crown

Beyond what Helicon supplies

İn laureate garlands of renown;

To nobler worth be brighter glory given,

And to a heavenly mind a recompense from heaven.

Time's wasteful hunger cannot prey

On everlasting high desert,

Nor can oblivion steal away

Its record graven on the heart;

[foe.

Lodge but an arrow, virtue, on the bow
That binds my lyre, and death shall be a vanquish'd

In ocean's blazing flood enshrined

Whose vassal tide around her swells, Albion, from other climes disjoin'd, The prowess of the world excels; She teems with heroes, that to glory rise,

With more than human force in our astonish'd eyes.

To virtue, driven from other lands,
Their bosom yields a safe retreat;
Her law alone the deed commands;

Her smiles they feel divinely sweet.
Confirm my record, Milton, generous youth!
And by true virtue prove thy virtue's praise a truth.

Let time no more his wing display,

And boast his ruinous career,

For virtue rescued from his sway

His injuries may cease to fear;

Since all events, that claim remembrance, find
A chronicle exact in thy capacious mind.

Give me, that I may praise thy song,
Thy lyre, by which alone I can,
Which, placing thee the stars among,

Already proves thee more than man;

And Thamesshall seem Permessus, while his stream Graced with a swan like thee, shall be my favourite theme.

I, who beside the Arno, strain

To match thy merit with my lays, Learn, after many an effort vain,

To admire thee rather than to praise, And that by mute astonishment alone, [be shown. Not by the faltering tongue, thy worth may best

ELEGY I.

TO CHARLES DEODATI.

Ar length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home;
They come, at length, from Deva's western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with influent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel
To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell.
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,'
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
"Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain,
And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain.
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent,
Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse
A name expressive of the lot I chuse.

I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore,
Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more;
He then had equal'd even Homer's lays,
And Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise.
For here I woo the muse, with no control;
And here my books-my life-absorb me whole.
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep,
The winding theatre's majestic sweep;
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits;
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,
Suitor, or soldier now unarm❜d, be there;
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,
Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws.
The lacquey there oft dupes the wary sire,
And artful speeds the enamour'd son's desire.
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,
What love is, know not, yet, unknowing, love.
Or if impassion'd Tragedy wield high
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief,
At times, even bitter tears yield sweet relief:
As when from bliss untasted torn away,
Some youth dies, hapless on his bridal day,
Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below,
Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe,

When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords,
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords.
Nor always city-pent, or pent at home,

I dwell; but when spring calls me forth to roam,
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
Of branching elm, that never sun pervades.
Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.
Oh forms divine! Oh looks that might inspire
Even Jove himself, grown old, with young desire!
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,
Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies,
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!
Bright locks, Love's golden snare! these falling
low,

Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!
Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after shower
Adonis turn'd to Flora's favourite flower!
Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the em-

brace

Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place!
Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast!
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom
Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome,
Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains
Redundant, and still live in classic strains!
To British damsels beauty's palm is due;
Aliens! to follow them is fame for you.
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,
Whose towering front the circling realms com-
mands,

Too blest abode! no loveliness we see
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.
The virgin multitude that daily meets,
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,
Outnumbers all her train of starry fires,
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.
Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves,
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,
Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,
Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore.
But lest the sightless boy inforce my stay,
I leave these happy walls, while yet I may.
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorcery of Circæan art,
And I will even repass Cam's reedy pools
To face once more the warfare of the schools.
Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,
Yet such, as prove thy friend's remembrance true!

ELEGY II.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE.

COMPOSED BY MILTON IN THE SEVENTEENTH YEAR OF HIS AGE.

THEE, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear, Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey, Although thyself an herald, famous here,

The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away.
He calls on all alike, nor even deigns
To spare the office that himself sustains.

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
By Leda's paramour in ancient time,
But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Or Æson-like to know a second prime,
Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.

Commission'd to convene, with hasty call,

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, [stand! Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command; And so Eurybates, when he address'd To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest. Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws And watchful eyes run through the realms below: Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause,

Too often to the muse not less a foe,
Chuse meaner marks, and with more equal aim
Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen and its
shame!

Flow, therefore, tears for him, from every eye,
All ye disciples of the Muses, weep!
Assembling, all, in robes of sable dye,

Around his bier, lament his endless sleep;
And let complaining elegy rehearse,
In every school, her sweetest, saddest verse.

ELEGY III.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER. COMPOSED IN THE AUTHOR'S SEVENTEENTH YEAR.

SILENT I sat, dejected, and alone,
Making in thought the public woes my own,
When, first, arose the image in my breast
Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!
How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand,
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land,
Has laid the gem-illumined palace low,
And level'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
I, next, deplored the famed paternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs;
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said:
"Death, next in power to him who rules the dead!
Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and every verdant field,

That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, And even the Cyprian queen's own roses, pine; That oaks themselves, although the running rill Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will; That all the winged nations, even those Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows, And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray, And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey? Ah envious! arm'd with powers so unconfined! Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind? Why take delight, with darts, that never roam, To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home?" While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood, Now newly risen above the western flood, And Phoebus from his morning goal again Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. I wish'd repose, and on my couch reclined, Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd: When-Oh for words to paint what I beheld! I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height; Flowers over all the field, of every hue That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. Nor Chloris, with whom amorous zephyrs play, E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold; With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers, With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers: Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.

While I, that splendour and the mingled shade Of fruitful vines, with wonder fixt survey'd, At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, The seer of Winton stood before my face. His snowy vesture's hem descending low His golden sandals swept ; and pure, as snow New-fallen, shone the mitre on his brow. Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound Of gladness shook the flowery scene around: Attendant angels clap their starry wings, The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings, Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest: "Ascend, my son! thy father's kingdom share! My son! henceforth be freed from every care!" So spake the voice, and at its tender close With psaltry's sound the angelic band arose; Then night retired, and chased by dawning day The visionary bliss pass'd all away.

I mourn'd my banish'd sleep, with fond concern ; Frequent to me may dreams like this return!

ELEGY IV.

TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG, CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT HAMBURGH. WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S EIGHTEENTH YEAR.

HENCE, my epistle-skim the deep-fly o'er
Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore!
Haste-lest a friend should grieve for thy delay,
And the gods grant, that nothing thwart thy way!
I will myself invoke the king, who binds,
In his Sicanian echoing vault, the winds,
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along.