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The lizard and the lazy lurking bat
Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room Where the sage matron and her maidens sat,
Sweet singing at the silver-working loom. The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste;
And the rude winds incessant seem to roar, Where, in his groves with arching arbours graced,
Young lovers often sigh’d in days of yore. His aqueducts that led the limpid tide
To pure canals, a crystal cool supply! In the deep dust their barren beauties hide: [dry!
Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them Though his rich hours in revelry were spent
With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew; And the sweet brow of beauty, still unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew : Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;
Not to be stay'd by masque or midnight roar! Nor shall a pulse, among that mouldering dust,
Beat wanton at the smiles of beauty more! Can the deep statesman, skill'd in great design,
Protract but for a day precarious breath? Or the tuned follower of the sacred Nine
Sooth, with his melody, insatiate Death? No:—though the palace bar her golden gate,
Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around; Unerring and unseen, the shaft of fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground ! What then avails Ambition's wide stretch'd wing,
The schoolman's page,or pride of beauty's bloom! The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-robed king,
Leveld, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.
The Macedonian 'monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began, Courtiers should call, as round his couch they
stood, · Philip! remember, thou’rt no more than man: • Though glory spread thy name from pole to pole;
Though thou art merciful and brave and just; Philip, reflect, thou’rt posting to the goal,
Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!' So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdued), Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd when the perishable pomp he view'd. And as he rode, high in his regal car,
In all the purple pride of conquest dress'd; Conspicuous o'er the trophies gain’d in war,
Placed, pendent on a spear, his burial vest: While thus the herald cried-This son of
power, This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd, May, in the space of one revolving hour,
Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud ! Search where Ambition raged, with rigour steel'd;
Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran; And say, while Memory weeps the blood-stain'd field,
[man? Where lies the chief, and where the common Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,
And monumental trophies raised on high! ForTime confounds them with the crumbling bones
That, mix'd in hasty graves, unnoticed lie.
Rests not beneath the turf the peasant's head,
Soft as the lord's beneath the labour'd tomb? Or sleeps one colder, in bis close clay bed,
Than the’other in the wide vault's dreary womb? Hither let Luxury lead her loose-robed train ;
Here flutter Pride, on purple-painted wings: And from the moral prospect learn,-how vain
The wish that sighs for sublunary things!
When Chloe with a blush complied
His talents straight the painter tried,
A picture in the noblest taste
The lover thus arraign'd his skill;-
tint, "Twill please you
-or the deuce is in't: I'll watch the happy change, and then Attend
you with my piece again.' In a few months the painter came With a performance-(still the same:)
• Take it away (the husband cry’d), I have repeated cause to chide:
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.
My picture is design’d to prove
• On the next staircase raised on high,
So various is the human mind,
ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE II.
Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
TENANTS of liberty on Britain's plain,
With flocks enrich’d, a vast unnumber'd store! 'Tis gone, the mighty George's golden reign;
Your Pan, your great defender is no more! The nymphs that in the sacred groves preside,
Where Albion's conquering oaks eternal spring, In the brown shades their secret sorrows hide,
And, silent, mourn the venerable king. Hark! how the winds, oft bounteous to his will,
That bore his conquering fleets to Gallia’s shore, After a pause, pathetically still,
Burstin loud peals, and through the forests roar.