The busy world's a fool, the learn'd a fot, And his fole hope to be by all forgot:
Wealth is procur'd with toil, and kept with fear, Knowledge by labour purchas'd costs too dear; Friendship's a clog, and family a jest,
A wife but a bad bargain at the best; Honour a bubble, fubject to a breath,
And all engagements vain fince null'd by death; Thus all the wife efteem, he can despise, And caring not, 'tis he alone is wife: Yet, all his wifh poffeffing, finds no rest, And only lives to know, he never can be bleft.
God of truth and God of love!
Since at length my aged eye Sees the day-spring from on high. Son of righteousness, to thee Lo! the nations bow the knee, And the realms of distant kings Own the healing of thy wings. Those whom death had overfpread With his dark and dreary fhade, Lift their eyes, and from afar Hail the light of Jacob's ftar; Waiting 'till the promis'd ray Turn their darkness into day. See the beams intenfely shed Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head. Never may they hence remove,
God of truth and God of love!
On the Invention of LETTERS.
ELL me what Genius did the art invent,
The lively image of the voice to paint ; Who first the secret how to colour found, And to give shape to reason, wifely found; With bodies how to cloath ideas, taught; And how to draw the picture of a thought: Who taught the hand to fpeak, the eye to hear A filent language roving far and near;
Whose softeft noife outftrips loud thunder's found, And spreads her accents through the world's vaft round: A voice heard by the deaf, fpoke by the dumb, Whose echo reaches long, long time to come; Which dead men speak as well as thofe alive- Tell me what Genius did this art contrive.
THE noble art to Cadmus owes its rife,
Of painting words, and fpeaking to the eyes;
He first in wond'rous magic fetters bound The airy voice, and ftop'd the flying found:" The various figures by his pencil wrought, Gave colour, form, and body to the thought.
RUE wit is like the brilliant stone
Dug from the Indian mine;
Which boasts two various powers in one,
To cut as well as fhine.
Genius, like that, if polifh'd right,
With the fame gifts abounds;
Appears at once both keen and bright, And sparkles while it wounds.
*******@***I*&*A*X*9******I
On a SPIDER.
RTIST, who underneath my table Thy curious texture haft display'd; Who, if we may believe the fable,
Wert once a fair ingenious maid:
Infidious, restless, watchful spider, Fear no officious damfel's broom,
Extend thy artful fabric wider,
And spread thy banners round my room.
Swept from the rich man's coftly ceiling, Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof;
Here may'st thou find a peaceful dwelling, And undisturb'd attend thy woof.
Whilft I thy wond'rous fabric ftare at, And think on haplefs poet's fate; Like thee confin'd to lonely garret,
And rudely banish'd rooms of ftate.
And as from out thy tortur'd body Thou draw'ft thy flender ftring with pain, So does he labour, like a noddy,
To spin materials from his brain.
He for fome fluttering tawdry creature, That spreads her charms before his eye; And that's a conqueft little better
Than thine o'er captive butterfly.
Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,
Perhaps our deaths may better shew it;
'Tis ten to one but penury
Ends both the fpider and the poet.
« ПредишнаНапред » |