AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. WHEN, with a REAUMUR's skill, thy curious mind Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting; Point out the green lane rough with fern and flowers; And the white front thro' mingling elms revealed. To simple comforts, and domestic rites, When the gay months of Carnival resume Still must my partial pencil love to dwell On the home-prospects of my hermit-cell ; The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green, Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen; And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow, Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass; The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight; And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. Far to the south a mountain-vale retires, Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires; Its upland-lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung, Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung: And through the various year, the various day, What scenes of glory burst, and melt away! When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, And the furred Beauty comes to winter there, She bids old Nature mar the plan no more ; Yet still the seasons circle as before. Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song, Tho' Evening lingers at the masque so long, Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Yet modest ornament, with use combined, Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. Small change of scene, small space his home requires, Who leads a life of satisfied desires. What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, From every point a ray of genius flows! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, Here from the mould to conscious being start Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, A MICHAEL'S grandeur, and a RAPHAEL'S grace! Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies, But could thine erring friend so long forget Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours ; Tho' my thatched bath no rich Mosaic knows, Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. Postea verò quam Tyrannio mihi libros disposuit, mens addita videtur meis ædibus.-CIC. |