When April verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, And the furr'd 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 mask so long. There let her strike with momentary ray, As tapers shine their little lives away; There let her practise from herself to steal, At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy; Fan with affected ease the essenc'd air, And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Be thine to meditate an humbler flight, When morning fills the fields with rosy light; Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, Repose with dignity, with Quiet fame. Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Yet modest ornament, with use combin'd, Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. Small change of scene, small space his home re quires, Who leads a life of satisfied desires. What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, From every point a ray of genius flows! d Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A MICHAEL'S grandeur, and a RAPHAEL's grace! Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, And my low roof the Vatican recalls! Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies, To waking sense what brighter visions rise! O mark! again the coursers of the Sun, Obscur'd and lost in floods of golden light! But could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers! * There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, Read ancient books, or woo inspiring dreams; h And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, 1 Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. apis Matinæ More modoque Grata carpentis thyma HOR. -Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls, Which breathes a soul into the silent walls; * Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue, All on whose words departed nations hung; Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; Tho' my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid stream with unfelt current flows. Emblem of Life! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! * Postea verò quàm Tyrannio mihi libros disposuit, mens addita videtur meis ædibus. CIC. |