And from Deceit in Friendship's shape,
Oh! from all these shall I escape?
Shall I from snakes and snares retire,
To Summer bow'r and Winter fire;
My Friend receive, forget my Foe;
And only those who love me know:
While all the rest shall keep aloof,
Nor dare profane my humble roof?
Oh joys! of every joy supreme!
What pity still 'tis half a dream!"
With this soliloquy he clos'd;
But Reason now no longer doz'd;
And Fancy vanish'd into air.
"Oh, Bard!" stern Reason cried, "beware!
Half of thy wish before thee lies;
Let Reason teach thee to be wise:
For t'other half with patience wait,
The happier turns of future fate;
The premises contented take
E'en as they are, nor dare to make,
Except by gentle, due gradations,
Any of FANCY's alterations.
She may, I own, thy heart allure;
But I, though slow, work far more sure,
And those who treat me with respect
Find me a better architect:
In honest truth, I'm better skill'd
A Cottage to repair or build;
For, though the thing's complete in verse,
I never build without a purse;
Know what my Fund can safely bear,
While Fancy's Bank is form'd of Air."
The Poet bow'd, and, sighing, said,
REASON should surely be obey'd;
He only hop'd the sacred Dame
Would not the Bard or Fancy blame,
If, till that distant, golden time,
They were to help him out in rhyme;
For, sure, in Rhyme itself there's Reason,
Till things more solid are in season.
"If Reason frowns at this," said he,
"Her Majesty's no Queen for me:
How can I keep her lines and rules,
Till Fortune helps me to her tools?
But, while they both my suit refuse,
Welcome, dear Fancy and the Muse!
For, till I dwell in Reason's Cot,
These best can beautify the spot:
Alternately they work and play;
And Hope works with them, ever gay.
And, though they all are fond of Verse,
What's REASON, pray, without her Purse?
"But, mighty Dame, when that is fill'd,
O come, and help thy Bard to build!
Then FANCY, and the tuneful throng,
Shall yield to thee in all but song;
Invite thee to the Poet's bower,
And offer incense to thy power:
Nay, thou shalt be our constant guest,
By Fancy and the Muse caress'd."
WHAT is that trembling, tender Thing,
Whose Love is ever on the wing,
Attended by a thousand Cares,
A thousand Hopes, a thousand Fears?
Say, what is that, whose wakeful eye
In the smooth calm can storms espy?
Whose quick and ever-wakeful ear,
When all is safe, thinks peril near?
Can raise a tempest from a breeze,
And swell a pimple to disease?
Can, while the sun is clear and bright,
Anticipate the dead of night?
And, while an infant smiles in sleep,
Keeps guard lest it should wail and weep?
On tip-toe glides along the floor,
In dread to ope or close the door?
And what is that,-in tranquil hour, When Love exerts its softest power, That o'er the fondling, at the breast, Attentive bends to guard its rest; Protects it from the night's alarms,
And saves it through the day from harms;
Foregoes with joy all balms of sleep;
A joy so true it needs must weep?
Not always do the eyes o'erflow,
To soothe the agonies of woe;
For Nature gave the tender tcar,
To mark her woe or bliss sincere.
And what is that,-as Woman weak,
And doth our pity oft bespeak,-
Who, if some lion, fierce and wild,
Should fasten on a sucking-child,
Would braver prove than bravest men,
And track that lion to his den;
Would mock the horrors of the wood,
And buffet, the more savage flood?
O what is that, fair Lucy, tell,
That feels so quick, that acts so well;
That is so strange, and yet so common?
It is that wondrous compound-Woman!
It is you'll know I tell you true;
'Tis a FOND MOTHER-IT IS YOU!
WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER HEARING HER SING AT MR. RAUZZINI'S CONCERT, APRIL 4, 1804.
WHAT can be said of Voice, or Face,
Of Richness, Elegance, and Grace,
In magic Sounds that may be new
To your Admirers or to You?
A thousand times you must have heard,
Enchantment hung on ev'ry word;
The chime of praises has been rung,
The Harp of Panegyric strung
On ev'ry accent, ev'ry note,
That warbles in that tuneful throat;
Till all, that now could be express'd,
Would prove tautology at best.
Yet, not to praise you when we hear
What charms and captivates the ear;
Not to admire the wondrous art
That so can thrill th' enraptur'd heart;
Not when sweet MUSIC wins the Cause,
To join the Chorus of Applause,
Doth cold Indifference imply,
Or Envy base, or Apathy.
For though Attention, mute as Death,
May strive to check the vital breath;
And, while the rich vibrations roll,
May every Sense, but one, control;
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