While withering seasons in succession, here,
Strip the gay gardens, and deform the year.
But thou, since Nature bids, the world resign,
'Tis now thy daughter's daughter's time to shine;
With more address, or such as pleases more,
She runs her female exercises o'er,
Unfurls or closes, raps or turns the fan,
And smiles, or blushes, at the creature-man.
With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass,
In sideling courtesy she drops the glass,
With better strength, on visit-days she bears
To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs.
Her mien, her shape, her temper, eyes, and tongue,
Are sure to conquer for the rogue is young:
And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay,
We call it only pretty Fanny's way.
Let time that makes you homely, make you sage,
The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age.
"Tis true, when beauty dawns with early fire,
And hears the flattering tongues of soft desire,
If not from virtue, from its gravest ways
The soul with pleasing avocation strays:
But beauty gone, 'tis easier to be wise;
As harpers better by the loss of eyes.
Henceforth retire, reduce your roving airs,
Haunt less the plays, and more the public prayers,
Reject the Mechlin head and gold brocade,
Go pray, in sober Norwich crape array'd.
Thy pendent diamonds let thy Fanny take,
(Their trembling lustre shows how much you shake)
Or bid her wear thy necklace, row'd with pearl,
You'll find your Fanny an obedient girl.
So for the rest, with less incumbrance hung,
You walk through life, unmingled with the young;
And view the shade and substance as you pass,
With joint endeavour trifling at the glass;
Or Folly dress'd, and rambling all her days,
To meet her counterpart, and grow by praise:
Yet still sedate yourself, and gravely plain,
You neither fret, nor envy at the vain.
"Twas thus, if man with woman we compare, The wise Athenian cross'd a glittering fair; Unmoved by tongues and sights, he walk'd the place,
Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace;
Then bends from Mars's hill his awful eyes,
And What a world I never want!' he cries;
But cries unheard: for folly will be free,
So parts the buzzing gaudy crowd and he:
As careless he for them, as they for him;
He wrapp'd in wisdom, and they whirl'd by whim.
OF SOME FRENCH VERSES.
RELENTLESS Time! destroying power,
Whom stone and brass obey,
Who givest to every flying hour
To work some new decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy secret saps prevail,
And ruin man, a nice machine,
By nature form'd to fail.
IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES. 175
My change arrives; the change I meet,
Before I thought it nigh:
My spring, my years of pleasure fleet,
And all their beauties die.
In age I search, and only find
A poor unfruitful gain;
Grave wisdom stalking slow behind,
Oppress'd with loads of pain.
My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys inspire;
My errors cherish'd Hope to smile
On newly-born Desire.
But now experience shows, the bliss
For which I fondly sought,
Not worth the long impatient wish,
And ardour of the thought.
My youth met Fortune fair array'd,
In all her pomp she shone,
And might, perhaps, have well essay'd,
To make her gifts my own:
But when I saw the blessings shower
On some unworthy mind,
I left the chase, and own'd the power
Was justly painted blind.
I pass'd the glories which adorn
The splendid courts of kings,
And while the persons moved my scorn,
I rose to scorn the things.
My manhood felt a vigorous fire
By love increased the more;
But years with coming years conspire,
To break the chains I wore.
In weakness safe, the sex I see
With idle lustre shine;
For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?
But hold-I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to rest,
And truths which would disturb my peace
Are painful truths at best.
Vainly the time I have to roll
In sad reflection flies;
Ye fondling passions of my soul!
Ye sweet deceits! arise.
I wisely change the scene within,
To things that used to please;
In pain, philosophy is spleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.
As Bacchus, ranging at his leisure,
(Jolly Bacchus, king of pleasure!)
Charm'd the wide world with drink and dances,
And all his thousand airy fancies,
Alas! he quite forgot the while
His favourite vines in Lesbos' isle.
The god, returning ere they died,
Ah! see, my jolly Fauns, (he cried)
The leaves but hardly born are red,
And the bare arms for pity spread:
The beasts afford a rich manure;
Fly, my boys, to bring the cure;
Up the mountains, o'er the vales,
Through the woods, and down the dales;
For this, if full the cluster grow,
Your bowls shall doubly overflow.'
So cheer'd, with more officious haste
They bring the dung of every beast;
The loads they wheel, the roots they bare,
They lay the rich manure with care;
While oft he calls to labour hard,
And names as oft the red reward.
The plants refresh'd, new leaves appear,
The thickening clusters load the year;
The season swiftly purple grew,
The grapes hung dangling deep with blue.
A vineyard ripe, a day serene
Now calls them all to work again :
The Fauns through every furrow shoot
To load their flaskets with the fruit;
And now the vintage early trod,
The wines invite the jovial god.
Strow the roses, raise the song,
See the master comes along;
Lusty Revel join'd with Laughter,
Whim and Frolic follow after:
The Fauns aside the vats remain
To show the work, and reap the gain.
All around, and all around
They sit to riot on the ground;
A vessel stands amidst the ring,
And here they laugh, and there they sing;
Or rise a jolly jolly band,
And dance about it hand in hand;
Dance about, and shout amain,
Then sit to laugh and sing again.
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