Which charm'd him when the show was full,
At home should be so very dull.
He ne'er suspected 'twas the scenery,
He never dreamt 'twas the machinery :
The lights, the noise, the tricks, the distance,
Gave the dumb idol this assistance.
Preposterous Peer! far better go
To thy congenial puppet-show,
Than buy, divested of its glare,
The empty thing which charm'd thee there.
Be still content abroad to roam,
For Punch exhibits not at home.
The moral of the tale I sing,
To modern matches home I bring.
Ye youths, in quest of wives who go
To every crowded puppet-show;
If, from these scenes, you choose for life
A dancing, singing, dressing, wife;
O marvel not, at home to find
An empty figure void of mind :
Stript of her scenery and garnish,
A thing of paint, and paste, and varnish.
Ye candidates for earth's best prize,
Domestic life's sweet charities!
If long you've stray'd from reason's way,
Enslav'd by fashion's wizard sway;
If by her witcheries still betray'd
You wed some vain fantastic maid;
Snatch'd, not selected, as you go,
The heroine of the puppet-show;
In every outward grace refin'd,
And destitute of nought but mind;
If, skill'd in every polish'd art,
She want simplicity of heart;
On her for bliss if you depend,
Without the means you seek the end;
You seek, o'erturning nature's laws,
consequence without a cause;
A downward pyramid you place,
The point inverted for the base.
Blame your own work, not fate; nor rail
If bliss so ill secur'd should fail.
'Tis after fancied good to roam,
'Tis bringing Punch to live at home.
And you, bright nymphs, who bless our eyes With all that art, that taste supplies; Learn that accomplishments, at best, Are but the garnish in life's feast;
And though your transient guests may praise
Your showy board on gala days;
Yet, while you treat each frippery sinner
With mere desserts, and call 'em dinner,
Your Lord, who lives at home, still feels
The want of more substantial meals;
Of sense and worth, which every hour
Enlarge affection's growing power;
Of worth, not emulous of praise,
Of sense, not kept for gala days.
O! in the highest, happiest lot,
By woman be it ne'er forgot,
That human life's no Isthmian game
Where sports and shows must purchase fame.
Though at the puppet-show he shone,
Punch was poor company alone.
Life is no round of jocund hours,
Of garlands gay, and festive bowers;
Even to the young, to whom I sing,
Its serious business life will bring.
Though bright the suns which now appear
To gild your cloudless atmosphere,
Oft, unawares, some direful storm
Serenest skies may soon deform;
In dim affliction's dreary hour
The flash of mirth must lose its power;
While faith a constant light supplies,
And virtue cheers the darkest skies.
To bless the matrimonial hours
Must three joint leaders club their powers:
GOOD NATURE, PIETY, and SENSE,
Must their confederate aids dispense.
As the soft powers of oil assuage
Of ocean's waves the furious rage;
Lull to repose the boiling tide,
And the rough billows bid subside,
Till every angry motion sleep,
And softest tremblings hush the deep;
Good nature! thus thy charms control
The tumults of the troubled soul;
By labour worn, by care opprest,
On thee the wearied head shall rest;
From business and distraction free,
Delighted, shall return to thee;
To thee the aching heart shall cling,
And find that peace it does not bring.
And while the light and empty fair,
Form'd for the ball-room's dazzling glare,
Abroad, of speech so prompt and rápid,
At home, so vacant and so vapid ;
Of every puppet-show the life,
At home a dull and tasteless wife:
The mind with sense and knowledge stor❜d
Can counsel, or can soothe its Lord;
His varied joys or sorrows feel,
And share the pains it cannot heal.
But, Piety! without thy aid,
Love's fairest prospects soon must fađe.
Blest architect, rear'd by thy hands,
Connubial Concord's temple stands,
Though Wit, though Genius, raise the pile,
Though Taste assist, though Talents smile,
Though Fashion, while her wreaths she twine,
Her light Corinthian columns join;
Still the frail structure Fancy rears
A tott'ring house of cards appears;
Some sudden gust, nor rare the case,
May shake the building to its base,
Unless, bless'd Piety! thou join
Thy key-stone to insure the shrine;
Unless, to guard against surprises,
On thy broad arch the temple rises.
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A NYMPH INTO STONE.
The annual wound allur'd
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a summer's day;
While smooth Adonis from his native Rock
Ran purple to the sea, suppos'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.
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