In vain, alas, a village-friend invites When the gay months of Carnival resume Still must my partial pencil love to dwell 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 a Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass; And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires; When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, And the furred Beauty comes to winter there, 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; The ready smile and bidden blush employ Fan with affected ease the essenced air, And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. 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, c Who leads a life of satisfied desires. What tho' no marble breathes, no canvass glows, From every point a ray of genius flows! d Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, Here from the mould to conscious being start 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! 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 antient books, or woo inspiring dreams; h And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; Tho' my thatched bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! + Postea verò quàm Tyrannio mihi libros disposuit, mens addita videtur meis ædibus. Cic. |