THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.
O Now that the genius of Bewick were mine,
And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne! Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.
What feats would I work with my magical hand! Book-learning and books should be banished the land: And, for hunger and thirst, and such troublesome calls, Every Ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.
The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care! For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?
The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old, His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather Between them, and both go a-stealing together.
With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of turf at an old Woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide! And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly. 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.
He once had a heart which was moved by the wires Of manifold pleasures and many desires: And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more Than treading a path trod by thousands before.
'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone, And now with old Daniel you see how it fares ; You see to what end he has brought his gray hairs.
The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun : And yet, into whatever sin they may fall
This Child but half knows it, and that not at all.
They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, And each, in his turn, is both leader and led; And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.
Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam; The gray-headed Sire has a daughter at home, Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done; And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.
Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed, I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side : Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY.
THE little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression; every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS.
TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA.
PERHAPS Some needful service of the State Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers, And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, Where gold determines between right and wrong. Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, And his pure native genius, lead him back To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses, Whom he had early loved. And not in vain Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts A roseate fragrance breathed.* O human life,
* Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri
The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.
That never art secure from dolorous change! Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side conducts him, and he charmed A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called To the perpetual silence of the grave. Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood A Champion steadfast and invincible, To quell the rage of literary War!
O THOU who movest onward with a mind Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! 'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous Flock. Much did I watch, much laboured, nor had power To escape from many and strange indignities; Was smitten by the great ones of the World, But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks, Upon herself resting immoveably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, King of France, And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretched out for my acceptance—but Death came. Now, Reader, learn from this my fate how false,
How treacherous to her promise, is the World, And trust in God to whose eternal doom
Must bend the sceptred Potentates of Earth.
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