Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more. 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king,) His very minister who spied them first (Some say his queen) was forced to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, "Just so immortal Maro held his head:" You think this cruel? take it for a And when I die, be sure you let me rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, Thou unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurled, Thou standest unshook amid a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain, | The creature's at his dirty work again, Throned in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. One dedicates in high heroic prose, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe." | know The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billetdoux. Now awful beauty puts on all its Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face and you'll forget them all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourished two locks which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to deck With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, Fair tresses man's imperial race en snare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. [From the Rape of the Lock.] MERIT BEYOND BEAUTY. SAY, why are beauties praised and honored most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why decked with all that land and sea afford, Why angels called, and angel-like adored? Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace, Behold the first in virtue as in face! Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away; Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. |cay, But since, alas! frail beauty must deCurled or uncurled, since locks will turn to gray; Since, painted or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man must die a maid; What then remains but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear! good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail; Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. THE BELLE OF THE BALL. YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at the country ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced, -- O Heaven! her dancing. But titles and the three-per-cents, O, what are they to love's sensa- Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks I fun, knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one, Her heart had thought of for a I knew it, for she told me so, As Baron Rothschild for the She wrote a charming hand, and oh, How sweetly all her notes were folded! We parted: months and years rolled by: We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh, Our meeting was all mirth and For in my heart's most secret cell ers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, Asylums, hospitals, and schools He used to swear were made to cozen; All who subscribed to them were And he subscribed to half a dozen. But only Mrs. Something— Rog-Some public principles he had, Though all the parish was at strife, He kept his counsel and his carriage, And laughed, and loved a quiet life, And shrunk from Chancery-suits and marriage. Sound were his claret and his head, Warm were his double ale and feelings; His partners at the whist-club said That he was faultless in his dealings. He went to church but once a week, Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him An upright man, who studied Greek, And liked to see his friends around him. But was no flatterer nor fretter; Whene'er they heard his ring or knock, Quicker than thought the village slatterns Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, And took up Mrs. Glasse or pat- Alice was studying baker's bills; ters; Jane happened to be hemming frills; fritters. |