Again! it breathes in fitful murmuring,
Now querulous and low, now full and clear;
Borne on the midnight gale's mysterious wing,
Like angel echoes from a distant sphere.
O wizard harp! strange power is thine,
And more than music thou canst give,
Stirring those chords of magic twine,
So sweet, so fugitive.
Thy tones, not on the ear they dwell,
They sink not on the mournful air ;
But inly to the heart they swell,
And wake an echo there.
Of friends far off, they seem to sing,
And make the hours of absence dear;
The shades of forms beloved they bring,
And draw the distant near.
O wizard harp! such power enthralling,
No art melodious could inspire;
No wing of winds in murmurs falling
So sweetly tune the wire.
It is the spell that Fancy weaves,
Which gives thy charm to thee:
It is the sigh that Memory heaves,
Makes all thy melody.
A Poetical Auctioneer, in Gloucestershire, in 1814, made use of the following lines in describing a beautiful Cow.
Long in her sides, bright in her eyes;
Short in her legs, thin in her thighs;
Big in her ribs, wide in her pins;
Full in her bosom, small in her shins,
Long in her face, fine in her tail,
And never deficient in filling her pail."
COMPLIMENT TO CHESTERFIELD.
Written by Pope on a pane of glass with the earl of Chesterfield's diamond pencil.
Accept a miracle instead of wit;
See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.
ON A FLOWER PAINTED BY VARELST.
When fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view :
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand,
And, finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine which ne'er shall fade.
COMPLIMENT TO HOWARD THE PAINTER.
When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown;
Surpris'd, the goddess took it for her own.
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen ?
Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride:
And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cry'd.
'Tis Chloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast:
Friend Howard's genius fanci'd all the rest.
This epigram written on the leaves of a Fan by Dr. Atterbury, bishop of Rochester, contains a pretty thought, expressed with ease and conciseness, and is closed in a beautiful manner.
Flavia the least and slightest toy
Can with resistless art employ.
This fan, in meaner hands, would prove
An engine of small force in love :
Yet she, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told, nor safely seen,
Directs its wanton motion so,
That it wounds more than Cupid's bow,
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
To ev'ry other breast a flame.
What's he I spy, in yon three pair,
Whose meagre form is nearly bare,
Whose coat once black is brown with wear?
One chair, one table, in his room,
The floor which seldom sees a broom
Serves for the bed, ah, hapless doom!
His windows piled with fragments rare,
Of verse heroic, sonnets fair :-
And them he eyes, with miser's care!
Now sits he down to pen the lay
Of Am'rous love, or satire gay,
And eager hails the inspiring ray,
And now by magic Fancy's force,
To either pole he wings his course,
Now fathoms seas, that murmur hoarse,
Now on swift wing, sublime does fly,
Spurns mortal bounds, invades the sky,
And nectar quaffs with gods on high,
But fancy strained, now feels a dearth,
By hunger rude he's dragged to earth,
Sad change from scenes of gods and mirth,
He sighs, then to his cupboard walks,
Finds dirty plates, and knives and forks,
Despair's sad image, back he stalks,
In deep desponding murmur loud,
He wails that Poverty's chilling cloud,
Should e'er wrap Genius in her shroud,
Yet his great soul, disdains the shame
`Of golden toil, if void of fame,
He deems e'en King, a menial name,
Would you, ye fair, but think on this,
That beauty must decay;
That pleasures and all earthly bliss
For ever pass away.
The rose, that in the morning blooms, We liken unto you;
Its tints, and date, and rich perfumes,
Sure mark the emblem true.
The silver lily, dipt in light,
Virtue's bright typic flow'r,
Fragrant at morn, lies cropt at night
By fancy's wanton pow'r.
A shadow, smoke, a breath we say,
Are much like Beauty's date;
As transient as the vernal ray
Is all frail woman's fate.
A certain priest had hoarded up
A mass of secret gold;
And where he might bestow it safe,
He knew not to behold.
At last it came into his thoughts
To lock it in a chest,
Within the chancel; and he wrote
Thereon, Hic Deus est.
A merry grig, whose greedy mind
Did long for such a prey,
Respecting not the sacred words
That on the casket lay.
Took out the gold; and blotting out
The priest's inscript thereon,
Wrote, Resurrexit, non est hic;
Your god is rose and gone!
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