GRAY.
1716-1771.
ON DRYDEN.
Progress of Poesy.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
1759-1816.
Memoirs by Miss Benger.
IS THAT OLD AGE?
Is that Old Age that's tirling at the pin?
I trow it is then haste to let him in ;
Ye're kindly welcome, friend; now, dinna fear
To show yourself, ye'll cause no trouble here.
I ken there are who tremble at your name,
As though ye brought with you reproach or shame;
And who of thousand lies would bear the sin,
Rather than own you for their kith or kin,
But far from shirking you as a disgrace,
Thankful I am to have lived to see thy face;
Nor shall I e'er disown you, nor take pride
To think how long I might your visit bide;
Doing my best to make you well respected,
I'll not fear for your sake to be neglected.
But now you're come, and through all kind of weather,
We're doomed, from this time forth, to jog together,
I'd fain make compact with you, firm and strong,
On terms of fair giff-gaff to hold out long;
If thou'lt be civil, I shall liberal be—
Witness the long, long list of what I'll gi'e.
First, then, I here make o'er, for good and aye,
All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay;
Beauties and graces too, I would resign them,
But sore, I fear, 'twould cost ye fash to find them;
And let me tell you in your ear, Old Age,
I'm bound to travel with you but one stage;
Be't long or short, you cannot keep me back,
And when we reach the end of 't, ye maun pack;
For there we part for ever; late or air,
Another guess companion meets me there
By him, whate'er you've rifled, stolen, or ta'en,
Will all be given with interest back again;
You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride, Because I kindly welcome you as guide
To one so far your better . . . Let's set out,.
With no vain boasts, nor vain regrets tormented,
We'll e'en jog on the way, quiet and contented.
Her life to lead us up to Heaven was lent us,
Her death to wean us from this earth was sent us.
LOVES OF THE ANGELS, 2ND STORY.
Playful blushes, that seemed naught
But luminous escapes of thought.
What is lighter than the dust, I pray?
The wind that blows that dust away :
And what than wind is lighter still?
Fickle woman's fickle will.
Pink and white adorn the face
Not so much as smiling;
That's the beauty I most prize,
That charm is most beguiling.
Be my mistress ne'er so brown,
If she's kind I'll prize her;
Who so fair?--but if she frown,
Then I should despise her.
[The first line is in John Heywood's Proverbs, 1546.]
'Tis good to be merry and wise;
'Tis good to be honest and true;
'Tis good to be off with the old love,
Before you are on with the new.
When gazing up into the evening sky,
Lost in sweet reverie, and carried far away-
A little gnat will flit across the dreaming eye,
And bring us down to earth.
Some poets sing of ancient times,
Or moving stories grace their rhymes;
Some warm our fancy with their praise
Of charming childhood's winning ways;
Or hymn the sweetness of their lady fair,
Her smile, her girdle, or her hair.
Or higher, grander flights they try,
And tell of Virtue's noblest deeds,
Triumphs that never die.
But themes like these need poet's mind,
With cultured skill and wit refined;
So, leaving such to those who can,
Description is my humbler plan.
I sing the pleasures, great and small,
That lie within a garden wall;
And, wanting better sample, try
To bring our own before your eye,-
Our garden, with its grass and walks,
Where now one meditates and now one talks ;
Where games of merry play are seen,
And learn'd discussions often been.
It boasts no terraces or bowers,
And only few and common flowers;
With brick and mortar to its fence,
To picturesque makes poor pretence;
But, luckily, we're not so wise
Its tiny limits to despise,
And find it just the happy size
In which large share of pleasure lies;
Fancy the Crab-trees on the green
The prettiest that can be seen,
With the cherry apples their branches bear
In countless numbers clustering there.
And here, within this little space,
There's room to study Nature's face;
To notice when the ants gain wings,
And listen when the blackbird sings ;
Watch if the prickly-pointed Yucca
Is putting forth another sucker;
And learn how layers may be made,
Which plant loves sun and which loves shade.
And then, with air and exercise,
We seek the health that spleen defies;
Bind the loose creeper round the stump,
Or lend a hand to mend the pump.
For, though unwilling to be hard on
Our own, it's not a pattern garden,
Where pump is never out of order,
Nor ever known a weedy border;
Our garden is not very trim or gay,
But yet it suits us charmingly!
Here come children, laughing, playing,
Happy faces, glad things saying ;
And now by twos, and now by dozens,
Friends and relations, neighbours, cousins;
Meetings delightful to be told
Of grave and gay, of young and old;
Some playing, some in clusters sitting
On turf, or chairs as seems befitting.
Sometimes with carpets on the grass
The sultry noonday hours we pass,
And, Eastern fashion, wile away
That dear delight-a holiday.
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