Lasting as memory,
Faster than friendship--deeper than the wave
Is the affection of a mindless brute.
In a few hours (for I can almost see
The cot wherein these travell'd bones were cradled,)
I shall have ended an untoward enterprize,
And if that honest creature I have told you of
Still breathes this vital air, and will not know me,
May hospitality keep closed her gates
Against me, till I find a home within
The grave. CYMBELINE.
* * * * *
M. BOILEAU TO HIS GARDENER.
IMITATED
(_For the Mirror_.)
Industrious man, thou art a prize to me,
The best of masters--surely born for thee;
Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,[4]
Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat;
To train the woodbine and to crop the yew--
In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few.
O! could I cultivate my barren soul,
As thou this garden canst so well control;
Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil,
And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil[5]
But now, my faithful servant, Anthony,
Just speak, and tell me what you think of me;
When through the day amidst the gard'ning trade
You bear the wat'ring pot, or wield the spade,
And by your labour cause each part to yield,
And make my garden like a fruitful field;
What say you, when you see me musing there
With looks intent as lost in anxious care,
And sending forth my sentiments in words
That oft intimidate the peaceful birds?
Dost thou not then suppose me void of rest,
Or think some demon agitates my breast?
Yon villagers, you know, are wont to say
Thy master's fam'd for writing many a lay,
'Mongst other matters too he's known to sing
The glorious acts of our victorious king;[6]
Whose martial fame resounds thro' every town;
Unparallel'd in wisdom and renown.
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