TO THE LADY ELIZABETH HARLEY,
SINCE MARCHIONESS OF CARMARTHEN, ON A COLUMN OF HER DRAWING.
WHEN future ages shall with wonder view These glorious lines, which Harley's daughter drew, They shall confess, that Britain could not raise A fairer column to the father's praise.
PROTOGENES AND APELLES.
WHEN poets wrote, and painters drew, As nature pointed out the view; Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece, To spoil the well-proportioned piece; And in our verse ere monkish rhymes Had jangled their fantastic chimes; Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes Those knights had fixed their dull abodes, Who knew not much to paint or write, Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight; Protogenes, historians note,
Lived there, a burgess, scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.
Agreed these points of time and place, Proceed we in the present case.
Piqued by Protogenes's fame, From Co to Rhodes Apelles came, To see a rival and a friend, Prepared to censure, or commend; Here to absolve, and there object, As art with candour might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings, His servants follow with the things; Appears the governante of the house; For such in Greece were much in use: If young or handsome, yea or no, Concerns not me or thee to know.
Does squire Protogenes live here? Yes, sir, says she, with gracious air, And courtesy low; but just called out By lords peculiarly devout,
Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow, To grace the church: 'tis Venus' day: I hope, sir, you intend to stay, To see our Venus. 'Tis the piece The most renowned throughout all Greece, So like the original, they say:
But I have no great skill that way. But, sir, at six ('tis now past three) Dromo must make my master's tea: At six, sir, if you please to come, You'll find my master, sir, at home.
Tea, says a critic, big with laughter, Was found some twenty ages after; Authors, before they write, should read; 'Tis very true, but we'll proceed:
And, sir, at present would you please To leave your name; fair maiden, yes. Reach me that board. No sooner spoke But done. With one judicious stroke, On the plain ground Apelles drew A circle regularly true;
And will you please, sweetheart, said he, To show your master this from me?
By it he presently will know, How painters write their names at Co. He gave the pannel to the maid. Smiling and curtseying, sir, she said, I shall not fail to tell my master: And, sir, for fear of all disaster, I'll keep it my own self; safe bind, Says the old proverb, and safe find. So, sir, as sure as key or lock- Your servant, sir-at six o'clock. Again at six Apelles came, Found the same prating civil dame. Sir, that my master has been here, Will by the board itself appear. If from the perfect line be found, He has presumed to swell the round, Or colours on the draught to lay, 'Tis thus (he ordered me to say) Thus write the painters of this isle: Let those of Co remark the style.
She said; and to his hand restored The rival pledge, the missive board. Upon the happy line were laid Such obvious light, and easy shade, That Paris' apple stood confest, Or Leda's egg, or Cloe's breast.
Apelles viewed the finished piece, And live, said he, the arts of Greece! Howe'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
Howe'er our works may have expressed Who truest drew, or coloured best, When he beheld my flowing line,
He found at least I could design:
And from his artful round I grant, That he with perfect skill can paint. The dullest genius cannot fail To find the moral of my tale: That the distinguished part of men, With compass, pencil, sword, or pen, Should in life's visit leave their name, In characters, which may proclaim, That they with ardour strove to raise At once their arts, and country's praise; And in their working took great care, That all was full, and round, and fair.
DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS. DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth,
And with our follies glut thy heightened mirth: Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return, In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn. Between you both I unconcerned stand by; Hurt, can I laugh, and honest, need I cry?
FOR MY OWN TOMBSTONE.
To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live: alas! one moment sets us even. Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven!
GUALTERUS DANISTONUS AD AMICOS.1 DUM studeo fungi fallentis munere vitæ, Adfectoque viam sedibus Elysiis,
1 Archibald Pitcairn, a Scottish physician, who died 1713, wrote these lines. He is the author of an epitaph on Claverhouse, quoted by Aytoun. Scott calls him the 'classic and genial Pitcairn.'
Arctoa florens Sophiâ, Samiisque superbus Discipulis, animas morte carere cano. Has ego corporibus profugas ad sidera mitto; Sideraque ingressis otia blanda dico; Qualia conveniunt divis, queis fata volebant Vitäi faciles molliter ire vias: Vinaque Coelicolis media inter gaudia, libo; Et me quid majus suspicor esse viro. Sed fuerint nulli forsan, quos spondeo, cœli; Nullaque sint Ditis numina, nulla Jovis. Fabula sit terris agitur quæ vita relictis;
Quique superstes, homo: qui nihil, esto Deus. Attamen esse hilares, et inanes mittere curas Proderit, ac vitæ commoditate frui, Et festos agitâsse dies, ævique fugacis Tempora perpetuis detinuisse jocis.
His me parentum præceptis occupet Orcus, Et Mors; seu Divum, seu nihil esse velit; Nam Sophia ars illa est, quæ fallere suaviter horas Admonet, atque Orci non timuisse minas.
STUDIOUS the busy moments to deceive, That flit between the cradle and the grave, I credit what the Grecian dictates say,
And Samian sounds o'er Scotia's hills convey. When mortal man resigns his transient breath, The body only I give o'er to death;
The parts dissolved and broken frame I mourn: What came from earth I see to earth return. The immaterial part, the ethereal soul,
Nor can change vanquish, nor can death control. 10 Glad I release it from its partner's cares,
And bid good angels waft it to the stars.
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