THE BUTTERFLY (continued 2)

Why is your mind thus all day long Upon your music set; Till reason's swallow'd in a song, Or idle canzonet?

I grant you, Melesinda, when Your instrument was new, I was well pleas'd to see you then Its charms assiduous woo.

The rudiments of any art Or mast'ry that we try, Are only on the learner's part Got by hard industry.

But you are past your first essays; Whene'er you play, your touch, Skilful, and light, ensures you praise: All beyond that's too much.

Music's sweet uses are, to smooth Each rough and angry passion; To elevate at once, and soothe: A heavenly recreation.

But we misconstrue, and defeat The end of any good; When what should be our casual treat, We make our constant food.

While, to th' exclusion of the rest, This single art you ply, Your nobler studies are supprest, Your books neglected lie.

Could you in what you so affect The utmost summit reach; Beyond what fondest friends expect, Or skilful'st masters teach:

The skill you learn'd would not repay The time and pains it cost, Youth's precious season thrown away, And reading-leisure lost.

A benefit to books we owe, Music can ne'er dispense; The one does only sound bestow, The other gives us sense.

TIME SPENT IN DRESS

In many a lecture, many a book, You all have heard, you all have read, That time is precious. Of its use Much has been written, much been said.

The accomplishments which gladden life, As music, drawing, dancing, are Encroachers on our precious time; Their praise or dispraise I forbear.

They should be practis'd or forborne, As parents wish, or friends desire: What rests alone in their own will Is all I of the young require.

There's not a more productive source Of waste of time to the young mind Than dress; as it regards our hours My view of it is now confin'd.

Without some calculation, youth May live to age and never guess, That no one study they pursue Takes half the time they give to dress.

Write in your memorandum-book The time you at your toilette spend; Then every moment which you pass, Talking of dress with a young friend:

And ever when your silent thoughts Have on this subject been intent, Set down as nearly as you can How long on dress your thoughts were bent.

If faithfully you should perform This task, 'twould teach you to repair Lost hours, by giving unto dress Not more of time than its due share.

THE FAIRY

Said Ann to Matilda, "I wish that we knew If what we've been reading of fairies be true. Do you think that the poet himself had a sight of The fairies he here does so prettily write of? O what a sweet sight if he really had seen The graceful Titania, the Fairy-land Queen! If I had such dreams, I would sleep a whole year; I would not wish to wake while a fairy was near.— Now I'll fancy that I in my sleep have been seeing A fine little delicate lady-like being, Whose steps and whose motions so light were and airy, I knew at one glance that she must be a fairy. Her eyes they were blue, and her fine curling hair Of the lightest of browns, her complexion more fair Than I e'er saw a woman's; and then for her height, I verily think that she measur'd not quite Two feet, yet so justly proportion'd withal, I was almost persuaded to think she was tall. Her voice was the little thin note of a sprite— There—d'ye think I have made out a fairy aright? You'll confess, I believe, I've not done it amiss." "Pardon me," said Matilda, "I find in all this Fine description, you've only your young sister Mary Been taking a copy of here for a fairy."

CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE

Unto a Yorkshire school was sent A Negro youth to learn to write, And the first day young Juba went All gaz'd on him as a rare sight.

But soon with alter'd looks askance They view his sable face and form, When they perceive the scornful glance Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.

He in the school was first in fame: Said he, "It does to me appear To be a great disgrace and shame A black should be admitted here."

His words were quickly whisper'd round, And every boy now looks offended; The master saw the change, and found That Orme a mutiny intended.

Said he to Orme, "This African It seems is not by you approv'd; I'll find a way, young Englishman, To have this prejudice remov'd.

"Nearer acquaintance possibly May make you tolerate his hue; At least 'tis my intent to try What a short month may chance to do."

Young Orme and Juba then he led Into a room, in which there were For each of the two boys a bed, A table, and a wicker chair.

He lock'd them in, secur'd the key, That all access to them was stopt; They from without can nothing see; Their food is through a sky-light dropt.

A month in this lone chamber Orme Is sentenc'd during all that time To view no other face or form Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime.

One word they neither of them spoke The first three days of the first week; On the fourth day the ice was broke; Orme was the first that deign'd to speak.

The dreary silence o'er, both glad To hear of human voice the sound, The Negro and the English lad Comfort in mutual converse found.

Of ships and seas, and foreign coast, Juba can speak, for he has been A voyager: and Orme can boast He London's famous town has seen.

In eager talk they pass the day, And borrow hours ev'n from the night; So pleasantly time past away, That they have lost their reckoning quite.

And when their master set them free, They thought a week was sure remitted, And thank'd him that their liberty Had been before the time permitted.

Now Orme and Juba are good friends; The school, by Orme's example won, Contend who most shall make amends For former slights to Afric's son.

THE GREAT GRANDFATHER

My father's grandfather lives still, His age is fourscore years and ten; He looks a monument of time, The agedest of aged men.

Though years lie on him like a load, A happier man you will not see Than he, whenever he can get His great grand-children on his knee.

When we our parents have displeas'd, He stands between us as a screen; By him our good deeds in the sun, Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

His love's a line that's long drawn out, Yet lasteth firm unto the end; His heart is oak, yet unto us It like the gentlest reed can bend.

A fighting soldier he has been— Yet by his manners you would guess, That he his whole long life had spent In scenes of country quietness.

His talk is all of things long past, For modern facts no pleasure yield— Of the fam'd year of forty-five, Of William, and Culloden's field.

The deeds of this eventful age, Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd, Can no more interest wake in him Than stories of another world.

When I his length of days revolve, How like a strong tree he hath stood, It brings into my mind almost Those patriarchs old before the flood.

THE SPARTAN BOY

When I the memory repeat Of the heroic actions great, Which, in contempt of pain and death, Were done by men who drew their breath In ages past, I find no deed That can in fortitude exceed The noble Boy, in Sparta bred, Who in the temple minist'red.

By the sacrifice he stands, The lighted incense in his hands. Through the smoking censer's lid Dropp'd a burning coal, which slid Into his sleeve, and passed in Between the folds ev'n to the skin. Dire was the pain which then he prov'd; But not for this his sleeve he mov'd, Or would the scorching ember shake Out from the folds, lest it should make Any confusion, or excite Disturbance at the sacred rite. But close he kept the burning coal, Till it eat itself a hole In his flesh. The slanders by Saw no sign, and heard no cry, Of his pangs had no discerning, Till they smell'd the flesh aburning All this he did in noble scorn, And for he was a Spartan born.

Young student, who this story readest, And with the same thy thoughts now feedest, Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid To do the thing the Spartan did; Thy feebler heart could not sustain Such dire extremity of pain. But in this story thou mayst see, What may useful prove to thee. By his example thou wilt find, That to the ingenuous mind Shame can greater anguish bring Than the body's suffering; That pain is not the worst of ills, Not when it the body kills; That in fair religion's cause, For thy country, or the laws, When occasion due shall offer 'Tis reproachful not to suffer. If thou shouldst a soldier be, And a wound should trouble thee, If without the soldier's fame Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim, Do not for a little pain On thy manhood bring a stain; But to keep thy spirits whole, Think on the Spartan and the coal.

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM

(Text of 1818)

On a bank with roses shaded, Whose sweet scent the violets aided, Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) While o'er head six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o' gold, And two more did music keep, Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samarchand, While the noon-tide fervor beam'd, Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd.

Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet sooth'd his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess' slumbers.— Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The great Cham and Prester John,— Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy— What he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write of— But his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed, Made a virtue out of need, And, his labours wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of.

ON A PICTURE OF THE FINDING OF MOSES BY PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER

This Picture does the story express Of Moses in the Bulrushes. How livelily the painter's hand By colours makes us understand!

Moses that little infant is. This figure is his sister. This Fine stately lady is no less A personage than a princess, Daughter of Pharaoh, Egypt's king; Whom Providence did hither bring This little Hebrew child to save. See how near the perilous wave He lies exposed in the ark, His rushy cradle, his frail bark! Pharaoh, king of Egypt land, In his greatness gave command To his slaves, they should destroy Every new-born Hebrew boy. This Moses was an Hebrew's son. When he was born, his birth to none His mother told, to none reveal'd, But kept her goodly child conceal'd. Three months she hid him; then she wrought With Bulrushes this ark, and brought Him in it to this river's side, Carefully looking far and wide To see that no Egyptian eye Her ark-hid treasure should espy. Among the river-flags she lays The child. Near him his sister stays. We may imagine her affright, When the king's daughter is in sight. Soon the princess will perceive The ark among the flags, and give Command to her attendant maid That its contents shall be display'd. Within the ark the child is found, And now he utters mournful sound. Behold he weeps, as if he were Afraid of cruel Egypt's heir! She speaks, she says, "This little one I will protect, though he the son Be of an Hebrew." Every word She speaks is by the sister heard. And now observe, this is the part The painter chose to show his art. Look at the sister's eager eye, As here she seems advancing nigh. Lowly she bends, says, "Shall I go And call a nurse to thee? I know A Hebrew woman liveth near, Great lady, shall I bring her here?" See! Pharaoh's daughter answers, "Go."— No more the painter's art can show. He cannot make his figures move.— On the light wings of swiftest love The girl will fly to bring the mother To be the nurse, she'll bring no other. To her will Pharaoh's daughter say, "Take this child from me away: For wages nurse him. To my home At proper age this child may come. When to our palace he is brought, Wise masters shall for him be sought To train him up, befitting one I would protect as my own son. And Moses be a name unto him, Because I from the waters drew him."

DAVID

It is not always to the strong Victorious battle shall belong. This found Goliath huge and tall: Mightiest giant of them all, Who in the proud Philistian host Defied Israel with boast.

With loud voice Goliath said: "Hear, armed Israel, gathered, And in array against us set: Ye shall alone by me be met. For am not I a Philistine? What strength may be compar'd to mine?

"Chuse ye a man of greatest might: And if he conquer me in fight, Then we will all servants be, King of Israel, unto thee. But if I prove the victor, then Shall Saul and all his armed men Bend low beneath Philistian yoke." Day by day these words he spoke, Singly traversing the ground. But not an Israelite was found To combat man to man with him, Who such prodigious force of limb Display'd. Like to a weaver's beam The pond'rous spear he held did seem. In height six cubits he did pass, And he was arm'd all o'er in brass.

Him we will leave awhile—and speak Of one, the soft down on whose cheek Of tender youth the tokens bare. Ruddy he was and very fair. David, the son of Jesse he, Small-siz'd, yet beautiful to see. Three brothers had he in the band Of warriors under Saul's command; Himself at home did private keep In Bethlem's plains his father's sheep.

Jesse said to this his son: "David, to thy brothers run, Where in the camp they now abide, And learn what of them may betide. These presents for their captains take, And of their fare inquiries make." With joy the youth his sire obey'd.— David was no whit dismay'd When he arrived at the place Where he beheld the strength and face Of dread Goliath, and could hear The challenge. Of the people near Unmov'd he ask'd, what should be done To him who slew that boasting one, Whose words such mischiefs did forebode To th' armies of the living God?

"The king," they unto David say, "Most amply will that man repay, He and his father's house shall be Evermore in Israel free. With mighty wealth Saul will endow That man: and he has made a vow; Whoever takes Goliath's life, Shall have Saul's daughter for his wife."

His eldest brother, who had heard His question, was to anger stirr'd Against the youth: for (as he thought) Things out of his young reach he sought. Said he, "What mov'd thee to come here, To question warlike men? say, where And in whose care are those few sheep, That in the wilderness you keep? I know thy thoughts, how proud thou art: In the naughtiness of thy heart, Hoping a battle thou mayst see, Thou comest hither down to me."

Then answer'd Jesse's youngest son In these words: "What have I done? Is there not cause?" Some there which heard, And at the manner of his word Admir'd, report this to the king. By his command they David bring Into his presence. Fearless then, Before the king and his chief men, He shews his confident design To combat with the Philistine. Saul with wonder heard the youth, And thus address'd him: "Of a truth, No pow'r thy untried sinew hath To cope with this great man of Gath."

Lowly David bow'd his head, And with firm voice the stripling said: "Thy servant kept his father's sheep.— Rushing from a mountain steep There came a lion, and a bear, The firstlings of my flock to tear. Thy servant hath that lion kill'd, And kill'd that bear, when from the field Two young lambs by force they seiz'd. The Lord was mercifully pleas'd Me to deliver from the paw Of the fierce bear, and cruel jaw Of the strong lion. I shall slay Th' unrighteous Philistine this day, If God deliver him also To me." He ceas'd. The king said, "Go: Thy God, the God of Israel, be In the battle still with thee."

David departs, unarmed, save A staff in hand he chanc'd to have. Nothing to the fight he took, Save five smooth stones from out a brook; These in his shepherd's scrip he plac'd, That was fasten'd round his waist. With staff and sling alone he meets The armed giant, who him greets With nought but scorn. Looking askance On the fair ruddy countenance Of his young enemy—"Am I A dog, that thou com'st here to try Thy strength upon me with a staff—?" Goliath said with scornful laugh. "Thou com'st with sword, with spear, with shield, Yet thou to me this day must yield. The Lord of Hosts is on my side, Whose armies boastful thou'st defied. All nations of the earth shall hear He saveth not with shield and spear."

Thus David spake, and nigher went, Then chusing from his scrip, he sent Out of his slender sling a stone.— The giant utter'd fearful moan. The stone though small had pierced deep Into his forehead, endless sleep Giving Goliath—and thus died Of Philistines the strength and pride.

DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM

(Text of 1818)

David and his three captains bold Kept ambush once within a hold. It was in Adullam's cave, Nigh which no water they could have, Nor spring, nor running brook was near To quench the thirst that parch'd them there. Then David, king of Israel, Strait bethought him of a well, Which stood beside the city gate, At Bethlem; where, before his state Of kingly dignity, he had Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; But now his fierce Philistine foe Encamp'd before it he does know. Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, Those three bold captains he addrest, And wish'd that one to him would bring Some water from his native spring. His valiant captains instantly To execute his will did fly. The mighty Three the ranks broke through Of armed foes, and water drew For David, their beloved king, At his own sweet native spring. Back through their armed foes they haste, With the hard earn'd treasure graced. But when the good king David found What they had done, he on the ground The water pour'd. "Because," said he, "That it was at the jeopardy Of your three lives this thing ye did, That I should drink it, God forbid."