The man who has them is a man indeed.
Nor, trust me, is the world so worthless grown,
But such there are, and such my soul esteems.
That ample case, which underneath the frame
Of harpsichord so smooth, in shape uncouth
Reposes, from the morning broom defends
A viol-bass, else long ago destroy'd
By the rude blows of slattern Lalage.
For she, a subtle wit, can plainly see
No worth in that whose worth is far remov'd
Beyond her sight and reach: so, critic-like,
She sweeps away her cobweb with a frisk,
And crushes many a pearl.
A violin protects, still sound and safe,
Though tumbled ringing oft upon the floor
With proud disdain, and ruin musical.
Such is Alcanor's household, such his state, Save what might yet be sung in higher strains, Of broom, and stool, of table, chair, and grate, The furniture of parlour, kitchen bare,
And cellar ill-bestow'd; imperial themes,
And worthy meditation infinite.
Save too the tedious invent'ry above,
Of blanket, bed, and reverend bureau:
Besides what ornaments the nest sublime
Of heav'n-aspiring Lalage. A maid
Is she, who sleeps in the moon's neighbourhood,
And often hears the golden show'r descend
Upon the tiles above, nor dreads assault
From maid-deceiving Jove. Too wise were he To seek Calisto under Dian's nose.
Let the fair silver-shafted Queen depart,
And Jove may come to woo her in the dark;
She too has beauty that demands a veil,
Hide, hide her from him, or she wins him not.
Methinks Displeasure clouds the critic's brow, And Scorn her arrow dips, profoundly perch'd On his protruded lip. Is this the man The poet sings, who, stranger to the world, Suffers the speedy wick of life to burn
E'en to the socket; and, the duty done
One church affords, the rest of life resigns
To selfish ease? Are these the nobler sweets
Of life domestic? Was it but for this
Alcanor fled the public walks of life,
And bless'd the serious cause that set him free
From Alma-mater's chain? Nobler it were
To mingle with the busy world, and be
The like of others, than sit here, supine
And sedulous, to please himself alone.
I grant him innocent and free from blame,
But hate the bliss which centres in itself.
Give me the man who cannot taste a joy
Which none partakes.' A truce, impatient Sir;
For such Alcanor is. Not for himself
He sought the lonely cell remote, and stor❜d
His humble mansion with resources sweet
Of intellectual bliss. To other eyes
And other ears the letter'd page unfolds
Ambrosial food, the honey of research.
'Tis not to please Alcanor's self alone,
Or heedless Lalage, so oft is heard
The melting sound of sweet-ton'd harmony.
In chambers yet unsung three fairies dwell,
Each to Alcanor bound, and near in blood,
But nearer in affection. Julia she,
Who holds the reign of household management,
And moderates with skill the lavish hand
Of hasty Lalage. Eliza next,
Of aspect mild, and ever-blooming cheek;
Good humour there, and innocence, and health,
Perennial roses shed. It is a May
Which never drops its blush, but still the same
Appears in Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring;
Save when it glows with a superior tinge,
Kiss'd by the morning breeze, or lighted up
At sound of commendation well-bestow'd,
Under the down-cast eye of modest worth,
Which shrinks at its own praise. Unwary Belles,
Who day by day the fashionable round
Of dissipation tread, stealing from art
The blush Eliza owns, to hide a cheek
Pale and deserted, come, and learn of me
How to be ever-blooming, young, and fair.
Give to the mind improvement. Let the tongue
Be subject to the heart and head. Withdraw
From city smoke, and trip with agile foot,
Oft as the day begins, the steepy down
Or velvet lawn, earning the bread you eat.
Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed;
The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of ev'ry flow'r that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps
Soon as the sun departs? Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, long ere the moon
Her oriental veil puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom nature boasts
Be thus expos'd to night's unkindly damp.
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose,
Compell'd to taste the rank and pois'nous steam
Of midnight theatre, and morning ball.
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims,
And from the forehead of the morning steal
The sweet occasion. O there is a charm
Which morning has, that gives the brow of
age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Shed perfumes exquisite. Expect it not,
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