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While glossy, and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,
Or that indicates life in its winter-is here.
Yet all is express'd with fidelity due,
Nor a pimple or freckle concealid from the view.

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste : The youths all agree, that could old age inspire The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, And the matrons with pleasure confess that they Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee. (see The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a

decline, O wonderful woman! as placid as thine. Strange magic of art! which the youth can

engage To peruse half enamour'd the features of age; And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, That she, when as old, shall be equally fair! How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd!

XVIII.
THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

Apelles, hearing that his boy
Had just expired his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And--Oh! my child, aceept-(he said),

("Tis all that I can now bestow),
This tribute of a father's woe!
Then, faithful to the twofold part
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And form'd at once a fellow pair;
His brow, with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew, not livid yet;
And shaded all that he had done
To a just image of his son.

Thus far is well. But view again
The cause of thy paternal pain !
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's powers he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies;
And still his cheek unfaded shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedful to the finish'd whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.

Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.
Long lives this image of thy son;
Nor shortlived shall thy glory prove,
Or of thy labour or thy love.

XIX.

THE MAZE. FROM right to left, and to and fro, Caught in a labyrinth, you go, And turn, and turn, and turn again, To solve the mystery, but in vain; Stand still and breathe and take from me A clue that soon shall set you free! Not Ariadne, if you meet her, Herself could serve you with a better. You enter'd easily-find whereAnd make, with ease, your exit there!

XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE

SUFFERER.

The lover, in melodious verses,
His singular distress rehearses,
Still closing with a rueful cry,
• Was ever such a wretch as I!
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress! some haply more.
Unnumber'd Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

. XXI.

THE SNAIL.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such
He shrinks into his house with much

Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermitlike, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind
(He and his house are so combined),
If, finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

HYMN for the Use of the Sunday School at Olney. HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer

In heaven, thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care,

And taught to seek thy face.

Thanks for thy word, and for this day,

And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear !-But, 0, impart

To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,

And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of older far than we,
What hope that, at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take

Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,

A sun that ne'er declines,
And be thy mercies shower'd on those

Who placed us where it shines.

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