Miscellaneous Poems | Page 7

Prediction of Envy--How to be rendered
ineffectual, explained in a Vision--Simulation foretells the future
Success and Triumphs of Flattery--Her power over various Characters
and Different Minds; over certain Classes of Men; over Envy himself-
-Her successful Art of softening the Evils of Life; of changing
Characters; of meliorating Prospects and affixing Value to

Possessions, Pictures, &c. Conclusion.
Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing
The passions all, their
bearings and their ties;
Who could in view those shadowy beings
bring,
And with bold hand remove each dark disguise,
Wherein
love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies:
Guide him to Fairy-land, who now
intends
That way his flight; assist him as he flies,
To mark those
passions, Virtue's foes and friends,
By whom when led she droops,
when leading she ascends.
Yes! they appear, I see the fairy train!


And who that modest nymph of meek address?
Not vanity, though
loved by all the vain;
Not Hope, though promising to all success;

Not Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress;
Thee, sprightly syren,
from this train I choose,
Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess;

'Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,
When poets ask thine aid, so oft
their meed and muse.

In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,
Dwelt, in the house of
Care a sturdy swain;
A hireling he, who, when he till'd the soil,

Look'd to the pittance that repaid his toil,
And to a master left the
mingled joy
And anxious care that follow'd his employ.
Sullen and
patient he at once appear'd,
As one who murmur'd, yet as one who
fear'd;
Th'attire was coarse that clothed his sinewy frame,
Rude his
address, and Poverty his name.
In that same plain a nymph, of curious taste,
A cottage (plann'd, with
all her skill) had placed;
Strange the materials, and for what design'd

The various parts, no simple man might find;
What seem'd the door,
each entering guest withstood,
What seem'd a window was but
painted wood;
But by a secret spring the wall would move,
And
daylight drop through glassy door above:
'Twas all her pride, new
traps for praise to lay,
And all her wisdom was to hide her way;
In
small attempts incessant were her pains,
And Cunning was her name
among the swains.
Now, whether fate decreed this pair should wed,

And blindly drove them to the marriage bed;
Or whether love in some
soft hour inclined
The damsel's heart, and won her to be kind,
Is yet
unsung: they were an ill-match'd pair,
But both disposed to wed--and
wed they were.
Yet, though united in their fortune, still
Their ways
were diverse; varying was their will;
Nor long the maid had bless'd
the simple man,
Before dissensions rose, and she began: -
"Wretch
that I am! since to thy fortune bound,

What plan, what project, with
success is crown'd?
I, who a thousand secret arts possess,
Who

every rank approach with right address;
Who've loosed a guinea from
a miser's chest,
And worm'd his secret from a traitor's breast;

Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small,
Have brought to
thee, and thou consum'st them all;
For want like thine--a bog without
a base -
Ingulfs all gains I gather for the place;
Feeding, unfill'd;
destroying, undestroy'd;
It craves for ever, and is ever void: -

Wretch that I am! what misery have I found,
Since my sure craft was
to thy calling bound!"
"Oh! vaunt of worthless art," the swain replied,
Scowling contempt,
"how pitiful this pride!
What are these specious gifts, these paltry
gains,
But base rewards for ignominious pains?
With all thy
tricking, still for bread we strive,
Thine is, proud wretch! the care that
cannot thrive;
By all thy boasted skill and baffled hooks,
Thou
gain'st no more than students by their books.
No more than I for my
poor deeds am paid,
Whom none can blame, will help, or dare
upbraid.
"Call this our need, a bog that all devours, -
Then what thy petty arts,
but summer-flowers,
Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray
The
place they make unprofitably gay?
Who know it not, some useless
beauties see, -
But ah! to prove it was reserved for me."
Unhappy state! that, in decay of love,
Permits harsh truth his errors to
disprove;
While he remains, to wrangle and to jar,
Is friendly
tournament, not fatal war;
Love in his play will borrow arms of hate,

Anger and rage, upbraiding and debate;
And by his power the
desperate weapons thrown,
Become as safe and pleasant as his own;

But left by him, their natures they assume,
And fatal, in their
poisoning force, become.
Time fled, and now the swain compell'd to see
New cause for
fear--"Is this thy thrift?" quoth he,
To whom the wife with cheerful
voice replied: -
"Thou moody man, lay all thy fears aside;
I've seen

a vision--they, from whom I came,
A daughter promise, promise
wealth and fame;
Born with my features, with my arts, yet she
Shall
patient, pliant, persevering be,
And in thy better ways resemble thee.

The fairies round shall at her birth attend,
The friend of all in all
shall find a friend,
And save that one sad star that hour must gleam

On our fair child, how glorious were my dream?"
This heard the husband, and, in surly smile,
Aim'd at contempt, but