 | A present for young ladies |  |
5
THE SAGE.
'Tis said in days of yore, when mortals pray'd
To heathen deities; that Jove survey'd
From his high throne the discontented clan,
That strange, eccentric, murmuring, biped man;
And wishing for amusement, gave permission,
For each complainant to prefer petition;
Stating minutely what they wish'd or wanted,
And promis'd that their prayer should be granted.
Soon as aurora with her golden eye,
Peep'd through the eastern chambers of the sky,
A multitudinous throng together press'd,
All eager to be heard and have their 'plaints redress'd:
And sure their strange petitions might beguile
The sternest, coldest cynic of a smile.
Give me, cries one, uncounted hoards of pelf,
Ships, houses, lands, and money in profusion;
Heaps of ore and mines of treasure,
I'll grasp it all; oh, endless pleasure,
Laugh at the widows' tears the needy man's confusion,
And centre all in self, dear idol self.
To heathen deities; that Jove survey'd
From his high throne the discontented clan,
That strange, eccentric, murmuring, biped man;
And wishing for amusement, gave permission,
For each complainant to prefer petition;
Stating minutely what they wish'd or wanted,
And promis'd that their prayer should be granted.
Soon as aurora with her golden eye,
Peep'd through the eastern chambers of the sky,
A multitudinous throng together press'd,
All eager to be heard and have their 'plaints redress'd:
And sure their strange petitions might beguile
The sternest, coldest cynic of a smile.
6
Ships, houses, lands, and money in profusion;
Heaps of ore and mines of treasure,
I'll grasp it all; oh, endless pleasure,
Laugh at the widows' tears the needy man's confusion,
And centre all in self, dear idol self.
Another push'd the sordid wretch aside,
And pressing forward with ambitious stride,
Looking contempt on the surrounding crowd,
And even to Jove himself he scarcely bow'd.
Give, mighty power, he cried, that grov'ling reptile gold,
Be it my fate the staff of power to hold,
To have millions depend on my smile or my frown,
And legions to move at my nod;
I'd reign o'er the universe, grasp at a crown,
And be on earth a demigod.
And pressing forward with ambitious stride,
Looking contempt on the surrounding crowd,
And even to Jove himself he scarcely bow'd.
Give, mighty power, he cried, that grov'ling reptile gold,
Be it my fate the staff of power to hold,
To have millions depend on my smile or my frown,
And legions to move at my nod;
I'd reign o'er the universe, grasp at a crown,
And be on earth a demigod.
Dear, cries a pretty miss, do stand away,
You frighten me to death, I vow you do,
Make me forget, all that I had to say;
Good Mr. Jupiter, now tell me pray,
My eyes are black, could you not make them blue?
You frighten me to death, I vow you do,
Make me forget, all that I had to say;
Good Mr. Jupiter, now tell me pray,
My eyes are black, could you not make them blue?
Lord, cries miss Formal, do miss let me speak;
You would have every thing, I see it plain.
Oh, mighty Jove, I have grown old of late,
My hair is grey, there's wrinkles on my cheek,
Could you not make me young and fair again?
Then such confus'd petitions, pensions, places,
Fine hair, fine teeth, fine shapes, and pretty faces.
Jove turn'd away disgusted—and admir'd
A Sage, who from the noisy throng retir'd
Had stood aloof express'd nor wish nor want,
Content to take whate'er the gods might grant.
Delighted, he the modest Sage survey'd;
Come hither, friend, the power smiling said,
Hast thou no wish, no prayer to prefer?
None, cried the Sage, the human heart may err,
And ask for things improper; be it thy will
With misery to the brim, my cup to fill,
'Tis mine to take it, if by thee 'tis sent,
My duty is submission and content.
If to my lot one blessing be assign'd,
Grant me a free an independent mind,
Ability to earn the bread I eat,
A heart to own, that bread tho' coarse, is sweet.
Pleas'd with his humble prayer great Jove assented,
Nor does the story say the Sage repented.
You would have every thing, I see it plain.
Oh, mighty Jove, I have grown old of late,
My hair is grey, there's wrinkles on my cheek,
Could you not make me young and fair again?
7
Fine hair, fine teeth, fine shapes, and pretty faces.
Jove turn'd away disgusted—and admir'd
A Sage, who from the noisy throng retir'd
Had stood aloof express'd nor wish nor want,
Content to take whate'er the gods might grant.
Delighted, he the modest Sage survey'd;
Come hither, friend, the power smiling said,
Hast thou no wish, no prayer to prefer?
None, cried the Sage, the human heart may err,
And ask for things improper; be it thy will
With misery to the brim, my cup to fill,
'Tis mine to take it, if by thee 'tis sent,
My duty is submission and content.
If to my lot one blessing be assign'd,
Grant me a free an independent mind,
Ability to earn the bread I eat,
A heart to own, that bread tho' coarse, is sweet.
Pleas'd with his humble prayer great Jove assented,
Nor does the story say the Sage repented.
Thus far the bard a simple tale has told,
In artless language drawn from days of old;
But something still remains. The Sage's prayers
Express her heart, his humble wish is hers.
Except that in her prayer she would include,
That first of blessings heaven taught gratitude;
And words to speak how much she feels is due,
Of that unbounded gratitude to you.
In artless language drawn from days of old;
But something still remains. The Sage's prayers
Express her heart, his humble wish is hers.
Except that in her prayer she would include,
That first of blessings heaven taught gratitude;
And words to speak how much she feels is due,
Of that unbounded gratitude to you.
| A present for young ladies | |