 | The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq |  |
SELF-COMPLACENCY.
Let no rude Care, with anxious thoughts, invade,Nor print her footstep in my chosen shade!
O'er the wide world I've traced the tour of day,
Where restless Love has taught my feet to stray;
If Anna's taste this favourite spot approve,
I'll drop the Scythian, and forget to rove.
All hail, ye deserts, bend a pitying ear,
A sound unknown, a human voice to hear!
Wave your tall brows, to hail a stranger-guest,
Whose throbbing bosom seeks in you a rest.
Proud earth, adieu! Your smile I ask no more,
Nor all your sordid, soul-contracting ore!
The Syren's bowl, and pleasure's deep abyss
Yield to the crystal fount a tranquil bliss.
The purest joy will ever love to dwell
In the lone confines of the hermit's cell;
On him the day lamp sheds its mildest beam,
His board the forest, and his cup the stream.
Like him, the menial arts of life forsook,
To hold pure converse with the babbling brook;
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The bee of Nature's yet untasted sweets;
Here let my feet, o'erwearied, find repose,
My head a pillow, and my griefs a close!
The simple pleasures of uncultured earth
Can please no palate of exotick birth;
Lost is the social fire, with all its joys,
Lost is the splendid dome, with all its toys.
A long adieu! to all the world calls great,
Fame's glittering baubles, and the pomp of state!
Far from the tumults of the roaring sea,
The waves of Fortune roll no more for me.
Far from the vultures of corroding strife,
And all the senseless butterflies of life,
Here have I flown to trace new soils of bliss,
And clasp rude Nature in her loose undress;
Her naked graces Rapture's throb impart,
And spurn the pencil and the veil of art.
Beauty ne'er blushed, of harmless man afraid,
Nor asked a fig-leaf in the secret shade.
Oft in the modish circle, have I seen
The thoughtless canvass of a pictured mien;
And grown genteel, by Fashion's dire constraints,
The well-laced spider in a hectick faints.
Art can but mimick; Heaven alone must give
That innate force, by which the graces live.
The form and colour artists oft disclose,
But who has sketched the fragrance of the rose?
Ye dames, ambitious of applauding eyes,
Shall vile cosmeticks tempt the dubious prize?
Refine the heart, nor stoop to arts so base;
Sense never sparkled in a painted face!
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Who looks on Fashion's painted mask with scorn;
Who never spread the Syren's artful guise
To chain attention, or entrance surprise;
Who ne'er would wish the rising scale of fame,
If she, ascending, sunk a sister's name;
Who never heard, without a kindling glow,
The boast of Virtue's too successful foe.
Such be the fair, to whom my hopes would rise,
Whose soul gives language to her sparkling eyes;
Whose smile the gloomiest scene of life can cheer,
With rapture glisten, or dissolve a tear;
Whose charms with softness clothe her modest mien,
As light pellucid, and as heaven serene;
Whose lovely converse sweetens every boon;
Whose cheek the morning, and whose mind the noon.
Ah! lovely Anna! these are traits divine,
And Fancy's pencil glows with charms, like thine!
Come then, thou dearest, heaven-congenial maid,
And rove with me the grove, the hill and glade!
Behold those rocks of huge colossal size,
Whose cloud-girt tops appear to prop the skies;
Like them, above the world, we'll soar sublime;
Like them, our love shall brave the rage of Time!
Here rich Luxuriance waves her ample wing,
And spreads a harvest mid perpetual spring;
But ne'er can Nature's flowery charms endear,
If Anna, Nature's blossom, be not here.
Come then, my fair, and bless my lonesome hours,
And grace the palace arbour of the bowers.
All Nature waits my Anna to receive;
A second Eden wants a second Eve.
| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | |