The Works of John Hall-Stevenson ... Corrected and Enlarged. With Several Original Poems, Now First Printed, and Explanatory Notes. In Three Volumes |
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 | The Works of John Hall-Stevenson |  |
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FABLE XXII. FANCY .
Struck with a block of Parian stone,In a repository lying;
Though he had many of his own,
A sculptor could not pass it without buying.
Henceforth, he cry'd, be it my part
Thy latent, modest worth to blaze;
Say, shall I make thee, by my art,
A God, a tripod, or a vase?
Be thou a God, and, if I please,
The God whose bolts at pride are hurl'd;
Tremble, mankind, down on your knees,
Behold the Sovereign of the world!
Far as an artist's power can reach,
Jupiter, it was confess'd,
Throughout, in every thing but speech,
Divinely was express'd.
'Tis said his art went farther still,
That he was the first dupe of his own skill.
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When lo! with reverential awe,
From an imagination heated,
In his, the real God he saw.
Fix'd, like his Jupiter he stood,
Fear stopp'd the current of his blood.
Poets asleep, and poets waking,
Have also now and then been found,
And some with heads reputed sound,
Frighten'd at Gods of their own making.
And folks in love are often smitten,
Contrary to their intention,
And are as often sadly bitten
By creatures of their own invention.
You sigh for Chloe, heavenly fair,
But you must ever sigh in vain;
Chloe, whose cruel chains you wear,
Lives only in your brain.
Let fancy trace out a conceit,
And draw some beautiful deception,
Passion will catch at the deceit,
And take it under her protection.
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Chloe, 'tis true,
Belongs to you,
But not the Chloe you adore.
Your husbands, ladies, are quite wrong,
They represent you in false lights;
The burthen of a husband's song
Is, one and all—they all are bites.
Alas! thy wife is not to blame,
There was no fallacy in Nan,
Thy injur'd wife is still the same,
Eadem semper, like queen Anne:
Serene with Nants, fat with October,
Eadem semper, never sober.
You bit yourself; had you the wit,
You would continue to be bit.
As upon clouds the varying wind,
So fancy acts upon the mind;
Blows vernal gales, and paints the skies
With angel forms that charm the eyes.
But oh! delicious, flattering gales,
Boreas is coming with his storms,
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Will drive away your angel forms.
Fontaine's remark is deep and sly—
We're all, says he, both age and youth,
Warm in the interest of a lye,
And cold as ice for naked truth.
Why not, if naked truth be frightful,
And fiction dress'd appear delightful?
It is a universal foible;
Fontaine is read from morn till night,
By people that take no delight
Over the Gospel or the Bible.
Fiction is like a mistress gay,
Truth like a wife. Would you, Sir, chuse
To hear dull truths day after day
Rather than fictions that amuse?
Dull, naked truth, in case of need,
I own, does well enough in bed,
For there, and only there, indeed,
Her mercury, attracts her lead.
But not enough, I have a notion,
To give the lead sufficient motion.
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It requires none, or little art,
To turn our bon-bons into pills,
Or make a bolus of a tart.
To make a sweetmeat of a pill,
Requires some fancy, and more skill.
From whence there follows, with great ease,
This truth, not easily defeated—
We may be wretched when we please,
But to be happy must be cheated.—
May all that cannot do without them,
All husbands, and all virtuous wives,
Carry their remedy about them,
And be impos'd on all their lives!
May both of them do one or t'other,
Deceive themselves, or cheat each other!
| The Works of John Hall-Stevenson | |