MELENDEZ.
I.
When I was yet a little boy,
And Dorila as young,
Forth to the fields we went with joy,
Where the first violets sprung.
II.
Her hands arranged, with natural grace,
For each a garland gay;
And thus, midst childish sports, apace
The moments danced away.
III.
Our age advanced, as they withdrew,
Unwatch’d by us the while;
By slow degrees our knowledge grew,
Till innocence seem’d guile.
IV.
The sight of me would now provoke
A smile, I scarce knew why,
From Dorila; and if I spoke,
A laugh was the reply.
V.
The flowers I pluck’d she swiftly twined,
Her own had little care;
It took her twice as long to bind
My chaplet in my hair.
VI.
One summer’s eve two doves we spied;
Their trembling bills were cross’d;
Then first we knew for what we sigh’d:
The lesson was not lost.
A FABLE.
ALTERED FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE.
A Piedmontese, from fair to fair,
Display’d a Vestris in a bear;
An ape likewise, whose tricks self-taught
The grinning crowd’s approval caught,
(Judgment as that of critics sound,
Who think all’s wit where mischief’s found):
And last it was his luck to own,
A treasure in itself alone;
A pig, to letters train’d, polite
Of course, the beast was erudite.
With open mouth, each wondering lout
Would view its orthographic snout
Choose letters, and hard words compose,
Without the due didactic blows.
Then, if some rude unletter’d hind,
Impell’d by generous shame, repined,
Felt his own ignorance, and thought
That letters might, though late, be taught;
How would the burly shaven priest
Exorcise the sleek, learned beast;
Judge it possess’d, a hog of hell,
Whose devil-directed nose could spell,
Pointing to knowledge, and to sin;
Whilst secretly he’d grieve within
O’er spelling true, ah! not his own!
And think the pig, their rival grown,
Might shake their intellectual throne;
And force his convent, fond of rule,
Once more to put themselves to school!
The bear, first favourite no more,
Surly, as though his ears were sore,
The fickle public to regain,
And give the “pas” to dance again,
Tries and retries his steps with care,
Since to be perfect’s not in bear.
The pig and ape, spectators mute,
Observe the labours of the brute
Shuffling, and struggling hard for ease,
And ever labouring to please.
At length Sir Bruin thinks he spies
Derision in pig’s watchful eyes;
And criticism seems to sneak
In that dry tongue-distended cheek.
“Good! Eh?” he daring asks; “my style
Is all my own, it’s new.” “It’s vile,”
The Ape cries, midst the Hog’s dissent,
Who finds the dancing excellent;
Praises the grace of hams and paws,
Applauded, (he could spare applause,)
So natural! and owns that pigs
Shine less in minuets and jigs;
And even the critic he defies
To equal that which he decries.
Then Bruin, with a thoughtful air,
Cries, “Friend, your panegyric spare;
A censuring Ape I might distrust,
His blame’s too general to be just;
But, oh! preserve me from my friends!
I must dance ill—a Hog commends.”