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The inferior priestess, at her altar's

si le,

Trembling begins the sacred rites of

pride.

Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here

The various offerings of the world appear;

From each she nicely culls with curious toil,

And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.

This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,

And all Arabia breathes from yonder

box.

The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled,

and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining

rows,

Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billetdoux.

Now awful beauty puts on all its arms:

The fair each moment rises in her charms,

Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace.

And calls forth all the wonders of her face;

Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.

The busy sylphs surround their darling care,

These set the head, and those divide the hair,

Some fold the sleeve, whilst others

plait the gown; And Betty's praised for labors not

her own.

Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,

Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams

Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames.

Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths

around her shone, But every eye was fixed on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore.

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels a lore.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,

Quick as her eyes and as unfixed as those:

Favors to none, to all she smiles extends;

Oft she rejects, but never once offends.

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,

And like the sun, they shine on all alike.

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,

Might hide her faults if belles had

faults to hide: If to her share some female errors

fall,

Look on her face and you'll forget

them all. This nymph, to the destruction

of mankind, Nourished two locks which graceful

hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to

deck

With shining ringlets the smooth

ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves

detains

And mighty hearts are held in slenderder chains.

With hairy springes we the birds betray.

Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey.

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,

And beauty draws us with a single hair.

[From the Rape of the Lock.]
MERIT BEYOND BEAUTY.

Say, why are beauties praised and honored most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?

Why decked with all that land and

sea afford. Why angels called, and angel-like

adored?

Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux,

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?

How vain are all these glories, all our pains,

Unless good sense preserve what

beauty gains: That men may say, when we the

frontrbox grace. Behold the first in virtue as in

face!

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age away;

Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce.

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?

To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint,

Nor could it sure be such a sin to

paint. [cay, But since, alas! frail beauty must deCurled or uncurled, since locks will

turn to gray; Since, painted or not painted, all

shall fade, And she who scorns a man must die

a maid;

What then remains but well our power to use,

And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose?

And trust me, dear! good-humor can prevail,

When airs, and flights, and screams,

and scolding fail; Beauties in vain their pretty eyes

may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit

wins the soul.

WlNTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

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Dark was her hair; her hand was white;

Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light;

I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile.

Shot right and left a score of arrows:

I thought 't was Venus from her isle,

And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talked of politics or prayers.
Of Southey's prose or Words-
worth's sonnets,
or danglers or of dancing bears,

Of battles or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, —

To me it mattered not a little, — If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought they murmured Little.

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We parted: months and years rolled by:

We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh, our meeting was all mirth and laughter! . For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers;

And she was not the ball-room's belle.

But only Mrs. —Something — Rogers!

QUINCE.

Near a small village in the West, Where many very worthy people Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best

To guard from evil, church and steeple,

There stood — alas, it stands no more! — A tenement of brick and plaster, Of which, for forty years and four. My good friend Quince was lord and master.

AVelcome was he in hut and hall, To maids and matrons, peers and peasants; He won the sympathies of all By making puns and making presents.

Though all the parish was at strife, He kept his counsel and his carriage,

And laughed, and loved a quiet life, And shrunk from Chancery-suits and marriage.

Sound were his claret and his head, Warm were his double ale and feelings;

His partners at the whist-club said That he was faultless in his dealings.

He went to church but once a week. Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him

An upright man, who studied Greek, And liked to see his friends around him.

Asylums, hospitals, and schools He used to swear were made to cozen;

All who subscribed to them were fools —

And he subscribed to half a dozen. It was this doctrine that the poor

Were always able, never willing; And so the beggar at the door

Had first abuse, and then a shilling.

Some public principles he had.

But was no flatterer nor fretter; He rapped his box when things were bad.

And said: " I cannot make them better."

And much he loathed the patriot's snort,

And much he scorned the placeman's snuffle, And cut the fiercest quarrels short

With. "Patience, gentlemen, and shuffle!"

For full ten years his pointer, Speed,

had couched beneath his master's table,

For twice ten years his old white steed

Had fattened in his master's stable. Old Quince averred upon his troth They were the ugliest beasts in Devon;

And none knew why he fed them both

With his own hands, six days in seven.

Whene'er they heard his ring or knock,

Quicker than thought the village slatterns

Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock,

And took up Mrs. Glasse or patterns.

Alice was studying baker's bills; Louisa looked the queen of knitters;

Jane happened to be hemming frills; And Nell bv chance was making fritters

But all was vain. And while decay
Came like a tranquil moonlight
o'er him,
And found him gouty still and gay,
With no fair nurse to bless or bore
him;

His rugged smile and easy chair,
His dread of matrimonial lectures,

His wig, his stick, his powdered hair Were themes for very grave conjectures.

Some sages thought the stars above Had crazed him with excess of

knowledge; Some heard he had been crossed in

love

Before he came away from college: Some darkly hinted that His Grace Did nothing, great or small, without him;

Some whispered, with a solemn face. That there was something odd about him.

I found him at threescore and ten A single man, but bent quite double;

Sickness was coming on him then
To take him from a world of trou-
ble.

He prosed of sliding down the hill,
Discovered he grew older daily;

One frosty day he made his will,
The next he sent for Dr. Baillie.

And so he lived, and so he died;

When last I sat besi le his pillow, He shook my hand: "Ah me!" he cried,

"Penelope must wear the willow! Tell her I hugged her rosy chain While life was flickering in the socket,

And say that when I call again
I'll bring a license in my pocket.

"I've left my house and grounds to Fag —

I hope his master's shoes will suit him! —

And I' ve bequeathed to you my nag,

To fee l him for my sake, or shoot him.

The vicar's wife will take old Fox, She'll find him an uncommon mouser;

And let her husband have my box. My Bible and my Assmanshiiuser.

"Whether I ought to die or not My doctors cannot quite determine;

It's only clear that I shall rot, And be, like Priam, food for vermin.

My debts are paid. But Nature's debt

Almost escaped my recollection! Tom, we shall meet again; and yet I cannot leave you my direction!"

Matthew Prior.

For My oirN Monument.

As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone, took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention [heir. May haply be never fulfilled by his

Then take Matt's word for it, the sculptor is paid, That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;

Yet credit but lightly what more may be said.

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting so far as to fifty his

years.

His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears.

In a life party-colored, half pleasure, half care.

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