The fan, an emblem of her heart she holds,
As light, as fluttering, and as full of folds;
Like that, between a thousand coxcombs shared,
As easy broken, and as soon repair'd.

Deluded nymph, how much mistaken toil,
What Nature meant for beautiful to spoil!

What's gain'd? That men exclaim not,-oh how fair,
But-how affected, silly maid, you are!

Ah think the time must come, when youthful grace
Shall fly, yet leave the smirk upon your face,-
The teeth depart, yet still the smile remain,—
The eye grow dim, yet still its roll retain,-
All beauty fade, and leave but folly's dress,
The caput mortuum of silliness.

Ye rural shades, that charm the poet's view,
Is old Simplicity escaped to you?

Ah, to no sphere is Vanity confined,

And Affectation works in every mind!
The self-same follies, that infest the town,
Glare in the milk-maid, and delude the clown.
For conquest ripe, the rustic fair untwirls
Her morning papillotes for evening curls,
The ploughboy ties his kerchief with a grace,
And spares the curls around his moony face,
Though his cropp'd head, the village barber's care,
Appears, by woful contrast, doubly bare.

Yet while our eyes are to ourselves untrue,
The spots of others ne'er escape our view.
Thus oft, when gazing where far hills retreat,
We overlook the landscape at our feet.
Macra, whose skin, to fifty winters known,
Seems parchment tighten'd o'er a skeleton,
Sees Crassa-jolly dame!-her window pass,
And cries aloud-" Sure all flesh is not grass!
Somewhat I see, far more substantial there;
How many pounds, I wonder, could she spare ?"
Your thanks, good madam, certainly were due,
Could she bestow the overplus on you!

But, stranger still!-in others we detect,
In us invisible, our own defect,

Mock every fault of gesture, look, or tone,
Unconscious that we satirize our own.

Thus old Garrulio, if his speech you balk,

Exclaims-" Good Heaven! how some men love to talk!"

Yon ancient pair of sister virgins see,

In all the pride of maiden dignity!

With equal charms the gazer's eye they strike,

Each deaf, each spiteful, each deform'd alike.

If in Rugosa fewer spots appear,

Divine Gorgonia boasts a milder leer.

Gorgonia whispers you, with shaking pate,

"My sister's alter'd dismally of late!

Those wrinkles tell a tale;-she owns fourscore;

Pooh, pooh! between ourselves, she's five years more,

How ill she dresses!-And her temper!-Sir,

No mortal but myself could live with her!"
Rugosa takes your other ear by storm ;-
"How sadly crooked is my sister's form!

Such curves can ne'er the lines of beauty be ;-
And yet she thinks herself as straight as me!

Vain as a peacock!-Oh, you need not fear;
Believe me, she's too deaf to overhear!"

So in a mirror every form is shewn
Reflected faithfully-except its own.

Nor only does the aim at Self-content
In various ranks assume a various bent,
Nor yet alone bears different shape and name
In different men-but even in the same.
In each it transmigrates through many a stage,
From infancy to youth, from youth to age.
In the vex'd babe its wayward germ we trace,
As the man's features in the embryo face.
Each day develop'd-fractious, peevish, wild,
It frowns or frolics in the wilful child;

Then, bursting into youth, it whores and drinks,
Games, swears, hunts, fences-every thing but thinks.
In manhood, sober grown, it struts, looks big,
Girds on a sword, or plunges in a wig,
Tries every mask, till, one by one worn out,
It grins in avarice, or disgusts in gout.
Self-love's the Hydra of the human race;
Lop but one head, another takes its place.
Vice springs, immortal Phoenix, from the tomb,
The very grave of Folly is her womb.
The saintly beau, become a grave divine,
As once at parties, loves at church to shine:
'Twas once his pride to waltz, or make a bow-
To draw the tear from contrite beauty, now.
Yet, like the Roman fool, whose bloodless bands
Feign'd high achievements o'er unconquer'd lands,
To arms! to arms! the distant foe we dare,
Our trophies rubbish, and our triumphs air.
What if in senates the repentant rake
Bestows the sleep his riots used to break,
Vain of his fiery heart, or sapient brain,
What matters it? Why, still the man is vain!
As every era's kindred vice retires,

We deem we vanquish what itself expires;
Nor heed, self-blinded, when one fiend is fled,
That seven worse devils enter in its stead.
Thus old Avaro boasts that he no more
Drinks his five bottles, or maintains his whore.
Smil'st thou, my friend, the grave mistake to see?
Change but the name, the tale is told of thee!
Self-love still grows, while all beside decays,
The bosom's poison-tree that lives and slays.
True, in its progress, Vice is pain at first-
But then 'tis only torpor at the worst;
And, as each rolling year prolongs our sleep,
The death-trance grows more deadly and more deep.
So, if the wounded shun the friendly knife,
Corruption taints the healthy stream of life;
While, to beguile his being's dwindling span,
Pain's sweet cessation cheats the dying man.

MOURN, ANCIENT CALEDONIA !