A FABLE.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who requested the Writer to draw her Character.

Sept. 1774.

A FABLE.

IN vain, fair Maid, you ask in vain,
My pen should try th' advent'rous strain,
And following truth's unalter'd law,
Attempt your character to draw.
I own indeed, that generous mind
That weeps the woes of human kind,
That heart by friendship's charms inspired,
That soul with sprightly fancy fired,
The air of life, the vivid eye,

The flowing wit, the keen reply—

To paint these beauties as they shine,

Might ask a nobler pen than mine.

Yet what sure strokes can draw the Fair,

Who vary, like the fleeting air,

Like willows bending to the force,

Where'er the gales direct their course,

A FABLE.

Opposed to no misfortune's power,

And changing with the changing hour.
Now gaily sporting on the plain,

They charm the grove with pleasing strain;
Anon disturb'd, they know not why,

The sad tear trembles in their eye:
Led through vain life's uncertain dance,
The dupes of whim, the slaves of chance.
From me, not famed for much goodnature,
Expect not compliment, but satire ;
To draw your picture quite unable,
Instead of fact accept a Fable.

One morn, in Æsop's noisy time,

When all things talk'd, and talk'd in rhyme,
A cloud exhaled by vernal beams

Rose curling o'er the glassy streams.
The dawn her orient blushes spread,
And tinged its lucid skirts with red,
Wide waved its folds with glitt'ring dies,
And gaily streak'd the eastern skies;
Beneath, illumed with rising day,
The sea's broad mirror floating lay.
Pleased, o'er the wave it hung in air,
Survey'd its glittering glories there,
And fancied, dress'd in gorgeous show,
Itself the brightest thing below:

For clouds could raise the vaunting strain,
And not the fair alone were vain.

Yet well it knew, howe'er array'd,

That beauty, e'en in clouds, might fade,
That nothing sure its charms could boast
Above the loveliest earthly toast;

And so, like them, in early dawn
Resolved its picture should be drawn,
That when old age with length'ning day
Should brush the vivid rose away,
The world should from the portrait own
Beyond all clouds how bright it shone.

Hard by, a painter raised his stage,
Far famed, the Copley* of his age.
So just a form his colours drew,
Each eye the perfect semblance knew
Yet still on every blooming face
He pour'd the pencil's flowing grace;
Each critic praised the artist rare,
Who drew so like, and yet so fair.

To him, high floating in the sky
Th' elated Cloud advanced t' apply.

;

* A celebrated American painter, who excelled in portraits. He afterwards visited London, where he gained a very high reputation by his picture of the death of Lord Chatham.