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By it he presently will know,
How painters write their names at Co.

He gave the pannel to the maid.
Smiling and curtseying, sir, she said,
I shall not fail to tell my master:
And, sir, for fear of all disaster,
I'll keep it my own self; safe bind,
Says the old proverb, and safe find.
So, sir, as sure as key or lock-
Your servant, sir-at six o'clock.

Again at six Apelles came,
Found the same prating civil dame.
Sir, that my master has been here,
Will by the board itself appear.
If from the perfect line be found,
He has presumed to swell the round,
Or colours on the draught to lay,
'Tis thus (he ordered me to say)
Thus write the painters of this isle:
Let those of Co remark the style.

She said; and to his hand restored
The rival pledge, the missive board.
Upon the happy line were laid
Such obvious light, and easy shade,
That Paris' apple stood confest,
Or Leda's egg, or Cloe's breast.

Apelles viewed the finished piece,
And live, said he, the arts of Greece!
Howe'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
Howe'er our works may have expressed
Who truest drew, or coloured best,
When he beheld my flowing line,
He found at least I could design:




And from his artful round I grant,
That he with perfect skill can paint.

The dullest genius cannot fail
To find the moral of my tale:
That the distinguished part of men,
With compass, pencil, sword, or pen,
Should in life's visit leave their name,
In characters, which may proclaim,
That they with ardour strove to raise
At once their arts, and country's praise ;
And in their working took great care,
That all was full, and round, and fair.


DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth,
And with our follies glut thy heightened mirth:
Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return,
In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn.
Between you both I unconcerned stand by;
Hurt, can I laugh, and honest, need I cry?

To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given
To live: alas! one moment sets us even.
Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven!

GUALTERUS DANISTONUS AD AMICOS Dum studeo fungi fallentis munere vitæ,

Adfectoque viam sedibus Elysiis, 1 Archibald Pitcairn, a Scottish physician, who died 1713, wrote these lines. He is the author of an epitaph on Claverhouse, quoted by Aytoun. Scott calls him the classic and genial Pitcairn.'



Arctoa florens Sophiâ, Samiisque superbus

Discipulis, animas morte carere cano.
Has ego corporibus profugas ad sidera mitto;

Sideraque ingressis otia blanda dico;
Qualia conveniunt divis, queis fata volebant

Vitäi faciles molliter ire vias:
Vinaque Cælicolis media inter gaudia, libo;

Et me quid majus suspicor esse viro.
Sed fuerint nulli forsan, quos spondeo, coeli;

Nullaque sint Ditis numina, nulla Jovis.
Fabula sit terris agitur quæ vita relictis;

Quique superstes, homo: qui nihil, esto Deus. Attamen esse hilares, et inanes mittere curas

Proderit, ac vitæ commoditate frui,
Et festos agitâsse dies, ævique fugacis

Tempora perpetuis detinuisse jocis.
His me parentum præceptis occupet Orcus,

Et Mors; seu Divum, seu nihil esse velit;
Nam Sophia ars illa est, quæ fallere suaviter horas


Admonet, atque Orci non timuisse minas.


STUDIOUS the busy moments to deceive,
That flit between the cradle and the

I credit what the Grecian dictates say,
And Samian sounds o'er Scotia's hills convey.
When mortal man resigns his transient breath,
The body only I give o'er to death;
The parts dissolved and broken frame I mourn:
What came from earth I see to earth return.
The immaterial part, the ethereal soul,
Nor can change vanquish, nor can death control. 10
Glad I release it from its partner's cares,
And bid good angels waft it to the stars.



Then in the flowing bowl I drown those sighs,
Which, spite of wisdom, from our weakness rise.
The draught to the dead's memory I commend,
And offer to the now immortal friend.
But if opposed to what my thoughts approve,
Nor Pluto's rage there be, nor power of Jove;
On its dark side if thou the prospect take,
Grant all forgot beyond black Lethe's lake;
In total death suppose the mortal lie,
No new hereafter, nor a future sky;
Yet bear thy lot content! yet cease to grieve;
Why, ere death comes, dost thou forbear to live?
The little time thou hast, 'twixt instant now
And fate's approach, is all the gods allow;
And of this little hast thou ought to spare
To sad reflection, and corroding care?
The moments past, if thou art wise, retrieve
With pleasant memory of the bliss they gave.
The present hours in present mirth employ,
And bribe the future with the hopes of joy.
The future (few or more, howe'er they be)
Were destined erst; nor can by fate's decree
Be now cut off, betwixt the grave and thee.




While we to Jove select the holy victim,
Whom apter shall we sing, than Jove himself,
The god for ever great, for ever king,
Who slew the earth-born race, and measures right
To Heaven's great habitants! Dictæan hear'st thou
More joyful, or Lycean, long dispute


And various thought has traced. On Ida's Mount, 7
Or Dicte, studious of his country's praise,
The Cretan boasts thy natal place: but oft
He meets reproof deserved: for he presumptuous
Has built a tomb for thee, who never knowst
To die, but livst the same to-day and ever.
Arcadian therefore be thy birth: Great Rhea
Pregnant to high Parrhasia's cliffs retired,
And wild Lycæus, black with shading pines.
Holy retreat! Sith hence no female hither,
Conscious of social love and nature's rites,
Must dare approach, from the inferior reptile
To woman, form divine. There the blest parent
Ungirt her spacious bosom, and discharged
The ponderous birth. She sought a neighbouring

To wash the recent babe; in vain. Arcadia,
(However streamy) now adust and dry,
Denied the goddess water; where deep Melas,
And rocky Cratis flow, the chariot smoked,
Obscure with rising dust; the thirsty traveller
In vain required the current, then imprisoned
In subterraneous caverns. Forests grew
Upon the barren hollows, high o'ershading
The haunts of savage beasts, where now laon
And Erimanth incline their friendly ums.

Thou too, O Earth, great Rhea said, bring forth; And short shall be thy pangs. She said, and high She reared her arm, and with her sceptre struck The yawning cliff: from its disparted height Adown the mount the gushing torrent ran, And cheered the valleys: there the heavenly mother Bathed, mighty king, thy tender limbs: she wrapped



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