M. BOILEAU TO HIS GARDENER.
IMITATED
(For the Mirror.)Industrious man, thou art a prize to me,
The best of masterssurely born for thee;
Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,4
Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat;
To train the woodbine and to crop the yew
In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few.
O! could I cultivate my barren soul,
As thou this garden canst so well control;
Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil,
And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil5
But now, my faithful servant, Anthony,
Just speak, and tell me what you think of me;
When through the day amidst the gard'ning trade
You bear the wat'ring pot, or wield the spade,
And by your labour cause each part to yield,
And make my garden like a fruitful field;
What say you, when you see me musing there
With looks intent as lost in anxious care,
And sending forth my sentiments in words
That oft intimidate the peaceful birds?
Dost thou not then suppose me void of rest,
Or think some demon agitates my breast?
Yon villagers, you know, are wont to say
Thy master's fam'd for writing many a lay,
'Mongst other matters too he's known to sing
The glorious acts of our victorious king;6
Whose martial fame resounds thro' every town;
Unparallel'd in wisdom and renown.
You know it welland by this garden wall
P'rhaps Mons and Namur7 at this instant fall.
What shouldst thou think if haply some should say
This noted chronicler's employ'd to-day
In writing something newand thus his time
Devotes to theeto paint his thoughts in rhyme?
My master, thou wouldst say, can ably teach,
And often tells me more than parsons preach;
But still, methinks, if he was forc'd to toil
Like me each dayto cultivate the soil,
To prune the trees, to keep the fences round;
Reduce the rising to the level ground,
Draw water from the fountains near at hand
To cheer and fertilize the thirsty land,
He would not trade in trifles such as these,
And drive the peaceful linnets from the trees.
Now, Anthony, I plainly see that you
Suppose yourself the busiest of the two;
But ah, methinks you'd tell a diff'rent tale
If two whole days beyond the garden pale
You were to leave the mattock and the spade
And all at once take up the poet's trade:
To give a manuscript a fairer face,
And all the beauty of poetic grace;
Or give the most offensive flower that blows
Carnation's sweets, and colours of the rose;
And change the homely language of the clown
To suit the courtly readers of the town
Just such a work, in fact, I mean to say,
As well might please the critics of the day!
Soon from this work returning tir'd and lean,
More tann'd than though you'd twenty summers seen,
The wonted gard'ning tools again you'd take
Your long-accustom'd shovel and your rake;
And then exclaiming, you would surely say,
'Twere better far to labour many a day
Than e'er attempt to take such useless flights,
And vainly strive to gain poetic heights,
Impossible to reachI might as soon
Ascend at once and land upon the moon!
Come, Anthony, attend: let me explain
(Although an idler) weariness and pain.
Man's ever rack'd and restless, here below,
And at his best estate must labour know.
Then comes fatigue. The Sisters nine may please
And promise poets happiness and ease;
But e'en amidst those trees, that cooling shade,
That calm retreat for them expressly made,
No rest they findthere rich effusions flow
In all the measures bardic numbers know:
Thus on their way in endless toil they move,
And spend their strength in labours that they love.
Beneath the trees the bards the muses haunt,
And with incessant toil are seen to pant;
But still amidst their pains, they pleasure find
An ample entertainment for the mind.
But, after all, 'tis plain enough to me,
A man unstudious, must unhappy be;
Who deems a dull, inactive life the best,
A life of laziness, a life of rest;
A willing slave to slothand well I know,
He suffers much who nothing has to do.
His mind beclouded, he obscurely sees,
And free from busy life imagines ease.
All sinful pleasures reign without control,
And passions unsubdued pollute the soul;
He thus indulges in impure desires,
Which long have lurk'd within, like latent fires:
At length they kindleburst into a flame
On him they sportsad spectacle of shame.
Remorse ensueswith every fierce disease.
The stone and cruel gout upon him seize;
To quell their rage some fam'd physicians come
Who scarce less cruel, crowd the sick man's room;
On him they operatethese learned folk,
Make him saw rocks, and cleave the solid oak;8
And gladly would the man his fate resign
For such an humble, happy state as thine.
Be thankful, Anthony, and think with me,
The poor hardworking man may happier be
If blest with strength, activity, and health,
Than those who roll in luxury and wealth.
Two truths important, I proceed to tell,
One is a truth, you surely know full well;
That labour is essential here below
To mana source of weal instead of woe:
The other truth, few words suffice to prove,
No blame attaches to the life I love.
So still attendbut I must say no more,
I plainly see, you wish my sermon o'er;
You gape, you close your eyes, you drop your chin,
Again methinks I'd better not begin.
Besides, these melons seem to wish to know
The reason why they are neglected so;
And ask if yonder village holds its feast
And thou awhile art there detained a guest,
While all the flowery tribes make sad complaint.
For want of water they are grown quite faint.
THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
LIVES OF BRITISH PAINTERS, SCULPTORS, AND ARCHITECTS
By Allan CunninghamThis volume is the first of a series of Lives of Artists, and the fourth number of Murray's Family Library. The author is a first-rate poet, but it appears that he undertook this task with some diffidence. We have, however, few artists of literary attainments, and they are more profitably employed than in authorship. Little apology was necessary, for of all literary men, poets are best calculated to write on the Fine Arts: and the genius of Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, and Music, is often associated in one mind, in love of the subjects at least, if not in practice.
Prefixed to the "Lives," is a delightful chapter on British Art before the birth of Hogarth, from which we quote the following:
"Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, and Music, are the natural offspring of the heart of man. They are found among the most barbarous nations; they flourish among the most civilized; and springing from nature, and not from necessity or accident, they can never be wholly lost in the most disastrous changes. In this they differ from mere inventions; and, compared with mechanical discoveries, are what a living tree is to a log of wood. It may indeed be said that the tongue of poetry is occasionally silent, and the hand of painting sometimes stayed; but this seems not to affect the ever-living principle which I claim as their characteristic. They are heard and seen again in their season, as the birds and flowers are at the coming of spring; and assert their title to such immortality as the things of earth may claim. It is true that the poetry of barbarous nations is rude, and their attempts at painting uncouth; yet even in these we may recognise the foreshadowings of future excellence, and something of the peculiar character which, in happier days, the genius of the same tribe is to stamp upon worthier productions. The future Scott, or Lawrence, or Chantrey, may be indicated afar-off in the barbarous ballads, drawings, or carvings, of an early nation. Coarse nature and crude simplicity are the commencement, as elevated nature and elegant simplicity are the consummation of art.