An Ape is but a trivial beast, Men count it light and vain; But I would let them have their thoughts, To have my Ape again.

To love a beast in any sort, Is no great sign of grace; But I have loved a flouting Ape's 'Bove any lady's face.

I have known the power of two fair eyes, In smile, or else in glance, And how (for I a lover was) They make the spirits dance;

But I would give two hundred smiles, Of them that fairest be, For one look of my staring Ape, That used to stare on me.

This beast, this Ape, it had a face-- If face it might be styl'd-- Sometimes it was a staring Ape, Sometimes a beauteous child--

A Negro flat--a PaG.o.d squat, Cast in a Chinese mold-- And then it was a Cherub's face, Made of the beaten gold!

But TIME, that's meddling, meddling still And always altering things-- And, what's already at the best, To alteration brings--

That turns the sweetest buds to flowers, And chops and changes toys-- That breaks up dreams, and parts old friends, And still commutes our joys--

Has changed away my Ape at last And in its place convey'd, Thinking therewith to cheat my sight, A fresh and blooming maid!

And fair to sight is she--and still Each day doth sightlier grow, Upon the ruins of the Ape, My ancient play-fellow!

The tale of Sphinx, and Theban jests, I true in me perceive; I suffer riddles; death from dark Enigmas I receive:

Whilst a hid being I pursue, That lurks in a new shape, My darling in herself I miss-- And, in my Ape, THE APE.

_In tabulam eximii pictoris_ B. HAYDONI, _in qua Solymaei, adveniente Domino, palmas in via, prosternentes mira arte depinguntur_

(1820)

Quid vult iste equitans? et quid oc.l.i.t ista virorum Palmifera ingens turba, et vox tremebunda Hosanna, Hosanna Christo semper semperque canamus.

_Palma_ fuit _Senior_ pictor celeberrimus olim; Sed palmam cedat, mod si foret ille superstes, _Palma, Haydone_, tibi: tu palmas omnibus aufers.

Palma negata macrum, donataque reddit opimum.

Si simul incipiat c.u.m fama increscere corpus, Tu cit pinguesces, fies et, amicule, obesus.

Affectat lauros pictores atque poetae Sin laurum invideant (sed quis tibi?) laurigerentes, Pro lauro palma viridante tempora cingas.

CARLAGNULUS.

_Translation of the Latin Verses on Mr. Haydon's Picture_

What rider's that? and who those myriads bringing Him on his way with palms, Hosannas singing?

_Hosanna to the Christ_, HEAVEN--EARTH--should still be ringing.

In days of old, old Palma won renown: But Palma's self must yield the painter's crown, Haydon, to thee. Thy palm put every other down.

If Flaccus' sentence with the truth agree, That "palms awarded make men plump to be,"

Friend Horace, Haydon soon in bulk shall match with thee.

Painters with poets for the laurel vie: But should the laureat band thy claims deny, Wear thou thy own green palm, Haydon, triumphantly.

SONNET

_To Miss Burney, on her Character of Blanch in "Country Neighbours," a Tale_

(1820)

Bright spirits have arisen to grace the BURNEY name, And some in letters, some in tasteful arts, In learning some have borne distinguished parts; Or sought through science of sweet sounds their fame: And foremost _she_, renowned for many a tale Of faithful love perplexed, and of that good Old man, who, as CAMILLA'S guardian, stood In obstinate virtue clad like coat of mail.

Nor dost thou, SARAH, with unequal pace Her steps pursue. The pure romantic vein No gentler creature ever knew to feign Than thy fine Blanch, young with an elder grace, In all respects without rebuke or blame, Answering the antique freshness of her name.

TO MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR

(1820)

Your easy Essays indicate a flow, Dear Friend, of brain which we may elsewhere seek; And to their pages I, and hundreds, owe, That Wednesday is the sweetest of the week.

Such observation, wit, and sense, are shewn, We think the days of Bickerstaff returned; And that a portion of that oil you own, In his undying midnight lamp which burned.

I would not lightly bruise old Priscian's head, Or wrong the rules of grammar understood; But, with the leave of Priscian be it said, The _Indicative_ is your _Potential Mood._ Wit, poet, prose-man, party-man, translator-- H[unt], your best t.i.tle yet is INDICATOR.

ON SEEING MRS. K---- B----, AGED UPWARDS OF EIGHTY, NURSE AN INFANT

A sight like this might find apology In worlds unsway'd by our Chronology; As Tully says, (the thought's in Plato)-- "To die is but to go to Cato."

Of this world Time is of the essence,-- A kind of universal presence; And therefore poets should have made him Not only old, as they've pourtray'd him, But young, mature, and old--all three In one--a sort of mystery-- ('Tis hard to paint abstraction pure.) Here young--there old--and now mature-- Just as we see some old book-print, Not to one scene its hero stint; But, in the distance, take occasion To draw him in some other station.

Here this prepost'rous union seems A kind of meeting of extremes.

Ye may not live together. Mean ye To pa.s.s that gulf that lies between ye Of fourscore years, as we skip ages In turning o'er historic pages?

Thou dost not to this age belong: Thou art three generations wrong: Old Time has miss'd thee: there he tarries!

Go on to thy contemporaries!

Give the child up. To see thee kiss him Is a compleat anachronism.

Nay, keep him. It is good to see Race link'd to race, in him and thee.

The child repelleth not at all Her touch as uncongenial, But loves the old Nurse like another-- Its sister--or its natural mother; And to the nurse a pride it gives To think (though old) that still she lives With one, who may not hope in vain To live her years all o'er again!