The Ladies' Garland

THE GRAVE-BY BLAIR.

Dull Grave ! thou spoil'st the dance of youthful
blood,
Strick'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
And every smirking feature from the face ;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now ? the man of health
Complexionally pleasant ? where the droll ?
Whose every look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made e'en thick-lipp'd musing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile
Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now,
And dumb as the green turf that covers them !
When self-esteem, or others' adulation,
Would cunningly persuade us we were something
Above the common level of our kind :
The grave gainsays the smooth-complexioned fiat-
ttery,
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.
Beauty ! thou pretty plaything ! dear deceit !
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulse, unknown before !
The grave discredits thee : thy charms expung'd,
Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd,
What hast thou more to boast of ? Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?
Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid :
Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek,
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unscar'd. For this was all thy caution ?
For this thy painful labors at thy glass,
T' improve those charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks thee not ?