* * * * *

M. BOILEAU TO HIS GARDENER.

IMITATED

(For the Mirror.)

  Industrious man, thou art a prize to me,
  The best of masters—­surely 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 soil[5]

  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 well—­and by this garden wall
  P’rhaps Mons and Namur[7] at this instant fall. 
  What shouldst thou think if haply some should say
  This noted chronicler’s employ’d to-day
  In writing something new—­and thus his time
  Devotes to thee—­to 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 day—­to 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!