The Speech of King Robert the Bruce to his Troops/The Two Lamps
THE TWO LAMPS:
A FABLE.
ADDRESSED TO THE LADIES.
Ere yet hypocrisy and art
Have wrapp'd in treble brass the heart,—
The natural intercourse supprest
Between the countenance and breast;
Each motion of the mind we trace
By her interpreter, the face.
Rage, envy, malice, "tis agreed,
Are passions he that runs may read:
There on the passive forehead make
Impressions that we can't mistake;
Changing the human face divine—
A Nero, for an Antonine.
Evn Socrates himself confessed,
Tho wisdom had reform'd his breast,
No after fludy could efface
The lineaments of vile and base;
Such once he was, and there were fees
Indelille in lock and mien
Proofs that deformity proclaim
Moral sud personal the fame.
These warn the parent to commence
With the first orient dawn of sense,
The work of beauty; now begin
To fow the seeds of grace within
While guiltless of a weed, the soil
With all powers may bless your toil.
First fisial piety impart,
With gratitude inform their heart,
And love for you these rooted there
Shall bloom o'er all their face and air:—
The features melt, and each be deck'd
With lovely meekness and respect.
Let pity be an early theme:
Ah I teach the decent tear to stream
For other's wo: a selfish mind
The whole hard countenance will bind
And petrify—a sullen gloom
Spreading o'er nature's fairest bloom,
The eye links dead, the cold blood streaks,
Incloquent the Frozen checks;
But let benevolence control,
Dilate, and dignify the foul,
The face, illumin'd by the mind,
(Angels are fair becaufe they're kind)
With everwarying grace is found
To beam light, life, and love around.
It tumes the voice, and every tone
Is Philomela's warbled moan.
What colours shall the Muse supply
To paint the phrase less dignity,
The awful, yet engaging mien
or injur'd innocence within.
And concious worth? by heaven's intent
At once their guard and ornament.
So on some meadow's banky side,
Where Flora reigns in artless pride,
The fame rich beam that shews the bloom,
Creates the colour and perfume.
Soon as fair friendship's holy spell
Has taught the little heart to swell,
To ev'ry feature 'twill Supply
A corresponding harmony
Cast the whole countenance anew,
Tho' soft'ning, yet enobling too.
But chief Devetion's hallow'd duties
Mast crown and beautify their beauties;
Hence, redolent of joy ferene,
Divine love’s elevated mien;
Hence peace and genuine honour spread
Their blended glories round the head;
Hence the meek eye with hope replete,
Yet beaming with a seraph’s heat;
Th' Elyfian glow and every grace
Thron’d in the true Madona face.
So, poets feign, Prometheus stole
From heaven his animating coal.
Parent! ere yet their features fix,
Or folly with the heart can mix.
For in a tainted vessel pour’d.
The generous infusions’s four’d—
Be these thy arts; their fouls refine.
And all the Calipædia’s[1] thine;
For Virtue’s self (so Plato thought)
To visible existence brought,—
This, this is Beauty—must be so,
Or beauty’s but a name below.
A suiting body it creates,
Pervades, illumes, assimilates.
Thus the warm virgin-wax receives
Th’ impression that the signet gives;
Now a chaste Vestal seems, and now
The Goddess of the painted bow;
Now bears aloft the plumy crest,
And all Minerva stands confefs’d;
Now the majestic wife of Jove,
And now the Queen of Grace and Love:
Her fairy Cupide hovering round,
With tiny shaft prepar'd to wound,
Sportive o'er all her person straying,
Now on her check or besom playing,
Now in her beamy eyes they meet,
Ambrosial hands or silver feet.
'Twas at a miser's cold abode,
Two crystal urns survey'd the road:
This shone (while that was void and damp)
Conscious of oil and fire— a lamp
For shew he plae'd them, nothing loth,
But ah! th' expence to light them both,
He saw by calculation clear,
At this per day, was that per year.
The beamless vase, when night prevail'd,
Her unimportance this bewail'd;
"Too partial Fate! why doom to me
"This odious, dull obscurity?
"Here many a tedious night I've hung,
"Nor bless'd by old, nor praised by young:
"To me scarce one kind glance is given,
"While like the moon, that lamp of heaven,
"My sister of congenial glass,
"Wins all the hearts of all that pass.
"Suppose her station they revere,
"I boat the same exalted sphere;
"Do they with awe her crown behold,
"Her dress of blue, distinct with gold?
"These gave her not superior fame,
"Her ornaments and mine the same.
“'Tis not her easy shape and air,
“Her swelling bosom heavenly clear,
“Her smoother polish, brighter hue;
“No; for in these we're hardly two.
“Yet while she sits triumphant by,
“The Cyaosure[2] of every eye,
“I'm seen, if seen, with scorn alone,
“May fall unmiss'd, or stand unknown.
“Speak, dotards, speak, the diff'rence shew,
“Or own caprice rules all below."
‘Sister, forbear,’ the other cried,
‘To tell the world you're mortifi'd.
‘Envy no votaries shall gain,
‘It scarce has pity for its pain.
'’Tis not indeed my fairer frame,
‘No native excellence I claim;
‘ ’Tis not my body's happier mold,
‘More polish’d, pure, or rich with gold;
‘In these one character’s our due,
‘You fair as I, I frail as you:
‘And yet while you neglected sit,
‘Or but the theme of taunting wit,
‘I fix the traveller’s ardent gaze,
‘Have all his blessing all his praise.
‘What can this different treatment win!
‘Sure, sister, ‘tis the light within.’
