** "Pleasure's the potion of th' inferior kind;
But glory, virtue, Heaven for man design'd."
After writing these lines, how could Mrs. [Anna Letitia] Barbauld
write the following ignoble comparison?
To a Lady, with some painted flowers.
"Flowers to the fair: to you these flowers I bring,
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like
you;
Emblems of innocence, and beauty too.
With flowers the
Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.
Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden's
pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign'd;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows;
But this soft family, to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense, and glad
the heart.
Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these;
Your best, your sweetest empire is -
to please."
So the men tell us; but virtue, says reason, must be acquired by
rough toils, and useful struggles with worldly cares.