4527635Poems — The WreathsMary Russell Mitford
THE WREATHS.A TALE.taken from the "Curiosities of Literature."ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.


What flow'r, in nature's charms so fair,
With dear Eliza can compare,
Whene'er some sweet, some glad surprise
Bids her soft blushes mantling rise?
But when the fair on conquest bent,
To charm some favor'd youth intent,
Distrusting her pale maiden rose,
With artificial radiance glows,
At distance still as fair, as true,
The blooming beauty stands to view;
Approach, and all her magic's flown,
Her cheeks their borrow'd tints disown;
This can alone her pow'r disarm,
And bid Eliza cease to charm.
Then why, sweet Maid! to whom was giv'n
Each gentler grace by fav'ring Heav'n,
In whose fair form and lovely face
The mind's pure excellence we trace,
Oh! why those native charms forego,
For gaudy art's delusive glow?
Forsake the meretricious train.,
That people folly's wide domain!
And listen to the tale I sing
Of high Judea's far-fam'd king.
He, whose recorded wisdom bears
The touch-stone of three thousand years;
  And will immortal shine,
Bright, as when through the world was known
The name of Solomon alone;
When monarchs bow'd before his throne,
  And worshipp'd at his shrine.
'Twas then, to swell his mighty name,
Arriv'd fair Sheba's royal dame,
  For knowledge much renown'd;
Perchance to prove if just his fame,
Perchance to win his heart, she came
  With wit and beauty crown'd.
Howe'er it chanc'd, the learned fair,
  By Sheba's sages taught,
Oft hoped the monarch to ensnare,
  With wily questions fraught.
Vain were her hopes, her wishes vain,
Baffled was all the studious train;
Still could that all-pervading mind
A clue to ev'ry labyrinth find,
  Could learning's gordian knot untie.
Where art was vain, where science fail'd,
Quick-piercing intellect prevail'd;
And sophists fled, and sages quail'd,
  Before his radiant eye.
At length, no more on study bent,
But much on female arts intent,
The crafty queen devis'd a plan,
To tame the pride of lordly man;
Force him to woman's pow'rs to yield,
And baffled, vanquished, fly the field.
Two lovely wreaths soon rose to view,
Alike in size, in form, and hue.
The royal fair one saw and prais'd,
  And piercing through the courtly ring,
She in each hand a garland rais'd,
  And stood before the king.

And ne'er did Spring's enchanting hours
Rear purer buds or fairer flow'rs.
For there the blushing roses blow,
There lilies boast their summer snow,
And there each flow'r of brilliant dye,
That blooms beneath fair Judah's sky,
Or scents the gales of Araby.
With nicest art and purest taste,
The many color'd blossoms plac'd,
Like fragments of the rainbow bright.
In soft'ning, varying, tints unite.
  Or lovelier still by contrast's pow'r,
  The dark leaves mingle with the flow'r,
And jasmines on their polish'd bed
Around their pallid lustre shed,
  Like stars that gleam in midnight hour.

"Here mighty monarch," cried the fair,
(Raising the lovely wreaths in air)"
Of nature, and of art the pride,
"To thee I bring. Behold! decide!
"One from the garden's fragrant store,
"To me my duteous maidens bore;
"The artist's imitative band,
"The other fram'd at my command."
Say, then, great king, most wise of men!
"Say can thine art the diff'rence ken?"

Paus'd the high dame. The elders round
In doubt and consternation frowned;
For well they thought no human eye
Could in those wreaths distinction spy.
In each the lily's snowy bell
  Was stain'd with fertilizing flour,
And in the jonquil's golden cell
  Hung the bright dew-drop's crystal show'r.
Low murmurs pass'd around the ring,
Of sorrow, that their far-fam'd king,
Who ev'ry shrub and flow'ret knew,
From herbs that in the valley grew,
  To the proud tree of Lebanon,
Should thus, by painted toys misled,
Be doom'd to vail his honor'd head,
  By woman's arts o'erthrown.

I Collected on his throne of state,
And calm the haughty monarch sate
But in his eyes' expression keen,
Triumphant pleasure might be seen;
  Small cause had he to fear!
For in a window near a swarm
Of bees their daily task perform,
  Their curious fabric rear.
From his high throne a page he sends,
Who straight the casement wide extends.
  The clust'ring tribe, to instinct true,
  To nature's living flow'rets flew;
To the rich rose delighted clung,
Around the fragrant jasmine hung,
  And sipp'd the balmy dew.

The courtiers and the royal dame
Bow'd to the monarch's well-earn'd fame:—
When tow'ring o'er the flatt'ring ring,
Thus spoke Judea's mighty king:
  "Those praises are not mine;
"Tis instinct's true unerring pow'r,
"That guides the insect to the flow'r,
"Bids him to shun art's gaudy bow'r,
  "And fly to Nature's shrine.
"And man, of wit, of reason proud,
"Might learn from yonder buzzing crowd,
  "To fly the false and painted train;
"In Nature's form, in Nature's mind,
"His best, his only blessing find,
  "Nor make that blessing vain."