@3She had lost her Silver Thimble, and her complaint being accidentally overheard by him, her Friend, he immediately sent her four others to take her choice of.@1 As oft mine eye with careless glance Has gallop'd thro' some old romance, Of speaking Birds and Steeds with wings, Giants and Dwarfs, and Fiends and Kings; Beyond the rest with more attentive care I've lov'd to read of elfin-favour'd Fair -- How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky And suffer'd to escape one votive sigh, Wafted along on viewless pinions aery It laid itself obsequious at her Feet: Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet Save in the dear delicious land of Faery! But now (by proof I know it well) There's still some peril in free wishing -- @3Politeness@1 is a licenc'd @3spell,@1 And @3you,@1 dear Sir! the Arch-magician. You much perplex'd me by the various set: They were indeed an elegant quartette! My mind went to and fro, and waver'd long; At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong) @3That,@1around whose azure rim Silver figures seem to swim, Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue, Wak'd by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain; Or ocean Nymphs with limbs of snowy hue Slow-floating o'er the calm cerulean plain. Just such a one, @3mon cher ami,@1 (The finger shield of industry) Th' inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave What time the vain Arachne, madly brave, Challeng'd the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky A duel in embroider'd work to try. And hence the thimbled Finger of grave Pallas To th' erring Needle's point was more than callous. But ah the poor Arachne! She unarm'd Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd With all a @3Rival's@1hopes, a @3Mortal's@1 fears, Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with tears. Unnumber'd punctures small yet sore Full fretfully the maiden bore, Till she her lily finger found Crimson'd with many a tiny wound; And to her eyes, suffus'd with wat'ry woe, Her flower-embroider'd web danc'd dim, I wist, Like blossom'd shrubs in a quick-moving mist: Till vanquish'd the despairing Maid sunk low. O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires, I heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires! And I from unwatch'd needle's erring point Had surely suffer'd on each finger-joint Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne meet; While he, the much-lov'd Object of my Choice (My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat), Pour'd on mine ear with deep impressive voice, How the great Prophet of the Desart stood And preach'd of Penitence by Jordan's Flood; On WAR; or else the legendary lays In simplest measures hymn'd to ALLA's praise; Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores O'er his @3Friend's@1 grave in loftier numbers pours: Yes, Bard polite! you but obey'd the laws Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent; What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might cause 'Tis well, your finger-shielding gifts prevent. SARA |