Entomb’d beneath this lofty tree
A mortal lies of low degree.
A strict observer from his youth
Of that important virtue, truth.
He never with a selfish view
Was known to speak a word untrue.
His temper lively, yet as mild
And harmless as a new-born child.
He never slandered friend or foe,
Nor triumph’d in another’s woe;
And tho’, when young, he us’d to roam,
For years he lov’d his little home:
Securely there he laid him down,
Nor fear’d the world’s ill-natur’d frown;
No wild ambitious thoughts possest
His quiet, unaspiring breast.
He envied neither wealth nor power,
Enjoying still the present hour;
Contented with his daily bread,
Each night he sought his peaceful bed:
Stranger to vice he knew no fear,
As life’s important end drew near;
He breath’d his last without a sigh,
And shew’d how Innocence shou’d die
Blush, reader, while these lines you scan
Here lies a MONKEY, not a man.
NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every
Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and
Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are
taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9,
Maiden-Lane._
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_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 4, 1797.+ [+No. 79.+
THE NETTLE AND THE ROSE:
An Essay.
Our bane and physic the same earth bestows,
And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose.
We may consider human life as a garden, in which Roses and Nettles are
promiscuously scattered, and in which we as often feel the sting of the
wounding Nettle, as we enjoy the fragrance of the blooming Rose. Those
bowers of delight, entwined with the woodbine and jessamine, under whose
friendly umbrage we seek shelter from the noon-day sun, sometimes are
the abode of snakes, adders, and other venomous creatures, which wound
us in those unguarded scenes of delight. As the year has its seasons,
and winter and summer are constantly in pursuit of each other, so
changeable likewise is the condition of mortals; and as the elements are
frequently disturbed by storms, hurricanes, and tempests, so is the mind
of man frequently ruffled and discomposed, till the sunshine of reason
and philosophy bursts forth and dispels the gloom. Murmering brooks,
purling streams, and sequestered groves, whatever the fictions of a
poetical imagination may have advanced, are not always the seat of
unmingled pleasure, nor the abode of uninterrupted happiness.
The hapless Florio pined away some months on the delightful banks of the
Severn: he complained of the cruelty of the lovely Annabella, and told
his fond tale to the waters of that impetuous stream, which hurried
along regardless of his plaints. He gathered the lilies of the field:
but the lilies were not so fair as his Annabella, nor the fragrance of
the blushing rose so sweet as her breath; the lambs were not so
innocent, nor the sound of the tabour on the green half so melodious as
her voice. Time, however, has joined Florio and Annabella in the fetters
of wedlock, and the plaints of the swain are now changed. The delusion
of the enchantment is now vanished, and what he but lately considered as
the only object worthy of his sublunary pursuit, he now contemplates
with coolness, indifference, and disgust: enjoyment has metamorphosed
the Rose into a Nettle.
Ernestus, contrary to his inclination, was compelled by his parents to
marry the amiable Clara, whose sense, tenderness, and virtues, soon
fixed the heart of the roving Ernestus; and what at first gave him pain
and disgust, by degrees became familiar, pleasing, and delightful: the
Nettle was here changed to the Rose.
The wandering libertine, who pursues the Rose thro’ the unlawful paths
of love, who tramples under foot every tender plant that comes within
his reach, and who roves from flower to flower, like the bee, only to
rob it of its sweets, will at last lose his way, and, when benighted, be
compelled to repose on the restless bed of wounding Nettles.
The blooming Rose is an utter stranger to the wilds of ambition, where
gloomy clouds perpetually obscure the beams of the joyful sun, where the
gentle zephyrs never waft thro’ the groves, but discordant blasts are
perpetually howling, and where the climate produces only Thorns and
Nettles.
The Rose reaches its highest perfection in the garden of industry, where
the soil is neither too luxuriant, nor too much impoverished. Temperance
fans it with the gentlest zephyrs, and health and contentment sport
around it. Here the Nettle no sooner makes its appearance, than the
watchful eye of prudence espies it, and, though it may not be possible
totally to eradicate it, it is never suffered to reach to any height of
perfection.
Since then human life is but a garden, in which weeds and flowers
promiscuously shoot up and thrive, let us do what we can to encourage
the culture of the Rose, and guard against the spreading Nettle. However
barren may be the soil that falls to our lot, yet a careful and
assiduous culture will contribute not a little to make the garden, at
least, pleasing and cheerful.
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