Apart from
this, however, Blacklock's poetry endures only from its connexion with
the author's misfortune, and from the fact that through the gloom he
groped greatly to find and give the burning hand of the peasant poet the
squeeze of a kindred spirit,--kindred, we mean, in feeling and heart,
although very far removed in strength of intellect and genius.
THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE.
While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand,
And touch each feature with a trembling hand;
Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride,
To mix the colours, and the pencil guide.
Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind;
How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind!
By self the fop in magic colours shown,
Though, scorned by every eye, delights his own:
When age and wrinkles seize the conquering maid,
Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade.
Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay;
Thy charms to others as to me display.
Straight is my person, but of little size;
Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes;
My youthful down is, like my talents, rare;
Politely distant stands each single hair.
My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear;
So smooth, a child may listen without fear;
Not formed in cadence soft and warbling lays,
To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways.
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