The Poetical Works of James Beattie

THE WOLF AND SHEPHERDS
A FABLE

 
Laws, as we read in ancient sages,
Have been like cobwebs in all ages.
Cobwebs for little flies are spread,
And laws for little folks are made;
But if an insect of renown,
Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone,
Be caught in quest of sport or plunder,
The flimsy fetter flies in sunder.
Your simile perhaps may please one
With whom wit holds the place of reason:
But can you prove that this in fact is
Agreeable to life and practice?
Then hear, what in his simple way
Old Esop told me t'other day.
In days of yore, but (which is very odd)
Our author mentions not the period,
We mortal men, less given to speeches,
Allow'd the beasts sometimes to teach us.
But now we all are prattlers grown,
And suffer no voice but our own:
With us no beast has leave to speak,
Although his honest heart should break.
'Tis true, your asses and your apes,
And other brutes in human shapes,
And that thing made of sound and show
Which mortals have misnam'd a beau
(But in the language of the sky
Is call'd a two-legg'd butterfly),
Will make your very heartstrings ache
With loud and everlasting clack,
And beat your auditory drum,
Till you grow deaf, or they grow dumb.
But to our story we return:
'Twas early on a Summer morn,
A Wolf forsook the mountain-den,
And issued hungry on the plain.
Full many a stream and lawn he pass'd,
And reach'd a winding vale at last;
Where from a hollow rock he spy'd
The shepherds drest in flowery pride.
Garlands were strow'd, and all was gay,
To celebrate an holiday.
The merry tabor's gamesome sound
Provok'd the sprightly dance around.
Hard by a rural board was rear'd,
On which in fair array appear'd
The peach, the apple, and the raisin,
And all the fruitage of the season.
But, more distinguish'd than the rest,
Was seen a wether ready drest,
That smoking, recent from the flame,
Diffus'd a stomach-rousing steam.
Our wolf could not endure the sight,
Outrageous grew his appetite:
His entrails groan'd with tenfold pain,
He lick'd his lips, and lick'd again;
At last, with lightning in his eyes,
He bounces forth, and fiercely cries,
"Shepherds, I am not given to scolding,
But now my spleen I cannot hold in.
By Jove, such scandalous oppression
Would put an elephant in passion.
You, who your flocks (as you pretend)
By wholesome laws from harm defend,
Which make it death for any beast,
How much soe'er by hunger press'd,
To seize a sheep by force or stealth,
For sheep have right to life and health;
Can you commit, uncheck'd by shame,
What in a beast so much you blame?
What is a law, if those who make it
Become the forwardest to break it?
The case is plain: you would reserve
All to yourselves, while others starve.
Such laws from base self-interest spring,
Not from the reason of the thing – "
He was proceeding, when a swain
Burst out – "And dares a wolf arraign
His betters, and condemn their measures,
And contradict their wills and pleasures?
We have establish'd laws, 'tis true,
But laws are made for such as you.
Know, sirrah, in its very nature
A law can't reach the legislature.
For laws, without a sanction join'd,
As all men know, can never bind:
But sanctions reach not us the makers,
For who dares punish us though breakers?
'Tis therefore plain, beyond denial,
That laws were ne'er design'd to tie all;
But those, whom sanctions reach alone;
We stand accountable to none.
Besides, 'tis evident, that, seeing
Laws from the great derive their being,
They as in duty bound should love
The great, in whom they live and move,
And humbly yield to their desires:
'Tis just what gratitude requires.
What suckling dangled on the lap
Would tear away its mother's pap?
But hold – Why deign I to dispute
With such a scoundrel of a brute?
Logic is lost upon a knave.
Let action prove the law our slave."
An angry nod his will declar'd
To his gruff yeoman of the guard;
The full-fed mongrels, train'd to ravage,
Fly to devour the shaggy savage.
The beast had now no time to lose
In chopping logic with his foes;
"This argument," quoth he, "has force,
And swiftness is my sole resource."
He said, and left the swains their prey,
And to the mountains scour'd away.
 

ON THE REPORT OF A MONUMENT
TO BE ERECTED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE AUTHOR.⁴⁶

[Part of a letter to a person of quality

* * * * * * * Lest your Lordship, who are so well acquainted with every thing that relates to true honour, should think hardly of me for attacking the memory of the dead, I beg leave to offer a few words in my own vindication.

If I had composed the following verses, with a view to gratify private resentment, to promote the interest of any faction, or to recommend myself to the patronage of any person whatsoever, I should have been altogether inexcusable. To attack the memory of the dead from selfish considerations, or from mere wantonness of malice, is an enormity which none can hold in greater detestation than I. But I composed them from very different motives; as every intelligent reader, who peruses them with attention, and who is willing to believe me upon my own testimony, will undoubtedly perceive. My motives proceeded from a sincere desire to do some small service to my country, and to the cause of truth and virtue. The promoters of faction I ever did, and ever will consider as the enemies of mankind; to the memory of such I owe no veneration; to the writings of such I owe no indulgence.

Your Lordship knows that * * * * * owed the greatest share of his renown to the most incompetent of all judges, the mob; actuated by the most unworthy of all principles, a spirit of insolence; and inflamed by the vilest of all human passions, hatred to their fellow-citizens. Those who joined the cry in his favour seemed to me to be swayed rather by fashion than by real sentiment. He therefore might have lived and died unmolested by me; confident as I am, that posterity, when the present unhappy dissensions are forgotten, will do ample justice to his real character. But when I saw the extravagant honours that were paid to his memory, and heard that a monument in Westminster Abbey was intended for one, whom even his admirers acknowledge to have been an incendiary and a debauchee, I could not help wishing that my countrymen would reflect a little on what they were doing, before they consecrated, by what posterity would think the public voice, a character which no friend to virtue or to true taste can approve. It was this sentiment, enforced by the earnest request of a friend, which produced the following little poem; in which I have said nothing of * * * * *'s manners that is not warranted by the best authority; nor of his writings, that is not perfectly agreeable to the opinion of many of the most competent judges in Britain. * * * * * * * *, January 1765.]

 
Bufo, begone! with Thee may Faction's fire,
That hatch'd thy salamander-fame, expire.
Fame, dirty idol of the brainless crowd,
What half-made moon-calf can mistake for good!
Since shar'd by knaves of high and low degree;
Cromwell, and Catiline; Guido Faux, and Thee.
By nature uninspir'd, untaught by art;
With not one thought that breathes the feeling heart,
With not one offering vow'd to Virtue's shrine,
With not one pure unprostituted line;
Alike debauch'd in body, soul, and lays; —
For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise,
For ribaldry, for libels, lewdness, lies,
For blasphemy of all the Good and Wise;
Coarse virulence in coarser doggerel writ,
Which bawling blackguards spell'd, and took for wit;
For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'erthrown; —
Lo, Bufo shines the minion of renown!
Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire,
And magic Spenser's wildly-warbling lyre?
The land that owns th' omnipotence of song,
When Shakspeare whirls the throbbing heart along?
The land where Pope, with energy divine,
In fine strong blaze bade wit and fancy shine;
Whose verse, by Truth in Virtue's triumph borne,
Gave knaves to infamy, and fools to scorn;
Yet pure in manners, and in thought refin'd,
Whose life and lays adorn'd and blest mankind?
Is this the land where Gray's unlabour'd art
Soothes, melts, alarms, and ravishes the heart;
While the lone wanderer's sweet complainings flow
In simple majesty of manly woe;
Or while, sublime, on eagle-pinion driven,
He soars Pindaric heights, and sails the waste of heaven?
Is this the land, o'er Shenstone's recent urn
Where all the Loves and gentler Graces mourn?
And where, to crown the hoary bard of night,⁴⁷
The Muses and the Virtues all unite?
Is this the land where Akenside displays
The bold yet temperate flame of ancient days?
Like the rapt Sage,⁴⁸ in genius as in theme,
Whose hallow'd strain renown'd Ilissus' stream;
Or him, th' indignant Bard,⁴⁹ whose patriot ire,
Sublime in vengeance, smote the dreadful lyre;
For truth, for liberty, for virtue warm,
Whose mighty song unnerv'd a tyrant's arm,
Hush'd the rude roar of discord, rage, and lust,
And spurn'd licentious demagogues to dust.
Is this the queen of realms! the glorious isle,
Britannia, blest in Heaven's indulgent smile!
Guardian of truth, and patroness of art,
Nurse of th' undaunted soul, and generous heart!
Where, from a base unthankful world exil'd,
Freedom exults to roam the careless wild;
Where taste to science every charm supplies,
And genius soars unbounded to the skies!
And shall a Bufo's most polluted name
Stain her bright tablet of untainted fame!
Shall his disgraceful name with theirs be join'd,
Who wish'd and wrought the welfare of their kind!
His name accurst, who, leagued with * * * * * * and hell,
Labour'd to rouse, with rude and murderous yell,
Discord the fiend, to toss rebellion's brand,
To whelm in rage and woe a guiltless land;
To frustrate wisdom's, virtue's noblest plan,
And triumph in the miseries of man.
Drivelling and dull, when crawls the reptile Muse,
Swoln from the sty, and rankling from the stews,
With envy, spleen, and pestilence replete,
And gorged with dust she lick'd from treason's feet;
Who once, like Satan, rais'd to heaven her sight,
But tuned abhorrent from the hated light: —
O'er such a Muse shall wreaths of glory bloom!
No – shame and execration be her doom.
Hard-fated Bufo! could not dulness save
Thy soul from sin, from infamy thy grave!
Blackmore and Quarles, those blockheads of renown,
Lavish'd their ink, but never harm'd the town:
Though this, thy brother in discordant song,
Harass'd the ear, and cramp'd the labouring tongue;
And that, like thee, taught staggering prose to stand,
And limp on stilts of rhyme around the land.
Harmless they doz'd a scribbling life away,
And yawning nations own'd th' innoxious lay:
But from thy graceless, rude, and beastly brain
What fury breath'd th' incendiary strain?
Did hate to vice exasperate thy style?
No – Bufo match'd the vilest of the vile.
Yet blazon'd was his verse with Virtue's name —
Thus prudes look down to hide their want of shame;
Thus hypocrites to truth, and fools to sense,
And fops to taste, have sometimes made pretence:
Thus thieves and gamesters swear by honour's laws:
Thus pension-hunters bawl their Country's cause:
Thus furious Teague for moderation rav'd,
And own'd his soul to liberty enslav'd.
Nor yet, though thousand Cits admire thy rage,
Though less of fool than felon marks thy page;
Nor yet, though here and there one lonely spark
Of wit half brightens through th' involving dark,
To show the gloom more hideous for the foil,
But not repay the drudging reader's toil;
(For who for one poor pearl of clouded ray
Through Alpine dunghills delves his desperate way?)
Did genius to thy verse such bane impart?
No. 'Twas the demon of thy venom'd heart,
(Thy heart with rancour's quintessence endued)
And the blind zeal of a misjudging crowd.
Thus from rank soil a poison'd mushroom sprung,
Nursling obscene of mildew and of dung;
By heaven design'd on its own native spot
Harmless t' enlarge its bloated bulk, and rot.
But gluttony th' abortive nuisance saw;
It rous'd his ravenous undiscerning maw:
Gulp'd down the tasteless throat, the mess abhorr'd
Shot fiery influence round the maddening board.
O had thy verse been impotent as dull,
Nor spoke the rancorous heart, but lumpish scull;
Had mobs distinguish'd, they who howl'd thy fame,
The icicle from the pure diamond's flame,
From fancy's soul thy gross imbruted sense,
From dauntless truth thy shameless insolence,
From elegance confusion's monstrous mass,
And from the lion's spoils the skulking ass,
From rapture's strain the drawling doggerel line,
From warbling seraphim the gruntling swine: —
With gluttons, dunces, rakes, thy name had slept,
Nor o'er her sullied fame Britannia wept;
Nor had the Muse, with honest zeal possess'd,
T' avenge her country by thy name disgrac'd,
Rais'd this bold strain for virtue, truth, mankind,
And thy fell shade to infamy resign'd.
When frailty leads astray the soul sincere,
Let Mercy shed the soft and manly tear,
When to the grave descends the sensual sot,
Unnam'd, unnotic'd, let his carrion rot.
When paltry rogues, by stealth, deceit, or force,
Hazard their necks, ambitious of your purse;
For such the hangman wreathes his trusty gin,
And let the gallows expiate their sin.
But when a Ruffian, whose portentous crimes
Like plagues and earthquakes terrify the times,
Triumphs through life, from legal judgment free,
For hell may hatch what law could ne'er foresee;
Sacred from vengeance shall his memory rest? —
Judas though dead, though damn'd, we still detest.
 

SONG, IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE'S
'BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.'

 
Blow, blow, thou vernal gale!
Thy balm will not avail
To ease my aching breast;
Though thou the billows smooth,
Thy murmurs cannot soothe
My weary soul to rest.
 
 
Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream!
Infuse the easy dream
Into the peaceful soul;
But thou canst not compose
The tumult of my woes,
Though soft thy waters roll.
 
 
Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers!
Beauties surpassing yours
My Rosalind adorn;
Nor is the winter's blast,
That lays your glories waste,
So killing as her scorn.
 
 
Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays,
That linger down the maze
Of yonder winding grove;
O let your soft control
Bend her relenting soul
To pity and to love.
 
 
Fade, fade, ye flowerets fair!
Gales, fan no more the air!
Ye streams forget to glide!
Be hush'd, each vernal strain;
Since nought can soothe my pain,
Nor mitigate her pride.
 

EPITAPH
ON TWO YOUNG MEN OF THE NAME OF LEITCH, WHO WERE DROWNED IN CROSSING THE RIVER SOUTHESK, 1757

 
O thou! whose steps in sacred reverence tread
These lone dominions of the silent dead;
On this sad stone a pious look bestow,
Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe;
And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast,
Let each rebellious murmur be supprest;
Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, how vain!
Heaven's wise decrees, how impious, to arraign!
Pure from the stains of a polluted age,
In early bloom of life, they left the stage:
Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath,
One moment snatch'd them from the power of Death:
They liv'd united, and united died;
Happy the friends whom Death cannot divide!
 

EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF

 
Escap'd the gloom of mortal life, a soul
Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay,
Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll,
No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
 
 
Like thee, I once have stemm'd the sea of life;
Like thee, have languish'd after empty joys;
Like thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife;
Been griev'd for trifles, and amus'd with toys.
 
 
Yet, for awhile, 'gainst Passion's threatful blast
Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar;
Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn at last
Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.
 
 
Forget my frailties, thou art also frail;
Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall;
Nor read, unmov'd, my artless tender tale,
I was a friend, O man! to thee, to all.
 

VERSES WRITTEN BY MR BLACKLOCK,
OF A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS, SENT TO THE AUTHOR

 
– "Si quis tamen hæc quoque, si quis
Captus amore leget."                       Virgil.
 
 
"O thou! whose bosom inspiration fires!
For whom the Muses string their favourite lyres!
Though with superior genius blest, yet deign
A kind reception to my humbler strain.
 
 
"When florid youth impell'd, and fortune smil'd,
The Vocal Art my languid hours beguil'd.
Severer studies now my life engage,
Researches dull, that quench poetic rage.
 
 
"From morn to evening destin'd to explore
The verbal critic, and the scholiast's lore,
Alas! what beam of heavenly ardor shines
In musty lexicons and school-divines!
 
 
"Yet to the darling object of my heart
A short but pleasing retrospect I dart;
Revolve the labours of the tuneful choir,
And what I cannot imitate admire.
 
 
"O could my thoughts with all thy spirit glow,
As thine melodious could my accents flow;
Then thou approving might'st my song attend,
Nor in a Blacklock blush to own a friend."
 

AN EPISTLE
TO THE REVEREND MR. THOMAS BLACKLOCK

 
Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare; semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
 

Juvenal, Sat. x.

 
Hail to the Poet! whose spontaneous lays
No pride restrains, nor venal flattery sways.
Who nor from Critics, nor from Fashion's laws,
Learns to adjust his tribute of applause;
But bold to feel, and ardent to impart
What nature whispers to the generous heart,
Propitious to the Moral Song, commends,
For Virtue's sake, the humblest of her friends.
Peace to the grumblers of an envious age,
Vapid in spleen, or brisk in frothy rage!
Critics, who, ere they understand, defame;
And friends demure, who only do not blame;
And puppet-prattlers, whose unconscious throat
Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote.
Pleas'd to their spite or scorn I yield the lays
That boast the sanction of a Blacklock's praise.
Let others court the blind and babbling crowd:
Mine be the favour of the Wise and Good.
O Thou, to censure, as to guile unknown!
Indulgent to all merit but thy own!
Whose soul, though darkness wrap thine earthly frame,
Exults in Virtue's pure ethereal flame;
Whose thoughts, congenial with the strains on high,
The Muse adorns, but cannot dignify;
As northern lights, in glittering legions driven,
Embellish, not exalt, the starry Heaven:
Say Thou, for well thou know'st the art divine
To guide the fancy, and the soul refine,
What heights of excellence must he ascend,
Who longs to claim a Blacklock for his friend;
Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art;
But more thy meek simplicity of heart;
But more thy virtue patient, undismay'd,
At once though malice and mischance invade;
And, nor by learn'd nor priestly pride confin'd,
Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind.
Like thee, with sweet ineffable control,
Teach me to rouse or soothe th' impassion'd soul,
And breathe the luxury of social woes;
Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows.
Ye slaves of mirth, renounce your boasted plan,
For know, 'tis Sympathy exalts the man.
But, midst the festive bower, or echoing hall,
Can Riot listen to soft Pity's call?
Rude he repels the soul-ennobling guest,
And yields to selfish joy his harden'd breast.
Teach me thine artless harmony of song,
Sweet, as the vernal warblings borne along
Arcadia's myrtle groves; ere art began,
With critic glance malevolent, to scan
Bold nature's generous charms, display'd profuse
In each warm cheek, and each enraptur'd muse.
Then had not Fraud impos'd, in Fashion's name,
For freedom lifeless form, and pride for shame;
And, for th' o'erflowings of a heart sincere,
The feature fix'd, untarnish'd with a tear;
The cautious, slow, and unenliven'd eye,
And breast inur'd to check the tender sigh.
Then love, unblam'd, indulg'd the guiltless smile;
Deceit they fear'd not, for they knew not guile.
The social sense unaw'd, that scorn'd to own
The curb of law, save nature's law alone,
To godlike aims, and godlike actions fir'd;
And the full energy of thought inspir'd;
And the full dignity of pleasure, given
T' exalt desire, and yield a taste of heaven.
Hail, redolent of heaven, delights sublime!
Hail, blooming days, the days of nature's prime!
How throbs the tir'd and harass'd heart, to prove
Your scenes of pure tranquillity and love!
But even to fancy fate that bliss denies;
For lo, in endless night the vision dies!
Ah, how unlike these scenes of rage and strife,
Darkening to horror the bleak waste of life!
Where, all inverted nature's kindly plan,
Man domineers, the scourge and curse of man.
Where, haply, bosom'd in tempestuous floods,
Or dark untrodden maze of boundless woods,
If yet some land inviolate remain,
Nor dread th' oppressor's rod, nor tyrant's chain;
Nor dread the more inglorious fetters, wrought
By hireling sophistry t' enslave the thought:
'Tis there, 'tis only there, where boastful fame
Ne'er stunn'd the tingling ear with Europe's name.
Too long, O Europe, have thy oceans roll'd,
To glut thy lust of power, and lust of gold;
Too long, by glory's empty lure decoy'd,
Thy haughty sons have triumph'd and destroy'd:
Or led by reasoning pride afar to roam,
Where truth's false mimic haunts the sheltering gloom,
Have plunged in cheerless night the wilder'd mind,
Th' abodes of peace for ever left behind.
Unwise, unblest, your own, and nature's foes;
O yet be still, and give the world repose!
Say, is it fame to dare the deed of death?
Is glory nought but flattery's purchas'd breath?
True praise, can trembling slaves, can fools bestow?
Can that be joy, which works another's woe?
Can that be knowledge, which in doubt decays?
Can truth reside in disappointment's maze? —
But quench thy kindling zeal, presumptuous strain;
Thy zeal how impotent! thy plaint how vain!
Hope not thy voice can tame the tempest's rage,
Or check in prone career a headlong age.
Far different themes must animate their song,
Who pant to shine the favourites of a throng.
Go, thou fond fool, thou slave to Nature's charms,
Whose heart the cause of injur'd Truth alarms;
Go, herd in Fashion's sleek and simpering train;
And watch the workings of her pregnant brain,
Prepar'd a sycophant's applause to pay,
As each abortive monster crawls to day.
Smit with the painted puppetshow of state,
Go learn to gaze, and wonder at the great.
Go learn with courtly reverence to admire
A taste in toys, a genius in attire,
Music of titles, dignity of show,
The parrot-courtier, and the monkey-beau;
And all the equipage of sticks, and strings,
And clouts, and nicknames – merchandise of kings.
Or, to amuse the loitering hour of peace,
When slander, wit, and spleen from troubling cease,
Warble th' unmeaning hymn in Folly's ear;
Such hymns unthinking Folly loves to hear.
Smooth flow thy lays, infusing as they roll
A deep oblivious lethargy of soul:
Let rill and gale glide liquidly along,
While not one ruffling thought obstructs the song;
So shall the gallant and the gay rehearse
The gentle strain, and call it charming verse.
But if an ampler field thine ardour claim,
Even realms and empires to resound thy name;
Strive not on Fancy's soaring wing to rise;
The plodding rabble gaze not on the skies;
Far humbler regions bound their grovelling view,
And humbler tracts their minion must pursue.
There are, who, grabbling in the putrid lake,
The glittering ore from filth and darkness rake;
Like spoils from Politics thou may'st derive:
The theme is dirty, dark, and lucrative.
Yet ah! even here the spoils are hard to win,
For strong and subtle are thy foes within.
The pangs of sentiment, the qualms of taste,
And shame, dire inmate of the Scribbler's breast,
The stings of conscience, and the throbs of pride,
(Hard task) must all be vanquish'd or defy'd.
Then go, whate'er thy wit, whate'er thy style,
Defame the good, and deify the vile;
Fearless and frontless flounce into renown,
For mobs and prudes by impudence are won.
Though Providence, still merciful and just,
Who dooms the snake to wallow in the dust,
Oft curb with grovelling impotence of mind
The venal venom of the rancorous kind;
Yet fear not; Faction's torch of sulphurous gleam
Shall fire the heart that feels not Fancy's beam.
Thus … arose distinguish'd in the throng,
Thus Bufo plied a profitable song.
Proceed, Great Years, with steady glare to shine
Where guilt and folly bend at Fashion's shrine;
And ye, the vain and shameless of our days,
Approach with songs, and worship in the blaze.
For him, alas! who never learn'd the art
To stifle conscience, and a throbbing heart;
Who, though too proud to mingle in the fray
Whence truth and virtue bear no palms away,
Yet views with pity Folly's bustling scene,
Th' ambitious sick with hope, the rich with spleen,
The great exulting in a joyless prize,
Yea pities even the fop he must despise; —
For him what then remains? – The humble shed,
Th' ennobling converse of the awful Dead,
Beauty's pure ray diffus'd from Nature's face,
Fancy's sweet charm, and Truth's majestic grace.
Truth, not of hard access, or threatening mien,
As by the vain unfeeling wrangler seen;
But bland and gentle as the early ray,
That gilds the wilderness, and lights the way;
The messenger of joy to man below,
Friend of our frailty, solace of our woe.
Thus by Heaven's bounty rich shall he repine,
If others in the toys of Fortune shine?
Needs he a title to exalt his race,
Who from th' Eternal his descent can trace?
Or fame's loud trump to stun him to repose,
Whose soul resign'd no guilty tumult knows?
To roam with toil, in restless uproar hurl'd,
One little corner of a little world;
Can this enlarge or dignify the soul,
Whose wing unwearied darts from pole to pole?
Can glowworms glitter on the car of morn,
Or gold the progeny of heaven adorn?
How long, enamour'd of fictitious joy,
Shall false desire the lavish'd hour employ!
How long with random steps shall mortals roam,
Unknown their path, and more unknown their home!
Ah! still delusive the vain pleasure flies,
Or, grasp'd, insults our baffled hope, and dies.
Meanwhile behind, with renovated force,
Care and disgust pursue our slackening course,
And shall o'ertake; even in the noon of age,
Long ere the sting of Anguish cease to rage,
And long ere Death, sole friend of the distrest,
Dismiss the pilgrim to eternal rest.
Thus, wayward hope still wandering from within,
Lur'd by the phantoms of th' external scene;
We scorn, what heaven our only bliss design'd
The humble triumph of a tranquil mind;
And that alone pursue which Fortune brings,
Th' applause of multitudes, or smile of kings.
But ah! can these, or those afford delight?
Can man be happy in his Maker's spite?
Vain thankless man, averse to Nature's sway,
Feels every moment that he must obey.
Close and more closely clasp the stubborn chains,
And each new struggle rouses keener pains.
Thus stung with appetite, with anguish torn,
Urged by despair still more and more forlorn,
Till each fantastic hope expire in woe,
And the cold cheerless heart forget to glow,
We perish, muttering this unrighteous strain,
"Joy was not made for man, and life is vain."
Sweet peace of heart, from false desire refin'd,
That pour'st elysian sunshine on the mind,
O come, bid each tumultuous wish be still,
And bend to nature's law each froward will.
Let Hope's wild wing ne'er stoop to Fortune's sphere;
For terror, anguish, discontent are there;
But soar with strong and steady flight sublime,
Where disappointment never dar'd to climb.
O come, serenely gay, and with thee bring
The vital breath of heaven's eternal spring;
Th' amusive dream of blameless fancy born,
The calm oblivious night, and sprightly morn.
Bring Resignation, undebas'd with fear;
And Melancholy, serious, not severe;
And Fortitude, by chance nor time controll'd,
Meek with the gentle, with the haughty bold;
Devotion deck'd in smiles of filial love;
And Thought, conversing with the worlds above.
So shall my days nor vain nor joyless roll,
Nor with regret survey th' approaching goal;
Too happy, if I gain that noblest prize,
The well-earn'd favour of the Good and Wise.