Herfelf the foreft ill, while death and ease,
Oft and in vain invok'd, or to appease
Or end the grief, with hafty wings recede
From the vex'd patient and the fickly bed.
Nought fhall it profit that the charming fair,
Angelic, softest work of Heav'n, draws near
To the cold fhaking paralytic hand,
Senfelefs of Beauty's touch, or Love's command,
Nor longer apt or able to fulfil
The dictates of its feeble mafter's will.
Nought fhall the pfaltry and the harp avail,
The pleafing fong, or well-repeated tale,
When the quick spirits their warm march forbear,
And numbing coldness has unbrac'd the ear.
The verdant rifing of the flow'ry hill,
The vale enamell'd, and the crystal rill,
The ocean rolling, and the shelly shore,
Beautiful objects, fhall delight no more,
When the lax'd finews of the weaken'd eye
In wat'ry damps or dim fuffufion lie.
Day follows night; the clouds return again
After the falling of the latter rain;
But to the aged blind fhali ne'er return
Grateful viciffitude; he still must mourn
The fun, and moon, and ev'ry ftarry light,
Eclips'd to him, and loft in everlasting night.
Behold where Age's wretched victim lies;
See his head trembling, and his half-clos'd eyes ;
Frequent for breath his panting bofom heaves;
To broken fleeps his remnant fenfe he gives,
And only by his pains awaking finds he lives.
Loos'd by devouring Time, the filver cord
Diffever'd lies; unhonour'd from the board
The crystal urn, when broken, is thrown by,
And apter utenfils their place fupply.
Thefe things and thou must share one equal lot;
Die and be lott, corrupt and be forgot;
While ftill another and another race
Shall now fupply and now give up the place.
From earth all came, to earth must all return,
Frail as the cord, and brittle as the urn.
But be the terror of all thefe ills fuppreft,
And view we man with health and vigour bleft.
Home he returns with the declining fun,
His deftin'd talk of labour hardly done;
Goes forth again with the afcending ray,
Again his travail for his bread to pay,
And find the ill fufficient to the day.
Haply at night he does with horror fhun
A widow'd daughter, or a dying fon;
His neighbour's offspring he to-morrow fees,
And doubly feels his want in their increase:
The next day, and the next, he must attend
His foe triumphant, or his bury'd friend.
In ev'ry act and turn of life he feels
Public calamities or houfhold ills;
The due reward to just defert refus'd,
The truft betray'd, the nuptial bed abus'd;
The judge corrupt, the long-depending cause,
And doubtful iffue of mifconftru'd laws;
The crafty turns of a dishonest state,
And violent will of the wrong-doing great;
The venom'd tongue, injurious to his fame,
Which nor can wifdom fhun nor fair advice reclaim.
Efteem we thefe, my friend, event and chance,
Produc'd as atoms form their flutt'ring dance?
Or higher yet their effence may we draw
From deftin'd order and eternal law?
Again, my Mufe, the cruel doubt repeat :
Spring they, I fay, from accident or fate?
Yet fuch we find they are, as can control
The fervile actions of our wav'ring foul;
Can fright, can alter, or can chain the will;
Their ills all built on life, that fundamental ill.
O fatal fearch! in which the lab'ring mind,
Still prefs'd with weight of woe, ftill hopes to find
A fhadow of delight, a dream of peace,
From years of pain one moment of release;
Hoping, at least, she may herfelf deceive,
Against experience willing to believe,
Defirous to rejoice, condemn'd to grieve.
Happy the mortal man who now at last
Has through this doleful vale of mis'ry paft,
Who to his deftin'd ftage has carry'd on
The tedious load, and laid his burden down;
Whom the cut brafs or wounded marble fhews
Victor o'er Life, and all her train of woes:
He happier yet, who, privileg'd by Fate
To fhorter labour and a lighter weight,
Receiv'd but yesterday the gift of breath,
Order'd to-morrow to return to death:
But, O beyond defcription happiett he
Who ne'er muft roll on life's tumultuous fea :
Who with blefs'd freedom from the gen'ral doom
Exempt, muft never force the teeming womb,
Nor fee the fun, nor fink into the tomb.
Who breathes must fuffer, and who thinks must And he alone is blefs'd who ne'er was born. [mourn "Yet in thy turn, thou frowning Preacher, hear; "Are not thefe gen'ral maxims too fevere?
Say, cannot pow'r fecure its owner's blifs? "And is not wealth the potent fire of peace? "Are victors blefs'd with fame, or kings with ease?"
I tell thee, life is but one common care,
And man was born to fuffer and to fear.
"But is no rank, no station, no degree,
"From this contagious taint of forrow free?"
None, mortal, none: yet in a bolder train
Let me this melancholy truth maintain :
But hence, ye worldly and profane, retire,
For I adapt my voice and raife my lyre
To notions not by vulgar ear receiv'd;
Yet ftill must covet life, and be deceiv'd;
Your very fear of death shall make you try
To catch the fhade of immortality,
Wishing on earth to linger, and to fave
Part of its prey from the devouring grave;
To thofe who may furvive ye to bequeath
Something entire, in fpite of time and death;
A fancy'd kind of being to retrieve,
And in a book, or from a building live.
Falfe hope! vain labour ! let fome ages fly,
The dome shall moulder, and the volume die.
Wretches, ftill taught! ftill will we think it ftrange
That all the parts of this great fabric change,
Quit their high ftation and primeval frame,
And lofe their fhape, their effence, and their name ?
Reduce the fong; our hopes, our joys, are vain;
Our lot is forrow, and our portion pain.
What paufe from woe, what hopes of comfort bring
The name of wife or great, of judge or king?
What is a king? a man condemn'd to bear
The public burden of the nation's care:
Now crown'd, fome angry faction to appease,
Now falls a victim to the people's ease;
From the first blooming of his ill-taught youth
Nourish'd in flatt'ry, and eftrang'd from truth: 280
At home furrounded by a fervile crowd,
Prompt to abufe, and in detraction loud;
Abroad begirt with men, and fwords and fpears,
His very state acknowledging his fears;
Marching amidst a thousand guards, he shews
His fecret terror of a thousand foes:
In war, however prudent, great, or brave,
To blind events and fickle chauce a slave;
Seeking to fettle what for ever flies,
Sure of the toil, uncertain of the prize.
But he returns with conqueft on his brow,
Brings up the triumph, and abfolves the vow:
The captive gen'rals to his car are ty'd ;
The joyful citizens, tumultuous tide,
Echoing his glory, gratify his pride.
What is this triumph? madnefs, fhouts, and noise,
One great collection of the people's voice.
The wretches he brings back, in chains relate
What may to-morrow be the victor's late.
The fpoils and trophies borne before him fhew
National lofs and epidemic woe,
Various diftrefs which he and his may know.
Does he not mourn the valiant thousands flain,
The heroes, once the glory of the plain,
Left in the conflict of the fatal day,
Or the wolf's portion, or the vulture's prey?
Does he not weep the laurel which he wears,
Wet with the foldiers' blood and widows' tears?
See where he comes, the darling of the war!
See millions crowding round the gilded car!
In the vaft joys of this ecftatic hour,
And full fruition of fuccefsful pow'r,
One moment and one thought might let him fcan
The various turns of life, and fickle ftate of man.
Are the dire images of fad diftruft,
And popular change, obfcur'd amid the duft
That rifes from the victor's rapid wheel?
Can the loud clarion or fhrill fife repel
The inward cries of Care? can Nature's voice,
Plaintive, be drown'd, or lefien'd in the noise,
Tho' fhouts, as thunder loud, afflict the air,
Stun the birds, now releas'd, and fhake the iv'ry
chair?
Yon crowd, (he might reflect) yon joyful crowd,
Pleas'd with my honour's, in my praises loud,
(Should fleeting vict'ry to the vanquifh'd go,
Should the deprefs my arms and raise the foe)
Would for that foe with equal ardour wait,
At the high palace or the crowded gate,
With restless rage would pull my statues down,
And caft the brass anew to his renown.
O impotent defire of worldly fway!
That I who make the triumph of to-day,
May of to-morrow's pomp one part appear,
Ghaftly with wounds, and lifelefs on the bier!
Then, (vilcnefs of mankind!) then of all these
Whom my dilated eye with labour fees,
World cre, alas! repeat me good or great,
Wath my pale body, or bewai: my fate?
|