No loop-hole left, no slight pretence,
To palliate the foul offence.
"I own (said he) I'm very bad-
"A sot-incorrigibly mad—
"But, sir-I thank you for your love,
"And by your lectures would improve :
"Yet, give me leave to say, the street
"For conference is not so meet.
"Here, in this room-nay, sir, come in-
"Expose, chastise me for my sin;
"Exert each trope, your utmost art,
"To touch this senseless, flinty heart.
"I'm conscious of my guilt, 'tis true,
"But yet I know my frailty too;
"A slight rebuke will never do.
"Urge home my faults-come in, I pray-
"Let not my soul be cast away."
Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good
T'encourage by all means he could
These first appearances of grace,
Follow'd up stairs, and took his place.
The bottle and the crust appear'd,
And wily Tom demurely sneer'd.
"My duty, sir!”—“ Thank you, kind Tom."
"Again, an't please you."" Thank you: Come."
"Sorrow is dry-I must once more
"Nay, Tom, I told you at the door
"I would not drink-what! before dinner?
"Not one glass more, as I'm a sinner-
"Come, to the point in hand; is't fit
"A man of your good sense and wit
"Those parts which heaven bestow'd should
"A butt to all the sots in town?
Why, tell me, Tom-what fort can stand "(Though regular, and bravely mann'd) "If night and day the fierce foe plies "With never-ceasing batteries;
"Will there not be a breach at last?".
"Uncle, 'tis true-forgive what's past."
"But if nor interest, nor fame,
"Nor health, can your dull soul reclaim,
"Hast not a conscience, man? no thought
"Of an hereafter? dear are bought
"These sensual pleasures."-" I relent,
"Kind sir-but give your zeal a vent-
Then, pouting, hung his head; yet still
Took care his uncle's glass to fill,
Which as his hurried spirits sunk,
Unwittingly, good man! he drunk.
Each pint, alas! drew on the next,
Old Ebony stuck to his text,
Grown warm, like any angel spoke,
Till intervening hickups broke
The well-strung argument. Poor Tom
Was now too forward to reel home.
That preaching still, this still repenting,
Both equally to drink consenting,
Till both brimful could swill no more,
And fell dead drunk upon the floor.
Bacchus, the jolly god, who sate
Wide-straddling o'er his tun in state,
Close by the window side, from whence He heard this weighty conference; Joy kindling in his ruddy cheeks, Thus the indulgent godhead speaks: "Frail mortals, know, reason in vain "Rebels, and would disturb my reign. "See there the sophister o'erthrown, "With stronger arguments knock'd down "Than e'er in wrangling schools were known! "The wine that sparkles in this glass "Smooths every brow, gilds every face: "As vapours when the sun appears,
"Far hence anxieties and fears:
"Grave ermine smiles, lawn sleeves grow gay,
"Each haughty monarch owns my sway,
"And cardinals and popes obey:
"Ev'n Cato drank his glass, 'twas I
"Taught the brave patriot how to die
"For injur'd Rome and liberty;
"'Twas I who with immortal lays
Inspir'd the bard that sung his praise. "Let dull unsociable fools
"Loll in their cells, and live by rules;
"My votaries, in gay delight
"And mirth, shall revel all the night;
"Act well their parts on life's dull stage,
"And make each moment worth an age."
RICHARD WEST.
BORN 1716.-DIED 1742.
RICHARD WEST, the lamented friend of Gray, who died in his twenty-sixth year.
YES, happy youths, on Camus' sedgy side,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend;
Now pleas'd along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye chuse
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse.
Mean time at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like some sad exile in a desert land;
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine.
1 An imitation of Elegy V. 3d book of Tibullus.-This poem was written by this interesting youth at the age of twenty.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the sunshine of my days;
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rosy face away.
Just heav'n! what sin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife? Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim, Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet just started from the lists of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.
Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray?
Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.
How weak is man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
|