Too soon, by caitiff-spleen inspir'd, Sage Damon to his groves retir'd, The path disclaim'd by sober reason; Retirement claims a later season, Ere active youth and warm desires Have quite withdrawn their lingering fires. With the warm bosom ill agree Or limpid stream or shady tree; Love lurks within the rosy bow'r, And claims the speculative hour; Ambition finds his calm retreat, And bids his pulse too fiercely beat; Ev'n social Friendship duns his ear, And cites him to the public sphere. Does he resist their genuine force? His temper takes some froward course, Till passion, misdirected, sighs
For weeds, or shells, or grubs, or flies! Far happiest he whose early days, Spent in the social paths of praise, Leave fairly printed on his mind A train of virtuous deeds behind: From this rich fund the memory draws The lasting meed of self-applause. Such fair ideas lend their aid
To people the sequester'd shade: Such are the naiads, nymphs, and fauns, That haunt his floods or cheer his lawns. If, where his devious ramble strays, He Virtue's radiant form surveys, She seems no longer now to wear The rigid mien, the frown severe 4 ;
4 Alluding to the allegory in Cebe's Tablet.
To show him her remote abode, To point the rocky arduous road; But from each flower his fields allow She twines a garland for his brow.
ADDRESSED TO YOUNG POETS.
Insanis; omnes gelidis quicunque laceruis Sunt tibi, Nasones Virgiliosque vides.
-Thou know'st not what thou say'st; In garments that scarce fence them from the cold Our Ovids and our Virgils you behold.
To you, ye Bards! whose lavish breast requires This monitory lay, the strains belong; Nor think some miser vents his sapient saw, Or some dull cit, unfeeling of the charms That tempt profusion, sings; while friendly Zeal, To guard from fatal ills the tribe he loves, Inspires the meanest of the Muse's train! Like you I loath the grovelling progeny, Whose wily arts, by creeping time matur'd, Advance them high on Pow'r's tyrannic throne, To lord it there in gorgeous uselessness, And spurn successless Worth that pines below! See the rich churl, amid the social sons Of wine and wit regaling! hark, he joins In the free jest delighted! seems to show A meliorated heart! he laughs, he sings,
Songs of gay import, madrigals of glee, And drunken anthems, set agape the board, Like Demea', in the play, benign and mild, And pouring forth benevolence of soul,
Till Micio wonder; or, in Shakspeare's line, Obstreperous Silence 2, drowning Shallow's voice, And startling Falstaff and his mad compeers. He owns 'tis prudence, ever and anon, To smooth his careful brow, to let his purse Ope to a sixpence's diameter.
He likes our ways; he owns the ways of wit Are ways of pleasance, and deserve regard. True, we are dainty good society,
But what art thou? Alas! consider well, Thou bane of social pleasure, know thyself: Thy fell approach, like some invasive damp Breath'd through the pores of earth from Stygian
Destroys the lamp of mirth; the lamp which we, Its flamens, boast to guard: we know not how, But at thy sight the fading flame assumes A ghastly blue, and in a stench expires.
True, thou seem'st chang'd; all sainted, all ensky'd: The trembling tears that charge thy melting eyes Say thou art honest, and of gentle kind : But all is false! an intermitting sigh
Condemns each hour, each moment, giv'n to smiles, And deems those only lost thou dost not lose. Ev'n for a demi-groat this open'd soul, This boon companion, this elastic breast, Revibrates quick, and sends the tuneful tongue To lavish music on the rugged walls
⚫ Justice Silence, in Shakspeare's Henry IV. 2d part.
Of some dark dungeon. Hence, thou caitiff! fly; Touch not my glass, nor drain my sacred bowl, Monster ingrate! beneath one common sky
Why should thou breathe! beneath one common Thou ne'er shalt harbour, nor my little boat [roof Receive a soul with crimes to press it down. Go to thy bags, thou recreant! hourly go, And, gazing there, bid them be wit, be mirth, Be conversation. Not a face that smiles Admit thy presence! not a soul that glows With social purport, bid, or ev'n or morn, Invest thee happy! but when life declines, May thy sure heirs stand tittering round thy bed, And, ushering in their favourites, burst thy locks, And fill their laps with gold, till Want and Care With joy depart, and cry, "We ask no more.' Ah! never, never may the' harmonious mind Endure the worldly! Poets, ever void Of guile, distrustless, scorn the treasur'd gold, And spurn the miser, spurn his deity. Balanc'd with friendship, in the poet's eye The rival scale of interest kicks the beam, Than lightning swifter. From his cavern'd store The sordid soul, with self-applause, remarks The kind propensity; remarks and smiles, And hies with impious haste to spread the snare. Him we deride, and in our comic scenes Contemn the niggard form Moliere has drawn: We loath with justice; but, alas! the pain To bow the knee before this calf of gold, Implore his envious aid, and meet his frown!
But 'tis not Gomez, 'tis not he whose heart Is crusted o'er with dross, whose callous mind Is senseless as his gold, the slighted Muse
Intensely loaths. "Tis sure no equal task To pardon him who lavishes his wealth On racer, fox-hound, hawk, or spaniel, all But human merit; who with gold essays All but the noblest pleasure, to remove The wants of Genius, and its smiles enjoy.
But you, ye titled youths! whose nobler zeal Would burnish o'er your coronets with fame, Who listen pleas'd when poet tunes his lay, Permit him not in distant solitudes
To pine, to languish out the fleeting hours Of active youth; then Virtue pants for praise. That season unadorn'd, the careless bard Quits your worn threshold, and, like honest Gay, Contemns the niggard boon ye time so ill. Your favours then, like trophies giv'n the tomb, The' enfranchis'd spirit soaring not perceives, Or scorns perceiv'd, and execrates the smile Which bade his vigorous bloom, to treacherous hopes And servile cares a prey, expire in vain !—
Two lawless pow'rs, engag'd by mutual hate In endless war, beneath their flags enrol The vassal world; this Avarice is nam'd, That Luxury: 'tis true their partial friends Assign them softer names; usurpers both! That share by dint of arms the legal throne Of just Economy, yet both betray'd By frandful ministers. The niggard chief Listening to want, all faithless, and prepar'd To join each moment in his rival's train, His conduct models by the needless fears The slave inspires; while Luxury, a chief Of amplest faith, to Plenty's rule resigns His whole campaign. 'Tis Plenty's flattering sounds
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