Imatges de pàgina
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Away he fcours, affaults his hoof;
Now near him foarls, now barks aloof;
With fhrill impertinence attends;
Nor leaves him till the village ends.
It chancʻd, upon his evil day,
A Pad came pacing down the way:
The Cur, with never-ceafing tongue,
Upon the palling trav'ller tprung.
The Horfe, from scorn provok'd to ire,
I lung backward: rolling in the mire
The Puppy howl'd, and bleeding lay;
The Pad in peace purfued his way.

A Shepherd's Dog, who faw the deed,
Detefting the vexatious breed,
Befpoke him thus: When coxcombs prate,
They kindle wrath, contempt, or hate;
Thy teazing tongue had judgment tied,
Thou hadit not like a Puppy died.

$169. Fable XI.VII. The Court of Death. EATH, on a folemn night of ftate,

DE

In all his pomp of ter or fate; Th' attendants of his gloomy reign, Difcates dire, a ghantly train! Crowd the vaft Court. A voice thus thunder'd from the throne:

With hollow tone,

This night our minifter we name,

Let ev'ry fervant speak his claim;
Merit fhall bear this ebon wand.—

All, at the word, ftretch'd forth their hand.
Fever, with burning heat pofleft,
Advanc'd, and for the wand addrefs'd;
I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let thofe exprefs my fervent zeal;
On ev'ry flight occafion near,
With violence. I perfevere.

Next Gout appears, with limping pace,
Picads how he hits from place to place;
From head to foot how fwift he flies,
And ev'ry joint and finew plies;
Still working when he feem's fuppreft-—
A moft tenacious, frubborn gucit.

A haggard Spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus afferts his due:
'Tis I who taint the fweeteft jov,
And in the thape of love destroy:
My thanks, fuck cyes, and nofclufis face,
Prove my pretention to the place.

Stone urg'd his ever-growing forces
And next Confumption's meagre corle,
With feeble voice that fcarce was heard,
Ercke with fhort coughs, his fuit preferr'd:
Let none object my ling ring way,
I gain, like Fabius, by delay;
Fatigue and weaken ev'ry foe
Ly long attack-fecure, though flow,
Plague reprefents his rapid pow'r,
Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All poke their claim, and hop'd the wand. Now expectation huth'd the band, When thus the monarch from the throne:

Merit was ever modeft known. What, no Fhyfician fpeak his right? None here!,but fees their tolls reqante.

Let then Intemp'rance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand,
You Fever, Gout, and all the reft,
Whom wary men as foes deteft,
Forego your claim; no more pretend;
Intemp'rance is esteem'd a friend ;
He fhares their mirth, their focial joys,
And as a courted guest deftroys.
The charge on him muft juftly fall,
Who finds employment for you all.

§ 170. Fable XLVIII. The Gardener andike Hog GARD'NER of peculiar tafte

A

On a young Hog his favour plac'd,
Who fed not with the common heid;
His tray was to the hall preferr'd.
He wallow'd underneath the beard,
Or in his mafter's chamber fnor'd;
Who fondly ftrok'd him ev'ry day,

And taught him all the puppy's play.
Where'er he went, the grunting friend
Ne'er fail'd his pleasure to attend.

As on a time the loving pair
Walk'd forth to tend the garden's care,
The Mafter thus addrefs'd the Swine:
My houfe, my garden, all is thine.
On turnips feaft whene'er you please,
And riot in my beans and peale;
If the potatoe's tafte delights,

Or the red carrot's fweet invites,
Indulge thy morn and ev'ning hours,
But let due care regard my flow is.
My tulips are my garden's pride,
What vaft expence thofe beds fupplied !

The Hog by chance one morning roam'd,
Where with new ale the veffels foom'd:
He munches now the ftreaming grains;
Now with full fwill the liquor drains.
Intoxicating fumes arife;

He cls, he rolls his winking eyes;
Then, ftagg ring, through the garden fcours,.
And treads down painted ranks of flow 'rs,
With delving fhout he turns the foil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.

The Mafter came, the ruin fpied;
Villain, fufpend thy rage! he cried:
Haft thou, thou most ungrateful fort!
My charge, my only charge forgot?
What, all iny flow'rs! No more he said,
But gaz'd, and figh'd, and hung his head.

The Hog with ftutt'ring speech returns,
Explain, Sir, why your anger burns.
See there, untouch'd, your tulips ftrewn,
For I devour'd the roots alone.

At this the Gard'ner's paftion grows;
From oaths and threats he fell to blows.
The ftubborn brute the blows fuftains,
Afaults his leg, and tears his veins.

Ah, foolish fwain! too late you find,
That ities were for fach friends defign'd.
Homeward he limps with painful pace,
Reflecting thus on pait difgrice:
Who cherishes a brutal mate
Shall mourn the folly foon or late.

171. Fable XLIX. The Man and the Flea. WHETHER in earth, in air, or main,

Sure ev'ry thing alive is vain!
Does not the hawk all fowls furvey
As deftin'd only for his prey?
And do not tyrants, prouder things,
Think men were born for flaves to kings?
When the crab views the pearly ftrands,
Or Tagus, bright with golden fands,
Or crawls befide the coral grove,
And hears the ocean roll above;
Nature is too profufe, fays he,
Who gave all thefe to pleature me!
When bord'ring pinks and rofes bloom,
And ev'ry garden breathes perfume;
When peaches glow with funny dyes,
Like Laura's check when blushes rife;
When with huge ngs the branches bend,
When clusters from the vine depend;
The fnail looks found on flow'r and tree,
And cries, All thefe were made for me!
What dignity's in human nature!
Says Man, the most conceited creature,
As from a cliff he caft his eyes,
And view'd the fea and arched fkies:
The fun was funk beneath the main ;
The moon, and all the ftarry train,
Hung the vaft vault of heaven. The Man
His contemplation thus began:

When I behold this glorious fhow,
And the wide wat'ry world below,
The fcaly people of the main,

The beats that range the wood or plain,
The wing 'd inhabitants of air,
The day, the night, the various year,
And know all thefe by Heaven defign'd
As gifts to pleasure human-kind;
I cannot raife my worth too high;
Of what vait confequence am I !
Net of th' importance you fuppofe,.
Replies a Flea upon his nofe:
Be humble, learn thyfelf to fean ;
Know, pride was never made for Man.
'Tis vanity that fwells thy mind.
What, heaven and earth for thee defign'd!
For thee! made only for our need,
That more important Fleas might feed.

§ 172.
Fable L. The Hare and many Friends.
FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name,
Unlefs to one you ftint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers thare,
Hath feldom known a father's care.
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who in a civil way
Complied with ev'ry thing, like GAY,
Was known by all the beftial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was, never to offend;
And ev'ry creature was her friend.

As forth the went, at early dawn,
To tafte the dow-befprinkled lawn,

| Behind the hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies:
She starts, fhe ftops, the pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles to miflead the hound,
And meatures back her mazy round;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half-dead with fear the gafping lay.
What tranfport in her bolom grew,
When first the Horfe appear'd in view!
Let me, fays fhe, your back afcend,
And owe my fafety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship ev'ry burthen's light.

The Horfe replied, Poor honeft Pufs!
It grieves my heart to fee thee thus:
Be comforted, relief is near;

For all your friends are in the rear.

She next the ftately Bull implor'd,
And thus replied the mighty lord:
Since ev'ry beaft alive can tell
That I fincerely with you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a fav'rite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the cafe,
You know all other things give place.
To leave you thus might feem unkind;
But fee, the Goat is juft behind.

The Goat remark'd her pulfe was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
My back, fays he, may do you harm;
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.

The Sheep was feeble, and complain'd
His fides a load of wool fuftain'd:
Said he was flow, confefs'd his fears,
For hounds eat Sheep as well as Hares.

She now the trotting Calf addrefs'd,
To fave from death a friend diftrefs'd.
Shall I, fays he, of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler pafs'd you by ;
How ftrong are thofe! how weak am II
Should I prefume to bear you hence,
Thofe friends of mine may take offence.
Excufe me, then. You know my heart,
But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How fhall we all lament! Adieu!
For, fee, the hounds are juft in view.

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That spark, the fun; ftrike wisdom from my foul; | And make us embryos of existence free.
My foul which flies to Thee, her truft, her treasure,
As mifers to their gold, while others reft.

Thro' this opaque of Nature and of Soul,
This double night, tranfmit one pitying ray,
To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe)
Lead it thro' various fcenes of Life and Death;
And from each scene the nobleft truths intpire.
Nor lefs inspire my Conduct than my Song;
Teach my best reason, reafon; my best will ́
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm refolve
Wifdom to wed, and pay her long arrear;
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

THE

$175. Time. YOUNG.

HEbell ftrikes One. We take no note of Time
But from its lofs. To give it then a tongue
Is wife in man. As if an angel fpoke,
I feel the folemn found. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours: [flood.
Where are they? With the years beyond the
It is the fignal that demands difpatch:
How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? a fathomlet's abyfs;
A dread eternity! how furely mine!
And can eternity belong to ine,

Poor penfioner on the bounties of an hour?

$176. Reflection on Man. YOUNG.
HOW poor, how rich, how abject, how auguft,
How complicate, how wonderful is man!
How paffing wonder He who made him fuch!
Who centred in our make fuch ftrange extremes!
From diff rent natures marvellously mix'd,
Connection exquifite of diftant worlds:
Diftinguifh'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A bean ethereal, fullied and abforpt
Tho' fullied and difhonour'd, ftill divine!
Dim miniature of greatnefs abfolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of duft!
Helplets immortal! infect infinite!
A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myfelf am loft at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, furpris'd, aghaft,
And wond'ring at her own: How reafon reels!
O what a miracle to man is man,
Triumphantly diftrefs'd! what joy, what dread!
Alternately tranfported and alarmid;
What can preferve my life! or what destroy!
An angel's arm can't inatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

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From real life but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light,
The future embryo flumb'ring in his fire.
Embryos we must be till we burst the shell,
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life,
The life of gods, oh tranfpoit! and of man.

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts
Inters celeftial hopes without one figh.
Prifoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon,
Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by Heaven
To fly at infinite; and reach it there,
Where feraphs gather immortality,
On life's fair tree, faft by the throne of God.
What golden joys ambrofial cluft ring glow,
In His full beam, and ripen for the juft;
Where momentary ages are no more! [pire!
Where time, and pain, and chance, and death ex-
And is it in the fight of threefcore years,
To pufh eternity from human thought,
And fmother fouls immortal in the duft?
A foul immortal, fpending all her fires,
Wafting her ftrength in ftrenuous idleness,
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd,
At aught this fcene can threaten or indulge,
Refembles occan into tempeft wrought,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

$178. Time and Death. YoUNG.
EACH moment has its fickle, emulous

Of Time's enormous fcythe, whofe ample sweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays
His little weapon in the narrower sphere
Of fweet domeftic comfort, and cuts down
The faireft bloom of fublunary blifs.

Bliss! fublunary blifs !—proud words and vain ¿ Implicit treafon to divine decree!

A bold invafion of the rights of Heaven!
I clafp'd the phantoms, and I found them air,
O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace,
What darts of agony had mifs'd my heart!

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine
To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The fun himfelf by thy permiffion fhines,
And one day thou thalt pluck him from his fphere.
Amid fuch mighty plunder, why exhaust
Thy partial quiver on a mark fo mean?
Why thy peculiar rancour wreck'd on me?
Infatiate archer! could not once fuffice? [flain y
Thy fhaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia! why fo pale? Doft thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? Grieve to fee thy wheel
Of ceafeless change outwhirl'd in human life?
How wanes my borrow'd blifs! from fortune's
Precarious courtesy! not virtue's fure,
Self-given, folar ray of found delight.

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In quest of wretchedness perversely strays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the ghofts
Of my departed joys, a num'rous train !
1 rue the riches of my former fate;
Sweet Comfort's blafted clusters I lament:
I tremble at the bleflings once fo dear;
And ev'ry pleasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me,
The fingle man? Are angels all befide?
I mourn for millions: 'tis the common lot;
In this fhape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than fure heirs of pain.

§ 179. Oppression, Want, and Difeafe. YOUNG.
WAR, Famine, Peft, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Inteftine broils, Oppreflion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind.
God's image, difinherited of day,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a fun was made:
There, beings, deathlefs as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life,
And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Some, for hard mafters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour fav'd:
If to the tyrant, or his minion, doom,
Want, and incurable disease (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorfelefs feize
At once, and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning hofpitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admiffion there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity !

To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!
Ye filken fons of pleasure! fince in pains
You rue more modifh vifits, vifit here,
And breathe from your debauch; give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but fo great
Your impudence, you blush at what is right.
Happy did forrow feize on fuch alone.
Not prudence can defend, or virtue fave;
Difcale invades the chafteft temperance,
And punishment the guiltlefs; and alarm,
Thro' thickeft fhades, purfues the fond of peace.
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And, his guard falling, crushes him to death.
Not happiness itfelf makes good her name;
Our very withes give us not our wish.
How diftant oft the things we doat on most
From that for which we doat, felicity!
The fmootheft courfe of nature has its pains!
And truest friends, thro' error, wound our rest.
Without misfortune, what calamities!
And what hoftilities without a foe!
Nor are foes wanting to the beft on earth.
But endless is the lift of human ills,
And fighs might sooner fail, than cause to figh.

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Be wife to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wifdom is pufh'd out of life,
Procraftination is the thief of time;
Year after year it fteals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not fo frequent, would not this be strange
That 'tis fo frequent, this is ftranger ftill.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themfelves the compliment to think
They one day fhall not drivel; and their pride
On this reverfion takes up ready praise,
At least, their own; their future felves applauds
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in fate's, to wifdom they confign;
The thing they can't but purpofe they poftpone:
And fcarce in human wisdom to do more.
'Tis not in folly not to fcorn a fool;
All promife is poor dilatory man.

And that thro' ev'ry ftage: when young, indeed,
In full content we fometimes nobly rett,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only with,
At thirty, man fufpects himself a fool;
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife.
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpofe to refolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Refolves, and re-refolves; then dies the fame.

And why? Because he thinks himselfimmortal.
All men think all men mortal but themfelves;
Themfelves, when fome alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the fudden
dread;

But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon clofe; where pafs'd the fhaft no trace is found,
As from the wing no fear the fky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature theds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

§ 181. Inconfiftency of Man. YOUNG. AH! how unjuft to nature and himself

Is thoughtlefs, thanklefs, inconfiftent man!
Like children babbling nonfenfe in their sports,
We cenfure nature for a fpan too short;
That fpan too fhort we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,
To lath the ling'ring moments into speed,
And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves.
Art, brainlefs art! our furious charioteer
(For Nature's voice unftifled would recal)
Drives headlong tow'rds the precipice of death;
Death, moft our dread; death thus more dreadful
O what a riddle of abfurdity!
[made:
Leifure is pain; takes off our chariot wheels;
How heavily we drag the load of life!
Bleft leifure is our curfe; like that of Cain,
It makes us wander; wander eath around

To fly that tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd | And ftcals our embryos of iniquity.

The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
We cry for mercy to the next ainufement;
The next amulement mortgages our fields;
Slight inconvenience! prifons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if prifons fet us free.
Yet, when Death kindly tenders us relief,
We call him cruel; years to moments fhrink,
Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd.
To man's falfe optics (from his folly falfe)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And feems to creep, decrepit with his age.
Behold him when paft by; what then is feen
But his broad pinions, fwifter than the winds?
And all mankind, in contradiction ftrong,
Rueful, aghaft! cry out on his career.
We rase, we wreft e with Great Nature's plan;

We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed,
Who thwart his will shall contradict their own.
Hence our unnatural quarrels with ourselves;
Our thoughts at enmity; our bofem broils;
We puth time from us, and we with him back;
Lavish of luftrums, and yet fond of life; [ihun;
Life we think long, and short: Death feck, and
Body and foul, like peevish man and wife,
United jar, and yet are loth to part.

§ 182. Vanity. YOUNG.

II the dark days of vanity! while here,
How taftclefs and how terrible when gone'
Gone they ne'er go; when paft, they haunt us
The fpi.it walks of ev'ry day deceas'd; [ftill:
And fmiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death not life delight us. If time paft
And time pofleft both pain us, what can pleafe?
That which the Deity to please ordain'd,
Time us'd. The man who confecrates his hours
By vig rous effort, and an honeft aim,
At once he draws the fting of life and death;
He walks with Nature, and her paths are peace.

F

YOUNG.

§ 183: Faterna! Love.
ATHERS alone a Father's heart can know;
What ferret tides of itll enjoyment flow
When brothers love! but if their hate ficcoeds,
They wage the war; but 'tis the Father bleeds.

§ 184. Confcience. YOUNG. TREACHEROUS Confcience! while the feems to fleep

On rofe and myrtle, Foll'd with fyren fong;
While the fecins nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd rein,
And give us up to licence, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd-fee, from behind her fecret stand,
The fly informer minutes ev'ry fault,
And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the grofs Act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,
A watchful foe the formidable fpv,
Liftning, o'erhears the whif ers of our camp •
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,

As all-rapacious ufurers conceal

Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs,
Thus, with indulgence moft fevere, the treats
Us fpendthrifts of incitimable Time;
Unnoted notes each moment mifapplied;
In leaves more durable than leaves of brafs
Writes our whole hiftory, which Death shall read
In ev'ry pale delinquent's private car:
And judgment publifh, publith to more worlds
Than this; and endlets age in groans refound.

185. Old Age. YOUNG.

WHEN men once reach their autumn, fickly

joys

At ev'ry little breath misfortune blows;
Fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees,

Till, left quite naked of their happiness,
In the chill blafts of winter they expire.
This is the common lot.

§ 186. Self-Love. YOUNG.
WHO venerate themfelves, the world defpife,
For what, gay friend! is this efcutcheon'd
world,

Which hangs out death in one eternal night?
A night that glooms us in the noon-tide ray,
And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the
Life's little ftage is a fmall eminence, [throud.
Inch-high the grave above; that home of man,
Where dwells the multitude: We gaze around;
We read their monuments; we figh; and while
We figh we fink, and are what we deplor'd;
Lamenting, or lamented, all our Ict!

Is death at diftance? No: he has been on thee;
Thefe hours that lately finil d, where are they now
And giv'n fure earneft of his final blow.
Pallid to thought, and ghaftly! drown'd, all

drown'd

In that great deep which nothing difembogues!
And, dying, they bequeath'd thee fmall renown.
The reft are on the wing: How fect their flight!
Already has the fatal train teck fire;

A moment, and the world's blown up to thee;
The fun is darknefs, and the stars are duft.

§ 187. Communion with Paft Hours. YOUNG. "TIS greatly wife to talk with our paft hours, And ak them what report they bore to

heaven, [news. And how they might have borne more welcome Their anfwers form what men Experience calí; If Wildom's friend, her beft; if not, worst foc. O reconcile them! Kind Experience cries, "There's nothing here but what as nothing weighs;

"The more our joy, the more we know it vain,
"And by fuccefs are tutor'd to defpair."

Nor is it only thus, but must be fo.
Who knows not this, tho' grey, is ftill a child.
Loofe then from carth, the grap of fond defire,
Weigh anchor, and fome happier clime explore..

§ 158.

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