But riper years, I fear, will shew,
The wiser artist paints too true.
One piece presents a rueful wild,
Where not a summer's sun had smiled:
The road with thorns is cover'd wide,
And Grief sits weeping by the side;
Her tears with constant tenor flow,
And form a mournful lake below;
Whose silent waters, dark and deep,
Through all the gloomy valley creep.
Passions that flatter, or that slay,
Are beasts that fawn, or birds that prey.
Here Vice assumes the serpent's shape;
There Folly personates the ape;
Here Avarice gripes with harpy's claws;
There Malice grins with tigers' jaws;
While sons of Mischief, Art, and Guile,
Are alligators of the Nile.
E'en Pleasure acts a treacherous part,
She charms the sense, but stings the heart;
And when she gulls us of our wealth,
Or that superior pearl, our health,
Restores us nought but pains and woe,
And drowns us in the lake below.
There a commission'd angel stands,
With desolation in his hands!
He sends the all-devouring flame,
And cities hardly boast a name:
Or wings the pestilential blast,
And lo! ten thousands breathe their last:
He speaks-obedient tempests roar,
And guilty nations are no more:
He speaks-the fury Discord raves,
And
sweeps whole armies to their graves:
Or Famine lifts her mildew'd hand,
And Hunger howls through all the land.
Oh! what a wretch is man, I cried,
Exposed to death on every side!
And sure as born, to be undone
By evils which he cannot shun!
Besides a thousand baits to sin,
A thousand traitors lodged within!
For soon as Vice assaults the heart,
The rebels take the demon's part.
I sigh, my aching bosom bleeds;
When straight the milder plan succeeds.
The lake of tears, the dreary shore,
The same as in the piece before.
But gleams of light are here display'd,
To cheer the eye, and gild the shade.
Affliction speaks a softer style,
And Disappointment wears a smile.
A group of Virtues blossom near,
Their roots improve by every tear.
Here Patience, gentle maid! is nigh,
To calm the storm, and wipe the eye;
Hope acts the kind physician's part,
And warms the solitary heart;
Religion nobler comfort brings,
Disarms our griefs, or blunts their stings;
Points out the balance on the whole,
And Heaven rewards the struggling soul.
But while these raptures I pursue,
The Genius suddenly withdrew.
'Tis thought my Visions are too grave1;
A proof I'm no designing knave.
Perhaps if Interest held the scales,
I had devised quite different tales;
Had join'd the laughing low buffoon,
And scribbled satire and lampoon;
Or stirr❜d each source of soft desire,
And fann'd the coals of wanton fire;
Then had my paltry Visions sold,
Yes, all my dreams had turn'd to gold;
Had proved the darlings of the town,
And I-a poet of renown!
Let not my awful theme surprise;
Let no unmanly fears arise.
I wear no melancholy hue,
No wreaths of
cypress or of yew.
The shroud, the coffin, pall, or hearse,
Shall ne'er deform my softer verse:
Let me consign the funeral plume,
The herald's paint, the sculptured tomb,
And all the solemn farce of graves
To undertakers and their slaves.
You know that moral writers say
The world's a stage, and life a play;
That in this drama to succeed,
Requires much thought and toil indeed!
2 See the Monthly Review of New Books, for Feb. 1751.
There still remains one labour more,
Perhaps a greater than before.
Indulge the search, and you shall find
The harder task is still behind;
That harder task, to quit the stage
In early youth or riper age;
To leave the company and place,
With firmness, dignity, and grace.
Come, then, the closing scenes survey;
"Tis the last act which crowns the play.
Do well this grand decisive part,
And gain the plaudit of your heart.
Few greatly live in Wisdom's eye-
But oh! how few who greatly die!
Who, when their days approach an end,
Can meet the foe, as friend meets friend.
Instructive heroes! tell us whence
Your noble scorn of flesh and sense!
You part from all we prize so dear,
Nor drop one soft reluctant tear :
Part from those tender joys of life,
The friend, the parent, child, and wife.
Death's black and stormy gulf you brave,
And ride exulting on the wave;
Deem thrones but trifles all!-no moreNor send one wishful look to shore.
For foreign ports and lands unknown, Thus the firm sailor leaves his own; Obedient to the rising gale,
Unmoors his bark, and spreads his sail;
Defies the ocean and the wind,
Nor mourns the joys he leaves behind.
Is Death a powerful monarch? TruePerhaps you dread the tyrant too?
Fear, like a fog, precludes the light,
Or swells the object to the sight.
Attend my visionary page,
And I'll disarm the tyrant's rage.
Come, let this ghastly form appear;
He's not so terrible when near.
Distance deludes the' unwary eye,
So clouds seem monsters in the sky:
Hold frequent converse with him now,
He'll daily wear a milder brow.
Why is my theme with terror fraught?
Because you shun the frequent thought.
Say, when the captive pard is nigh,
Whence thy pale cheek and frighted eye?
Say, why dismay'd thy manly breast,
When the grim lion shakes his crest?
Because these savage sights are new—
No keeper shudders at the view.
Keepers, accustom'd to the scene,
Approach the dens with look serene,
Fearless their grisly charge explore,
And smile to hear the tyrants roar.
Ay-but to die! to bid adieu!
An everlasting farewell too!
Farewell to every joy around!
Oh! the heart sickens at the sound!'
Stay, stripling-thou art poorly taught— Joy didst thou say?-discard the thought. Joys are a rich celestial fruit,
And scorn a sublunary root.
What wears the face of joy below
Is often found but splendid woe.
Joys here, like unsubstantial fame,
Are nothings with a pompous name;
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