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Have quite withdrawn their lingering fires.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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