« السابقةمتابعة »
That strength would fail, oppos'd against the push And feeble onset of a pigmy rush.
Say not (and if the thought of such defence Should spring within thy bosom, drive it thence) What nation amongst all my foes is free From crimes as base as any charg'd on me? Their measure fill'd, they too shall pay the debt, Which God, though long forborne, will not forget. But know that wrath divine, when most severe, Makes justice still the guide of his career, And will not punish, in one mingled crowd, Them without light, and thee without a cloud,
Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech, Still murm’ring with the solemn truths I teach; And while at intervals a cold blast sings Through the dry leaves, and pants upon the strings; My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament A nation scourg'd, yet tardy to repent. I know the warning song is sung in vain; That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain ; But if a sweeter voice, and one design'd A blessing to my country and mankind, Reclaim the wand'ring thousands, and bring home A flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam, Then place it once again between my knees; The sound of truth will then be sure to please ; And truth alone, where'er my life be cast, In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste, Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last.
doceas iter, et sacra otia pandas.
Virg. Æn. vi, 109.
Ask what is human life—the sage replies,
purse-proud; Bus’ness is labour, and man's weakness such, Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much, The very sense of it foregoes its use, By repetition palld, by age obtuse. Youth lost in dissipation we deplore, Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs restore ; Our years, a fruitless race without a prize, Too many, yet too few to make us wise,
Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, Lothario cries, What philosophic stuff
0, querulous and weak !—whose useless brain
For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom
sounds, Thy yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising
grounds, Streams edg’d with osiers, fattning ev'ry field, Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceald; From the blue rim, where skies and mountains meet, Down to the very turf beneath thy feet, Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise, Or Pride can look at with indiff'rent eyes, All speak one language, all with one sweet voice Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice! Man feels the spur of passions and desires, And she gives largely more than he requires; Not that his hours devoted all to Care, Hollow-ey'd Abstinence and lean Despair, The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, sight, She holds a paradise of rich delight; But gently to rebuke his awkward fear, To prove that what she gives, she gives sincere ; To banish hesitation, and proclaim His happiness, her dear, her only aim.
'Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream,
That Heav'n's intentions are not what they seem.
Thus things terrestrial wear a diff'rent hue,
lily appear blue or green, But still th' imputed tints are those alone The medium represents, and not their own.
To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undressid, To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best, Till half the world comes rattling at his door, To fill the dull vacuity till four; And, just when ev'ning turns the blue vault gray, To spend two hours in dressing for the day; To make the sun a bauble without use, Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce; Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought, Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not; Through mere necessity to close his eyes Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise ; Is such a life, so tediously the same, So void of all utility or aim, That poor Jonquil, with almost ev'ry breath Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd death? For he, with all his follies, has a mind Not yet so blank, or fashionably blind, But now and then perhaps a feeble ray Of distant wisdom shoots across his way, By which he reads, that life without a plan, As useless as the moment it began, Serves merely as a soil for discontent To thrive in; an encumbrance ere half spent. Oh! weariness beyond what asses feel, That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel; A dull rotation, never at a stay, Yesterday's face twin-image of to day;
While conversation, an exhausted stock,
That remedy, not hid in deeps profound,
prove the share His offspring hold in his paternal care.