To hopeless passion yields her heart a prey:
And sighs and sings the livelong hours away.
So mourns th' imprison'd lark his hapless fate, In love's soft season ravish'd from his mate; Fondly fatigues his unavailing rage,
And hops and flutters round and round his cage; And moans and droops, with pining grief opprest, Whilst sweet complainings warble from his breast.
Lo! here a wretch to avarice resign'd,
'Midst gather'd scraps, and shreds, and rags, confin'd;
His riches these for these he rakes and spares,
These rack his bosom, these engross his cares;
O'er these he broods, for ever void of rest,
And hugs the sneaking passion of his breast.
See, from himself the sordid niggard steals,
Reserves large scantlings from his slender meals;
Scarce to his bowels half their due affords,
And starves his carcase to increase his hoards;
Till to huge heaps the treasur'd offals swell,
And stink in ev'ry corner of his cell.
And thus, with wond'rous wisdom, he purveys
Against contingent want and rainy days,
And scorns the fools that dread not to be poor,
But eat their morsel, and enjoy their store.
Behold a sage! immers'd in thought profound: For science he, for various skill renown'd.
At no mean ends his speculation aim,
(Vile pelf he scorns, nor covets empty fame)
The public good, the welfare of mankind,
Employ th' gen'rous labour of his mind.
For this his rich imagination teems
With rare inventions and important schemes;
All day his close attention he applies,
Nor gives he midnight slumbers to his eyes;
Content of this, his toilsome studies crown,
And for the world's repose neglects his own.
All nature's secret causes he explores,
The laws of motion, and mechanic pow'rs;
Hence ev❜n the elements his art obey,
O'er earth, o'er fire, he spreads his wond'rous
And thro' the liquid sky, and o'er the wat'ry way.
Hence ever pregnant with some vast design,
He drains the moor-land, or he sinks the mine,
Or levels lofty mountains to the plain,
Or stops the roaring torrents of the main;
Forc'd up by fire, he bids the water rise,
And points its course reverted to the skies,
His ready fancy still supplies the means,
Forces his tools, and fixes his machines,
Erects his sluices, and his mounds sustains,
And whirls perpetual windmills in his brains;
All problems has his lively thought subdu'd,
Measur'd the stars, and found the longitude,
And squar'd the circle, and the tides explain'd;
The grand arcanum once he had attain'd,
Had quite attain'd, but that a pipkin broke,
And all his golden hopes expir'd in smoke.
And once, his soul inflam'd with patriot zeal,
A scheme he finish'd for his country's weal:
This in a private conference made known,
A statesman stole, and us'd it for his own,
And then, O baseness! the deceit to blind,
Our poor projector in this jail confin'd.
The Muse forbears to visit ev'ry cell, Each form, each object of distress to tell; To shew the fopling, curious in his dress, Gaily trick'd out in gaudy raggedness: The poet, ever wrapt in glorious dreams Of Pagan gods and Heliconian streams: The wild enthusiast, that despairing sees Predestin'd wrath, and Heaven's severe decrees! Thro' these, thro' more sad scenes she grieves
And paint the whole variety of woe.
Meantime, on these reflect with kind concern,
And hence this just, this useful lesson learn:
If strong desires thy reas'ning pow'rs control;
If arbitrary passions sway thy soul;
If pride, if envy, if the loss of gain,
If wild ambition in thy bosom reign,
Alas! thou vaunt'st thy sober sense in vain :
In these poor Bedlamites thyself survey,
Thyself, less innocently mad than they.
SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER
REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock, and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom, and his honest fame
Through all the country rais'd his name.
A deep Philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The Shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown,
By various fates, on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd!
The Shepherd modestly reply'd,
I ne'er the paths of learning try'd;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes;
Who by that search shall wiser grows
When we ourselves can never know?
|