E'en in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation joined,
How racked with honest passions droop
In deep retired distress; how many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond Lar
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedlessrambling impulse learn to think:
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
Her social tear would rise, and social sigh:
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.
'Tis done, dread Winter spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year.
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!
How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends
His desolate domain. Behold, fond man!
See here thy pictured life: pass some few years,
Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age
And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled
Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes
Of happiness? those longings after fame ?
Those restless cares? those busy bustling days?
Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts,
Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life?
All now are vanished! Virtue sole survives,
Immortal never-failing friend of man,
His guide to happiness on high. And see!
"Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth
Of heaven and earth! awakning Nature hears
The new-creating word, and starts to life,
In every heightened form, from pain and death
For ever free. The great eternal scheme,
Involving all and in a perfect whole
Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads,
To reason's eye refined clears
Ye vainly wise! ye blind presumptuous! now,
Confounded in the dust, adore that power,
And wisdom oft arraigned: see now the cause,
Why unassuming worth in secret lived,
And died neglected: why the good man's share
In life was gall and bitterness of soul:
Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd
In starving solitude; while Luxury,
In palaces lay straining her low thought,
To form unreal wants; why heaven-born truth,
And moderation fair, wore the red marks
Of superstition's scourge; why licens'd pain,
That cruel spoiler, that embosomed foe,
Imbittered all our bliss. Ye good distrest!
Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up while,
And what your bounded view, which only saw
A little part, deemed evil, is no more:
The storms of wintry time will quickly pass,
And one unbounded spring encircle all.
Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah, tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or dost thou free, at pleasure, roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas, no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hoverest round my walk,
While under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee.
Should then the weary eye of grief
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
O visit thou my soothing dream.
Oh, could a British barony be sold! I would bright honour buy with dazzling gold, Could I the privilege of peer procure, The rich I'd bully, and oppress the poor. To give is wrong, but it is wronger still On any terms to pay a tradesman's bill, I'd make the insolent mechanics stay, And keep my ready money all for play. I'd try if any pleasure could be found In tossing up for twenty thousand pound: Had I whole counties, I to White's would go, And set land, woods, and rivers, at a throw. But should I meet with an unlucky run, And at a throw be gloriously undone ; My debts of honour I'd discharge the first; Let all my lawful creditors be curst; My title would preserve me from arrest, And seizing hired horses is a jest.
CXLVII. DAVID MALLET.
1. WILLIAM AND MARGARET.
'Twas at the silent, solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown;
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.
But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime :
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek—
She died before her time.
"Awake," she cried, "thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refused to save.
This is the dark and dreary hour,
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath !
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?
How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win that virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break ?
Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale ?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red;
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,
And every charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is,
This winding-sheet I wear;
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