And death perhaps, to spoil poetic sport,
Unkindly cut an Alexandrine short:
His ear had a more lasting itch than mine,
For the smooth cadence of a golden line:
Should lust of verse prevail, and urge the man
To run the trifling race the boy began,
Mellow'd with sixty winters, you might see
My circle end in second infancy.
I might ere long an aukward humour have,
To wear my bells and coral to the grave,
Or round my room alternate take a course,
Now mount my hobby, then the muses' horse:
Let others wither gay, but I'd
With sage decorum in my easy chair;
Grave as Libanius, slumbering o'er the laws,
Whilst gold and party zeal decide the cause.
A nobler task our riper age
Than scanning syllables, and weighing words.
To make his hours in even measures flow,
Nor think some fleet too fast, and some too slow;
Still equal in himself, and free to taste
The Now, without repining at the Past;
Nor the vain prescience of the spleen t' employ,
To pall the flavour of a promis'd joy;
To live tenacious of the golden mean,
In all events of various fate serene;
With virtue steel'd, and steady to survey
Age, death, disease, or want, without dismay:
These arts, my Lambard! useful in their end,
Make man to others and himself a friend.
Happiest of mortals he, who, timely wise,
In the calm walks of truth his bloom enjoys;
With books and patrimonial plenty blest,
Health in his veins, and quiet in his breast!
Him no vain hopes attract, no fear appals,
Nor the gay servitude of courts enthrals;
Unknowing how to mask concerted guile
With a false cringe, or undermining smile;
His manners pure, from affectation free,
And prudence shines through clear simplicity.
Though no rich labours of the Persian loom,
Nor the nice sculptor's arts adorn his room,
Sleep unprovok'd will softly seal his eyes,
And innocence the want of down supplies;
Health tempers all his cups, and at his board
Reigns the cheap luxury the fields afford :
Like the great Trojan, mantled in a cloud,
Himself unseen, he sees the labouring crowd,
Where all industrious to their ruin run,
Swift to pursue what most they ought to shun.
Some by the sordid thirst of gain controul'd,
Starve in their stores, and cheat themselves for gold,
Preserve the precious bane with anxious care
In vag ant lusts to feed a lavish heir;
Others devour ambition's glittering bait,
To sweat in purple, and repine in state;
Devote their
powers to every wild extreme
For the short pageant of a pompous dream;
Nor can the mind to full perfection bring
The fruits it early promis'd in the spring,
But in a public sphere those virtues fade,
Which open'd fair, and flourish'd in the shade :
So while the night her ebon sceptre sways,
Her fragrant blooms the Indian plant* displays;
But the full day the short-liv'd beauties shun,
Elude our hopes, and sicken at the sun.
Fantastic joys in distant views appear,
And tempt the man to make the rash career.
Fame, power, and wealth, which glitter at the goal,
Allure his eye, and fire his eager soul;
For these are ease and innocence resign'd,
For these be strips; farewell the tranquil mind!
Headstrong he urges on 'till vigour fails,
And grey experience, but too late !-prevails:
But in his evening view the hoary fool,
When the nerves slacken, and the spirits cool;
When joy and blushy youth forsake his face,
Sicklied with age, and sour with self-disgrace;
No flavour then the sparkling cups retain,
Music is harsh, the siren sings in vain;
To him what healing balm can art apply,
Who lives diseas'd with life, and dreads to die?
In that last scene by fate in sables drest,
Thy power, triumphant Virtue is confest;
Thy vestal flames diffuse celestial light
Through death's dark vale, and vanquish total night;
Lenient of anguish, o'er the breast prevail,
When the gay toys of flattering fortune fail.
Such, happy Twisden!-ever be thy name
Mourn'd by the muse, and fair in deathless fame!—
While the bright effluence of her glory shone,
Were thy last hours, and such I wish my own :
So Cassia bruis'd, exhales her rich perfumes,
And incense in a fragrant cloud consumes.
But most among the brethren of the bays,
Th' enchantress Flattery, all her charms displays,
In the sly commerce of alternate praise.
If, for his father's sins condemn'd to write,
Some young half-feather'd poet takes a flight,
And to my touchstone brings a puny ode,
Which Swift, and Pope, and Prior would explode;
Though every stanza glitter thick with stars,
And goddesses descend in iv'ry cars :
Is it for me to prove in every part
The piece irregular, by laws of art?
His genius looks but awkward, yet his fate
May raise him to be premier bard of state;
I therefore bribe his suffrage to my fame,
Revere his judgment, and applaud his flame;
Then cry, in seeming transport while I speak,
"Tis well for Pindar that he dealt in Greek!
He, conscious of desert, accepts the praise,
And courteous, with increase the debt repays:
Boileau's a mushroom if compar'd to me,
And, Horace, I dispute the palm with thee!
Both ravish'd, sing Te Phoebum for success;
Rise swift, ye laurels! boy! bespeak the press.-
Thus on imaginary praise we feed;
Each writes till all refuse to print or read :
From the records of fame condemn'd to pass
To Brisquet's calendar, a rubrick ass.
Few, wondrous few! are eagle-ey'd to find A plain disease, or blemish in the mind:
Few can, though wisdom should their health insure,
Dispassionate and cool attend a cure.
In youth disus'd t' obey the needful rein,
Well pleas'd a savage liberty to gain,
We sate the kind desire of every sense,
And lull our age in thoughtless indolence:
Brisquet, Jester to Francis I. of France, kept a calendar of fools.
Yet all are Solons in their own conceit,
Though, to supply the vacancy of wit,
Folly and Pride, impatient of controul,
The sister-twins of Sloth, possess the soul.
By Kueller were the gay Pumilio drawn,
Like great Alcides, with a back of brawn,
I scarcely think his picture would have power
To make him fight the champions of the Tower;
Though lions there are tolerably tame,
And civil as the court from whence they came.
But yet, without experience, sense, or arts,
Pumilio boasts sufficiency of parts;
Imagines he alone is amply fit
To guide the state, or give the stamp to wit:
Pride paints the mind with an heroic air,
Nor finds he a defect of vigour there,
When Philomel of old essay'd to sing,
And in his rosy progress hail'd the spring,
Th' aerial songsters listening to the lays,
By silent ecstacy confest her praise.
At length, to rival her enchanting note,
The peacock strains the discord of his throat,
In hope his hideous shrieks would grateful prove;
But the nice audience hoot him through the grove.
Conscious of wonted worth, and just disdain,
Lowering his crest, he creeps to Juno's fane;
To his protectress there reveals the case;
And for a sweeter voice devoutly prays.
Then thus reply'd the radiant goddess, known
By her fair rolling eyes and rattling tone;
"My favourite bird! of all the feathe.'d kind, Each species had peculiar gifts assign'd:
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