'Twas love of exercise-'tis love of fame
Their ends were varied, but their means the same.
Sick of amusements that come o'er and o'er,
The chase, the dance, the drama, and the moor,
Hilario quits fair England: restless still,
He follows pleasure's shade, and ever will;
Till to some "high-viced" city drawing close,
It leaves him idle, but without repose.
Hilario stakes his goods, among the rest
A ring-it was a dying friend's bequest !
This dear memorial of a dying friend
Adorns a strumpet's finger in the end.
Lucilius courts the great; he'd rather be
Their slave, than live among his equals free:
Yet will he notice these, whene'er they meet
Elsewhere, than in a fashionable street.
Yet some there are who scorn-how very odd!
This lordling's humble servant's friendly nod.
Vain, demi-deified by flattering self,
Young Claudius cries" All women want my pelf!”
Some, dazzled with exterior show, adore
The golden calf, like wayward Jews of yore.
Yet is the fool so fine-he dares to scorn
The highly-gifted, beautiful, high-born,
Till from his fancied eminence he's hurl'd
By lawless love-a by-word in the world!
Or to a wanton, or another's wife
Wedded, for ever with his spouse at strife.
Extreme in every thing, Petronius pants
To be a chosen one, and humbly cants!
What, are humility and cant allied?
Humility is virtue, cant is pride!
The words of dying Addison, "Be good,"
Though easy, are by few well understood.
Florus, whose wit may grace to-morrow's feast,
Is low to-day; the wind is in the east-
Or deems he that at thirty though he sing
A jest, a jester's but a trifling thing?
The mind "that's sicklied o'er with the pale cast
Of thought," intensely ponders o'er the past!
Each act, however fair in youth's gay prime,
Changes its hues; and darkens into crime:
Each lighter jest, in strong remembrance set,
Adds something to the stores of vain regret.
E'en Atticus, whose mind is blest with taste,
Lets, when alone, his talents run to waste.
The standard of his taste is high indeed;
Few are the books he condescends to read:
He bears with Dryden's prose, or Campbell's verse.
Such delicate feeling surely is a curse.
What is thy boasted knowledge, man of thought?
What are thy fancy's meteor flashes ?-nought,-
If but a passing cloud that glooms the sky
Can stupify thy brain, or dull thine
Slave to the breeze, the sunshine, and the shower,
Thou art in sooth a transitory flower!
There's Heaven in mere existence; then again
If clouds be lowering, fortune smiles in vain :
The dull cold morn, which doubtful lights illume,
Casts o'er the mind its harmonizing gloom.
“Poor human Nature!" bending over Pope,
His friend exclaim'd-but where was St. John's hope?
He saw the poet ghastly, weak, and thin,
But saw not the immortal soul within!
The soul, that like an eagle soars among
The bright existences, those souls of song
That, with intuitive glance, at once see through
Worlds, which on earth they vainly strove to view.
On the rough ocean of existence tost,
Here contemplation is in action lost.
Had we but time to speculate, how strange
Would all appear within the mind's wide range;
Ourselves, our nature, what th' Almighty power
Wills us to be—when past death's awful hour!
Our thoughts are vague when they attempt to pass
Beyond the boundaries of is and was.
How very small must seem, whene'er we think,
In being's endless chain this earthly link!
To-day, and yesterday-these words imply
Life has its constant labours 'till we die.
Then may our souls, upspringing from the dust,
Live with the spirits of the good and just!
Is there a spot of sunshine to be found
In life's dark valley? yes-'tis holy ground!
'Tis where Religion sheds a sober beam,
As fell on Gideon's fleece the blessed stream.
"Bask in the sun of pleasure while you can:
Life's summer soon is fled: then what is man!"
Unapt illusion! as our years increase,
The mind gains strength, the storms of passion cease!
The informing spirit then, that never dies,
Gives promise of those godlike energies
That it will exercise without decay,
In other worlds, when this shall pass away.
Let us then fondly hope that they, whose worth
Rivall'd the virtues of the best on earth,
They, in whose hearts angels rejoiced to find
The fear of God, the love of all mankind,
They whom we loved, for whom, alas! we shed
The fruitless tear, since they to us are dead,
Will live for ever with us in the sight
Of that immortal One who dwells in light,
Throned inaccessible. We learn to brave,
Arm'd with this hope, the terrors of the grave!
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