The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

IF it were questioned of the Sage,
Whose reas'ning mind, to hoary age,
Has with a keen and curious ken,
Examin'd well the ways of men,
What is most likely to impart
The worst of Frailties to the heart,—
He would not hesitate to say,
It is the excessive love of play:
That Gamesters are but birds of prey;
Who, like the vultures, as they fly
Through the calm region of the sky,
Look down with a rapacious joy,
Eager to seize and to destroy.
—Gaming, at first, a pleasure made,
Becomes, at length, a rav'nous Trade.

When the hand shakes the treach'rous dice,
The heart's the seat of ev'ry vice,

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The most abhorrent from the plan
That Virtue has mark'd out for man.
In that fell moment Friendship dies,
Love, startled, from the bosom flies,
And Nature—Nature's self belies:—
Nay, does not the fierce Lust proceed
To consecrate the blackest deed.
—Bacon, that first of Men, has said,
The Gamester's to each virtue dead,
And with th'accursed rage endued,
Has not a sense of what is good;
While his predominance in ill,
Bears just proportion to the skill,
With which his practic'd mind can guard
The doubtful throw, the casual Card.

How oft the Youth, to virtue bred
And born to wealth, whose parents dead
Have left him, through the world to stray;
In blooming Manhood's early day,
Becomes the wily Sharper's prey.

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At first He's taught to find delight
In those amusements of the night,
Where men of courtly manners meet
To ply the progress of deceit.
Led on, at length, by slow degrees,
All unsuspecting, and at ease,
To ev'ry earthly comfort blind,
The love of Play absorbs his mind,
Nor suffers any other care
To find a free Admission there.
Then, to supply the wager'd gold,
His woods are fell'd, his trees are sold;
And the last hazard of the die
Leaves him to want and misery;
While the false friend, who caus'd his ruin,
Sits, careless of the foul undoing:
And, should Despair attempt the blow
That calms at once all human woe,
'Twill scarce arrest th'impending throw.

Is he, who by Despair is led
To give a wife and infants bread,

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By a mere threat'ning to purvey
From Trav'llers on the public way?
Is such a deed, which, when 'tis done,
May frighten some, but ruin none;
Is such a deed, which, like a dart,
Pierces the trembling Culprit's heart,
And, springing from no vile intent,
To find the fatal punishment?
Is such a wretched man to die
On Gallows tree in infamy?
While he, who in gay plenty lives
On the vile gains which gaming gives,
Shall be received with ease and glee,
And marks of polish'd courtesy,
In those bright circles, where the train
Of Fashion hold their splendid reign;
Though many a Dupe may curse the hour,
When Fortune's false, insidious power
Allur'd them to his treach'rous hand,
That could th'obedient card command,
Or tell the fabricated die
To aid the well-plann'd treachery.

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Is there in Reason's view a scene
Of a more fell and horrid mien?
Is there to calm Reflection's eye
A nest of greater villainy,
Than where the Pandemoniums meet,—
Or to be cheated, or to cheat ?
Is there a vice that is not there?
Is there a sense that good men share?
Is there an oath that is not heard?
Is there a curse that's not preferr'd?
Does not the disappointing die
Call forth the horrid blasphemy?
And in the smile of him who wins,
Each feature, as it brightens, sins.

If any one should wish to scan
The God-like countenance of man,
When Passion shapes it to descend
Into the visage of a Fiend;

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To haunts like these he may repair:—
He'll find the frightful picture there.

But Death, who as he roams about,
May find the Gaming Table out;—
And, when he shows his ghastly grin,
The knowing ones are taken in.
—The lucky Phantom's sure to win.
He enters,—when the fearful shout
Echos around, of—turn him out.
No, he replies—that Gold is mine:—
Gamester, that Gold you must resign.
—Now Life's the Main, the Spectre cries:—
He throws—and lo!—The Gamester dies.

The Gaming Houses of an inferior kind, in the neighbourhood of St. James's, are denominated “Hells.”