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

THE crime by which the Angels fell
Who aim'd at Heaven and sunk to Hell,
Is known on Earth—nor does it fail
In human bosoms to prevail
With the like Influence, and extends
Its wish to Earth's remotest ends:
Nay, if its fierce, subduing Sword,
Like that of Macedonia's Lord,
Should make th'affrighted world turn pale
And many a nation weep and wail,
Would weep itself, when all was won,
For other realms to be undone.

'Tis strange, alas, 'tis wond'rous strange
That mortal man should wish to change

The heart-felt pleasures that await
On Virtue's all ennobling state
And risk his goodness to be great;
Uncertain that he e'er shall gain
The point he wishes to attain,
Or if attain'd, that in an hour,
Fate may not by its deadly power
Destroy the labours of his pride,
And lay him breathless by their side.

The man to whom is handed down
Through many an age the regal crown,
And bears within his scepter'd hand
The power a nation to command,
Possesses, from his Royal Birth,
The means to be a God on earth;
Honour and Justice to maintain,
By wise, protecting Laws to reign;
To cherish Industry and Arts,
And live within the grateful hearts
Of subject millions, who can boast
The Sov'reign in the Father lost.

Is there on earth so bright a state
As his on whom a people wait
For ev'ry good that Life can give,
And from his pow'r that good receive?
What sounds so grateful to the ear
Can a wise, patriot monarch hear,
As when a Nation's voices raise
The song of Universal praise?
Thus may a Sov'reign truly prove
Vice-gerent of the Power above.

Say, is it Glory's nobler aim
To win by War a Conqueror's name?
And is it Honour's highest meed
To make a Nation's bosom bleed;
To mount Bellona's armed car,
And plunge into the thickest war;
Or is it for a people's good
To seek for Laurels steep'd in blood?
Is it the guerdon of the brave
To murder, ransack, and enslave?

A monarch gains not fair renown
Nor gives true Lustre to his Throne,
By seizing countries not his own.
That Diadem's the brightest far
Which bears no type of bloody war;
But where sweet peace is seen to shed
Its mild beams round the Sov'reign's head.

But should some hostile Neighbours dare
To force him to reluctant War;
Should they with bold, ambitious aim
Announce in arms the lawless claim;
Or, tempted by the rich domains
Where Fortune smiles and plenty reigns,
Should pointed spears and plumed helms
Invading threat his peaceful realms,
He will assume his martial pride,
With Courage stalking by his side:
Then will he sound the loud alarms
To call his faithful bands to arms;
Each Peasant then will quit his field,
Gird on his sword, and poise his shield;

And ev'ry heart with ardor glow
T'obey the call and meet the Foe:
Then will he find no Bulwarks prove
So strong, as is a Nation's Love.
Thus as he ev'ry right defends,
Just Heaven its fav'rite's cause befriends;
Nor will the heroic contest cease,
Till the Foe, humbled, sues for peace.
Thus ev'ry passion of the mind,
As 'tis to good or ill inclin'd,
Advances or recedes in price,
And forms a virtue or a vice:
Nay, sometimes, as it yields its claim,
Is even found to change its name.
Thus the fervent, bold desire
That does to arduous deeds aspire,
Which, in its eager progress warm,
Ne'er suffers dangers to alarm;
With Fate and Fortune will contend,
To gain some great, momentous end,
Is call'd Ambition;—but applied
To common things, that, on the tide

Of ev'ry hour we floating see,
'Tis Love of Praise or Vanity:
And these, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Glow more or less in ev'ry heart;
In ev'ry form and shape appear,
That Folly or Caprice can wear.

Look round, and view the various ways
Mankind employ to purchase praise;—
The fulsome Offering to secure,
What will not Vanity endure:
The sleepless night, the daily toil,
The pale lamp and the midnight oil,
Are borne or lighted up to gain
The flatt'ring tale, th'applausive strain
Which Int'rest offers to the vain.
'Tis not his darling Country's cause,
Or Freedom's violated Laws;
'Tis not the poor who suffering stand,
Scourg'd by Oppression's Iron Hand:
'Tis not the vengeance to arrest
Which rankles in the angry breast:

'Tis not to check with words austere
The cunning Lie, or taunting Jeer,
That Paulo, of his talents proud,
Seeks to address th'assembled croud;
At Democratic Feasts to dine,
And mingle Speeches with his wine,
Or in the social circles play,
The self-same game another way:
No, 'tis to court the loud Huzza;
To hear the plates and tables rattle,
At his success in wordy battle;
Or, sitting round the wintry fire,
Where Witlings, and fair Dames admire.

Thus have I seen a branchy tree
Show its fair form and symmetry,
That rises stately from the root;
Though not a bough is deck'd with fruit.
—But still some talents are required
To make these Orators admir'd;
And with the Hear-hims, common Pride
May feel itself quite satisfied.

But there are those, and often seen,
Who feel a pride in being mean;
And chuckle at the very thought
How cheap a stinking Mack'rel's bought;
While others, proud to be profuse,
Buy costly Blacking for their Shoes,
And give what ten poor folks would dine,
To make their daily Buskins shine.
—Now, of all those who proud of sinking,
And of the Art of never thinking,
Sam Jehu was, 'tis said, well known
As the best Whip about the Town:
His Father had been proud of thriving,
But Sam was proud of nought but driving;
And all his old Dad's Will bestow'd
Was nobly spent upon the Road.
Whate'er Long-Acre could devise
Of Curricles and Tilburys;
Barouches, Gigs, and Phaetons,
With every Machine that runs,
Form'd, in their turns, Sam's darling Pride,
At once their Owner and their Guide.

To-day he drove his matchless Greys,
To-morrow, his fast-trotting Bays;
And, in the way of common Hacks,
He had a famous set of Blacks.
He knew Horse Language to the Letter,
Not Gulliver could speak it better:
Could swear, drink drams, and chew a Quid,
Proud to do all that Coachmen did,
And calmly did his teeth displace,
That he might spit with better grace;
Delighted that no one could scan
He had been bred a Gentleman.
And as he drove his steeds along,
This was the burden of his song:

When House and Land are gone and spent,
Driving will be most excellent:
And when all other Fortunes fail,
Thank Heaven, I can drive a Mail.

But Fate, 'tis known vain Fools to humble,
Will sometimes give such fools a tumble.

Sam, one fine day, in all his pride,
With a fair Doxy by his side,
Was trotting on to leave behind
The common coursers of the wind,
In more than Phaetonic state,
For every horse had won a Plate:
Nay, out of compliment to Fan,
He was dress'd like a Gentleman.
Now, to avoid the Coachman's ken
Or jeering Quiz of Turnpike-men,
He left the common-road, afraid
Thus to be seen in Masquerade.
Through a long range of Lanes he went
On the rough roads and ruts intent,
Nor was Miss Fanny satisfied
Thus to be jolted side from side;
Though, to beguile the shaded way,
She made her Hat with Hawthorns gay.
At length Sam saw an awkward Bridge;
Beside him was a stony ridge;
And, in the rocky Vale below,
A rapid stream was seen to flow:

The hurrying Eddies hoarse resound;
Th'affrighted Steeds snort, fling and bound,
And threaten to refuse command,
E'en from their skilful Master's hand.
For the first time, the Charioteer
Felt his heart palpitate with Fear.
—He cried, what can the Cattle mean?
And, as by no one I am seen,
I do declare I should be glad
That I a tight Postillion had,
To check those Leaders, who are mad.
“Thou hast thy Longing,” Death replied;
“I'll quickly mount, and be your guide:
The useless reins resign to me:
I'll lead you to your Destiny.”
—He spoke, when strait the wheels upflew,
And from his seat the Coachman threw;
Who rolling round, and round and round,
Flounc'd in the water—and was drown'd.
Poor screaming Fanny, in a tree,
Was sav'd by dint of Drapery:

She, for a while, suspended hung,
And to the prickly branches clung.
A Cottage gave a week's relief,
To cure her scratches and her grief;
And, when she came to Town agen,
She sorrow'd—and turn'd Magdalen.

But Vanity will oft extend
Beyond our Life's extremest end,
Will nod in many a sable plume,
And flatter on the marble Tomb.
Thus Sam had will'd in solemn guise,
The order of his obsequies;
And, punctual to his wishes, they
Were marshall'd in this sad array.

His gloves and whip, in due parade,
Were on his sable coffin laid:
The Coffin, on the traces slung
Of his Barouche, suspended hung.
His four unrivall'd Arab Greys,
With trappings deck'd, his corse conveys:

His fav'rite Coachman had the Pride
To drive it to the Church-yard side;
And, having done that duty, swore
He ne'er would mount a Coach-box more.
The Parson who before him rode,
Was left the Mare which he bestrode.
His Horses, in black cloathing led,
Add to the Honours of the dead:
His Grooms conduct them, clad in sables,
With the young Genii of the Stables;
Who, having sung a solemn stave,
Throw all their Whips into the Grave.