Occasional verse, moral and sacred Published for the instruction and amusement of the Candidly Serious and Religious [by Edward Perronet] |
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PRIDE OF FAMILY. |
 | Occasional verse, moral and sacred |  |
PRIDE OF FAMILY.
Hear ye, who boast your noble birth,
Ye worms of insolence and earth;
Ye nothings, who would something be,
Above poor low equality;
In pride of wealth who scorn the poor,
And bar your bosoms as your door:
Yet, after all, what are ye more,
Than were your fathers heretofore?
Of woman born, and like the fly,
That, born to-day, to-day must die;
Or like a fair and fading flower,
That buds and blossoms for an hour;
Or springing grass, that, lightly sown,
Is by the mower's scythe cut down.
Ye worms of insolence and earth;
Ye nothings, who would something be,
Above poor low equality;
In pride of wealth who scorn the poor,
And bar your bosoms as your door:
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Than were your fathers heretofore?
Of woman born, and like the fly,
That, born to-day, to-day must die;
Or like a fair and fading flower,
That buds and blossoms for an hour;
Or springing grass, that, lightly sown,
Is by the mower's scythe cut down.
So subject you, with all your pride,
(And what your heart can never hide)
To passion, accidents, and pain,
Like other worms, and other men;
To all the evils life can shew,
The creature feel, or mortals know;
Of hurt without, or wound within,
The marks of guilt, and signs of sin;
From Ignorance dark, to Wisdom blind,
And with the base as base inclin'd;
As full of meanness, craft, and spite,
As Art can feign, or Spleen indite;
A slave to self, and selfish ends,
To crouch to foes, or tread on friends;
And, after all your noble birth,
The scandal of the worms of earth.
(And what your heart can never hide)
To passion, accidents, and pain,
Like other worms, and other men;
To all the evils life can shew,
The creature feel, or mortals know;
Of hurt without, or wound within,
The marks of guilt, and signs of sin;
From Ignorance dark, to Wisdom blind,
And with the base as base inclin'd;
As full of meanness, craft, and spite,
As Art can feign, or Spleen indite;
A slave to self, and selfish ends,
To crouch to foes, or tread on friends;
And, after all your noble birth,
The scandal of the worms of earth.
What then, I pray, have you to boast,
Who give your honour for a toast?
Have you more virtue, pray, than those,
Who, tho' they're poor, yet primal rose
From the same fount, whence equal springs
The num'rous poor, and poorer kings?
Have you of knowledge such a share,
That you have really some to spare?
And such a fund of common sense
As, without loss, you could dispense
A certain quantity to such
As, like yourselves, have not too much?
Or are you not as ignorant,
As those your pride contemns for want?
Who give your honour for a toast?
Have you more virtue, pray, than those,
Who, tho' they're poor, yet primal rose
From the same fount, whence equal springs
The num'rous poor, and poorer kings?
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That you have really some to spare?
And such a fund of common sense
As, without loss, you could dispense
A certain quantity to such
As, like yourselves, have not too much?
Or are you not as ignorant,
As those your pride contemns for want?
Has Pity place within your breast,
Your morning's bright, and sweet your rest?
Or are your slumbers broken by
The starts of guilt, or plethory?
Your morning's bright, and sweet your rest?
Or are your slumbers broken by
The starts of guilt, or plethory?
Do kind affections warm your heart,
Pierc'd with the sympathetic smart?
Do you another's burden bear,
His wants redress, his feelings share?
Can you, without return, relieve,
With joy rejoice, with sorrow grieve?
And when the poor their cause make known,
Do you then make that cause your own,
And, caring little for the great,
Their cause espouse, their case debate;
Not minding who your zeal offends,
To be but number'd with their friends;
And e'en a convict gain your ear,
That asks your pity, or your pray'r?
If this you do, and this your plan,
You are, indeed, of men the man;
And so far forth, as this will tell,
Your very wealth for grace may spell:
No canker shall your gold corrode,
Nor thieves your quiet incommode;
A mighty host your bed shall guard,
And He that made, your great reward!
His eye shall watch, His arm defend,
And love you as his bosom friend;
In the last day His plaudit give,
And bid your joy eternal live!
Pierc'd with the sympathetic smart?
Do you another's burden bear,
His wants redress, his feelings share?
Can you, without return, relieve,
With joy rejoice, with sorrow grieve?
And when the poor their cause make known,
Do you then make that cause your own,
And, caring little for the great,
Their cause espouse, their case debate;
Not minding who your zeal offends,
To be but number'd with their friends;
And e'en a convict gain your ear,
That asks your pity, or your pray'r?
If this you do, and this your plan,
You are, indeed, of men the man;
And so far forth, as this will tell,
Your very wealth for grace may spell:
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Nor thieves your quiet incommode;
A mighty host your bed shall guard,
And He that made, your great reward!
His eye shall watch, His arm defend,
And love you as his bosom friend;
In the last day His plaudit give,
And bid your joy eternal live!
But if the contrast here be true,
Of small account what rank, or you;
How wide your fame, how old your race;
You're but your own and their disgrace.
Whether your ancestors were peers,
Who bore the staff, or spread the sheers;
Distinction then will none be made,
Betwixt the sceptre and the spade,
The high, the low, the proud, the poor;
It all amounts to nothing more,
Than this—whatever point of time,
You and your fathers 'gan to climb,
There was a time, if 'tis not now,
When they, or theirs, upheld the plough;
And might have been for you as well,
Had you with them been ploughing still:
For know, that kings themselves were born
All one with them you seem to scorn;
Whom you oppress from tyrant hate,
And crush beneath your golden weight.
Yet these are equal dear to him,
Who made you both, tho' you esteem
Of no account, and only meet
To stoop or tremble at your feet.
But stamp no more; on whom you tread
T'is one of the creation's head;
And, tho' nor gold nor purple wear,
For aught you know, Salvation's Heir:
A lot conceal'd until that day,
When such as you are sent away!
Of small account what rank, or you;
How wide your fame, how old your race;
You're but your own and their disgrace.
Whether your ancestors were peers,
Who bore the staff, or spread the sheers;
Distinction then will none be made,
Betwixt the sceptre and the spade,
The high, the low, the proud, the poor;
It all amounts to nothing more,
Than this—whatever point of time,
You and your fathers 'gan to climb,
There was a time, if 'tis not now,
When they, or theirs, upheld the plough;
And might have been for you as well,
Had you with them been ploughing still:
For know, that kings themselves were born
All one with them you seem to scorn;
Whom you oppress from tyrant hate,
And crush beneath your golden weight.
Yet these are equal dear to him,
Who made you both, tho' you esteem
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To stoop or tremble at your feet.
But stamp no more; on whom you tread
T'is one of the creation's head;
And, tho' nor gold nor purple wear,
For aught you know, Salvation's Heir:
A lot conceal'd until that day,
When such as you are sent away!
| Occasional verse, moral and sacred | |