The Works of Hildebrand Jacob ... Containing Poems on Various Subjects, and Occasions; With the Fatal Constancy, a Tragedy; and Several Pieces in Prose. The Greatest Part Never Before Publish'd |
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Some Fragments of NERO,
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 | The Works of Hildebrand Jacob |  |
279
Some Fragments of NERO,
a Tragedy lost.
I.
Ambition is a lawless Thirst of Fame,An eager Race after an empty Shade,
And Grandeur is but Misery adorn'd;
It at a Distance glares, and is ador'd:
Draw near, th' Illusion ceases to deceive,
The superficial Gilding wears away,
And leaves the Idol naked to our View.
II.
Love is a little, sly, designing Knave,And meanly steals his Conquests o'er our Minds,
While Reason's lull'd to Sleep by Idleness;
But when we rouse, and boldly charge the God,
280
III.
'Tis well! sleep on: the Hours that Wretches sleep,Are stol'n from Misery—
IV.
Why dost thou start? of what art thou afraid?It is a beaten Road which leads to Death:
My Father pointed out the Way to me,
And his Forefather mark'd his Passage hence.
V.
How kind are Tyrants, when they wou'd destroy:While yet we live, 'tis in their Pow'r to pain;
But when the friendly Stroke of Death is o'er,
What do their Chains, and Tortures then avail?
VI.
Men call me Tyrant, so, in Truth, I am;But chiefly to my self—why then reform!
281
Alone I am too many for my self.
VII.
—Virtue is its own Reward,And now rewarded only by it self;
A precious fewel, whose transcendent Worth
Is known, but to those few who bosom it;
Its Pow'r can disappoint the Tyrant's Rage,
And weary Punishment; the Gods infuse
A hidden Balsam in its sufferings,
To mitigate their Pains: So just is Heav'n!
VIII.
Let us not meet Misfortunes; 'tis too soonTo feel them, when they come—
IX.
Man's highest Wisdom is of small Account;He sees, at best, as thro' a clouded Glass,
Erroneous Forms, and the false Shapes of Things.
282
X.
Shou'd ev'n the Gods themselves from Heav'n descend,Mix with Mankind, and trifle here on Earth,
No Altars wou'd be rais'd, no Incense smoak;
The Creature their Creator wou'd despise,
And soon forget to whom they owe their Being.
XI.
It is a Maxim in the Art of Love,Which all shou'd learn, who wou'd successful prove,
That Women still disdain the prostrate Prize,
But follow still, whene'er the Lover flies;
They frown, while Man submissively complains,
Or laugh at the poor Wretch, who buggs his Chains:
Let him but struggle for his Liberty,
At the Expence of their's they'll set him free.
XII.
To the Unhappy Death at any TimeIn any Shape is welcome: What sick Man
283
XIII.
When Fear has once thrown Reason from her Seat,Unbridled Fancy reigns without Controul,
And hurries us to Madness—
XIV.
At length the proudest Fair must be subdu'd;For she who gains each Day a thousand Hearts,
Has still a Heart to lose—
| The Works of Hildebrand Jacob | |