XXIII.
[There are, who think mankind are born to rove]
There are, who think mankind are born to rove,
By nature vagrant as the uncertain gale,
Who laugh at vows of constancy and love,
As dreams of fancy, or a dotard's tale.
To these, my Thespia, silence is the best,
The only answer, can be justly given;
Let them enjoy their dull unmeaning jest;
Can creeping mists pollute the face of heaven?
They know not real love, nor ever knew;
And bent on vulgar scenes of low delight,
Can never virtue's genuine beauties view,
Or the true ray of pleasure mildly bright.
In fashion's bowers they flit their little day,
And eager from their souls to banish thought,
To idle dissipation homage pay,
And giddy, drink her various-mingled draught.
For them let secret pity drop a tear
And nobly conscious of sublimer joys,
Self-satisfied her happier fortune bear,
And leave to change and vanity their toys.
Conscious the darling object ne'er can tire,
True love to each external good is blind,
Fix'd is the wavering pinion of desire,
Thought answers thought, and mind embraces mind.
Who think like us, like us who love, to those
Can wealth or power an added pleasure give?
Their tender sympathy still stronger grows,
Till memory dies their warm affections live.
Them do their smiling progeny amuse?
The infant race their mutual cares employ.
This gift should wisest Providence refuse,
They in each other center every joy.
Not accident or time can e'er divide
The attractive, firm, indissoluble chain,
The band which cordial amity hath tyed,
No power, but death itself can break in twain.
