University of Virginia Library

CANTO XVII.

Ye Courtesies of life, all hail! Whether along the peaceful vale,
Where the thatch'd cot alone is seen, The humble mansion of the green,
Or in the city's crowded way, Man—mortal man, is doom'd to stray;
You give to joy an added charm, And woe of half its pangs disarm.
How much in every state he owes To what kind Courtesy bestows;
To that benign, engaging art Which decorates the human heart,
And, free from jealousy and strife, Gilds all the charities of life.
To ev'ry act it gives a grace; It adds a smile to ev'ry face;
And Goodness' self we better see When dress'd by gentle Courtesy.
Thus Syntax, as the house he sought,
Indulg'd the grateful, pleasing thought;
And soon he step'd the threshold o'er,
Where the good Farmer went before:
Plenty appear'd, and many a guest Attended on the welcome feast.
The Doctor then, with solemn face, Proceeded to the appointed place,
And, in due form, pronounc'd the grace.
That thankful ceremony done, The fierce attack was soon begun;
While meat and pudding, fowl and fish,
All vanish'd from each ample dish.
The dinner o'er, the bowl appear'd;
Th'enliv'ning draughts the spirits cheer'd;
Nor did the pleasant Doctor fail, Between the cups of foaming ale,
To gain the laugh by many a tail.
But it so hap'd—among the rest— The Farmer's Landlord was a guest;
A buckish blade, who kept a horse, To try his fortune on the course;
Was famous for his fighting cocks,
And his staunch pack to chase the fox:
Indeed, could he a booby bite,
He'd play at cards throughout the night;
Nor was he without hopes to get Syntax to make some silly bet.
“I never bet,” the Doctor said,
While a deep frown his thoughts betray'd:
“Your gold I do not wish to gain, And mine shall in my purse remain:
No tempting card, no gambling art, Shall make it from my pocket start.
Gaming, my worthy Sir, I hate; It neither suits my means nor state:
'Tis the worst passion, I protest,
That's known to haunt the human breast!
Of all vile habitudes the worst; The most delusive and accurst:
And, if you please, I'll lay before you A very melancholy story;
Such as, I think, will wring your heart;
And wound you in the tend'rest part;
That will in striking colours show The biting pangs—the bitter woe,
That do, too oft, from gaming flow.”
“Nay,” said the Squire, “I don't deny I often like my luck to try;
And no one here, I'm sure, will say That when I lose I do not pay:
But as you think it such a sin Pray try to cure me—and begin.”
Syntax.—

—This may be true—but still your breast
Is with the love of gold possest.
Why watch whole nights the fatal card, Or look to dice for your reward?
Why risk your real wealth with those
Whom you know not, and no one knows;
With maggots whom foul fortune's ray
Has rais'd from dunghills into day;
Who would in your misfortune riot, And seek your ruin for their diet?
Pleasure it cannot be, for pains Will mingle with your very gains—
Will hover round the golden store, Which ere the passing moment's o'er,
May, horrid chance! be yours no more.
“As yet, you cannot use the plea Of beggar'd men—necessity;
Plenty as yet adorns your board, And num'rous vassals own you Lord;
Your woods look fair—their trunks increase,
The Hamadryades live in peace;
But cards and dice more pow'rful far Than e'en the sharpest axes are:
At one dire stroke have oft been found
To level forests with the ground:
Have seiz'd the mansion's lofty state,
And turn'd its master from the gate.
“A youth in wealth and fashion bred, But by the love of gaming led,
Soon found that ample wealth decay; Farm after farm was play'd away,
Till, the sad hist'ry to complete, His park, his lawns, his ancient seat,
Were all in haste and hurry sold, To raise the heaps of ready gold!
They, like the rest, soon pass'd away,
The villains' gain, the sharpers' prey;
While he, alas! resolv'd to shun The arts by which he was undone,
Sought, by hard labour, to sustain His weary life of woe and pain:
But Nature soon refus'd to give
The strength by which he strove to live;
And nought was left him but to try What casual pity would supply;
To stray where chance or hunger led, And humbly ask for scanty bread.
One day, to his despairing eyes, He saw a stately mansion rise;
Nor look'd he long before he knew
Each wood and copse that round it grew;
For all the scene that seem'd so fair, Once knew in his a master's care.
Struck with the sight, and sore oppress'd,
He sought a bank whereon to rest;
There long he lay, and sigh'd his grief;—
Tears came—but did not bring relief:
At last he took his tott'ring way Where once he lov'd so well to stray,
And, press'd by hunger, sought the gate
Where suppliant Want was used to wait—
Where suppliant Want was ne'er deny'd
The morsel left by glutt'd Pride.
But, ah! these gen'rous times were o'er,
And suppliant Want reliev'd no more.
The mastiff growl'd—the liv'ried thief With insolence denied relief:—
The wretch, dissolving in a groan, Turn'd from the portal, once his own;
But ere he turn'd, he told his name,
And curs'd once more the love of game;
Then sought the lawn, for Nature fail'd,
And sorrow o'er his strength prevail'd.
Beneath an oak's wide spreading shade
His weary limbs he careless laid;
Then call'd on Heaven:—(the bitter pray'r
Of Mis'ry finds admittance there!)
And ere the sun, with parting ray, Had heighten'd the last blush of day,
Sunk and worn out with want and grief, He found in death a kind relief.
“The oak records the doleful tale,
Which makes the conscious reader pale;
And tells—‘In this man's fate behold
The love of play—the lust of gold.’
No moral, Sir, I shall impart; I trust you feel it in your heart.
“‘You're young,’ you'll say, ‘and must engage
In the amusements of the age.’
Go then, and let your mountain bare, The forest's verdant liv'ry wear;
Let Parian marble grace your hall, And Titian glow upon your wall;
Its narrow channels boldly break, And swell your riv'let to a lake:
To richer harvests bend your soil, While labour fattens in the toil:
Encourage Nature, and impart The half-transparent veil of Art.
Let Music charm your melting breast,
And soothe each passion into rest;
Let Genius from your hand receive The bounty that can make it live;
And call the Muses from on high, To give you immortality.
To these the hardy pleasures join, Where Exercise and Health combine:
At the first op'ning of the morn, O'er hill and dale, with hound and horn,
Boldly pursue the subtle prey, And share the triumphs of the day:
Nor let the evening hours roll Unaided by the social bowl;
Nor should fair Friendship be away,
But crown with smiles the festive day.
Say, need I add the joys they prove
Who live in bounds of virtuous love?
Where fond affection fills the heart The baser passions shall depart.
While the babe hangs on Beauty's breast,
While in a parent's arms caress'd,
Each low-bred thought, all vicious aims,
The pure, domestic mind disclaims:
Virtue inspires his ev'ry sense, Who looks on cherub innocence:
Then seek a shield 'gainst passion's strife
In the calm joys of wedded life.
“This is to live, and to enjoy
Those pleasures which our pains destroy:
This is to live, and to receive The praises which the good will give:
This is to make that use of wealth
Which heightens e'en the flush of health;
Improves the heart, and gives a claim
To a fair, fragrant wreath of Fame.”
“I thank you, Sir,” the Farmer said;—
“'Tis a sad tale you have display'd.
How I the poor man's lot deplore! The more I think, I feel the more:
And much I wish my Landlord too
Would keep his wretched fate in view;
But while my poor good woman weeps,
Behold how very sound he sleeps.
I beg that we may change the scene And join the dancers on the green.”
Sal now exclaim'd, “The people say Ralph is so drunk he cannot play:”
“Then I'll be Fiddler,” Syntax cried!
“By me his place shall be supply'd!
Ne'er fear, my lasses, you shall soon Be ambling to some pretty tune,
And in a measur'd time shall beat The green-sod with your nimble feet.
While Virtue o'er your pleasure reigns,
You're Welcome to my merry strains:
While Virtue smiles upon your joy, I'll gladly my best skill employ;
For sure, 'twill give me great delight
To be your Fiddler through the night.
I know full well I do not err From any point of character:
To Heav'n I cannot give offence While I enliven innocence:
For thus to virtuous man 'tis given
To dance, and sing, and go to Heaven.
Your merry minstrelsy prolong, And to your dances add the song:
E'en while you caper, loudly sing In honor of your noble King.”

Chorus of Peasants.

“Strike, strike the lyre! awake the sounding shell!
How happy we who in these vallies dwell!
How blest we live beneath his gentle sway,
Whom mighty realms and distant seas obey!
Make him, propitious Heaven! your choicest care!
O make him happy as his people are!”
'Twas thus they fiddled, danc'd, and sung;
With harmless glee the village rung:—
At length dull midnight bid them close A day of joy, with calm repose.