The Dance of Life A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
 | CHAPTER IV. YOUTH. The Dance of Life |  |
Now Harry, languid sought his bed
With throbbing heart and aching head;—
There with his pillow counsell'd deep,
Nor pain, nor thought would let him sleep;
Weigh'd well the warnings he receiv'd,
Felt as he ought, and inly griev'd.
—Memory, first, with painful power,
Seiz'd on the penitential hour,
And brought to his reluctant view
Those scenes he now was doom'd to rue.
Then came Reflection, that prepar'd
The mind to make its due award,
And, as its pensive eye it cast
O'er the wild vision of the past,
Brought forward to the grave debate,
The picture of his present state.
But here he practis'd no deceit,
The upbraiding of his thoughts to cheat,
Nor strove to baffle Truth's decree
By any playful sophistry:
Nor did he tempt the prone denial,
Fairly to bring himself to trial.
—Thus as he lay, in studious trance,
He ventur'd, though, with fearful glance,
To view the threat'ning storm that lours
O'er hasty time's approaching hours:
His sicken'd Fancy thought he heard
The keen reproach, the angry word
Which stern Affection would proclaim
In a kind Father's hallow'd name:
He thought he saw a Mother's woe
With all the tears he caus'd to flow:
He seem'd to see his sad disgrace
In ev'ry friend's lamenting face;
To the sad change, he look'd with dread
From cheering smiles, to shaking head.
—Reason now came these thoughts to aid,
And, in her Ballance, duly weigh'd
The pleasures that from Duty flow,
And Virtue only can bestow;—
The well-earn'd honour of the name
Which Merit consecrates to Fame;
The Dignity that Knowledge gives;
The noble Pride the mind receives,
When, without vain, assum'd pretence,
It feels a conscious Excellence;
The Courage (not a flighty flame
Which Fashion's Foplings Honour name)
That guards the breast which is endu'd
With a firm sense of Rectitude:
The Promise of ingenuous Youth,
Instructed by the voice of Truth,
Who, proud of honourable praise,
Ne'er in the paths of Error strays;—
Or, if he should, in careless hour,
Comply with Folly's vagrant power,
Soon he the treach'rous impulse spurns,
And to the good he left, returns.
—Thus Reason urg'd within his breast
Of human Qualities the best,
And the strong contrast then exprest.
—Folly, with all its idle train
Of pleasures sure to end in pain;
—Excess, with all its noisy joys,
That Wisdom spurns and Health destroys;
—Spirit, that dares the world defy,
Or sneaks beneath Hypocrisy;
—Rude vulgar Pride, that treats with scorn
E'en Virtue's self, if humble born,
And shuts th'inhospitable door
'Gainst the loud cravings of the poor;
Yet still the social hour submits
To flatt'ring knaves and ribbald wits,
And thinks it marks superior taste,
To laugh, to riot, and to waste;—
Calls Prudence meanness, a spare jade,
That Fortune and high birth degrade;
A Hack for toiling Sons of Trade;—
Profusion, which all care disdains,
So that unbounded plenty reigns;
While every sensual delight
May wait on greedy appetite.
—Thus the sick Student travell'd o'er
His present ills, and many more;
And thus, with Reason for his guide,
He weigh'd the Fate that might betide
His way through Life, or short or long,
If his first outset should be wrong.
With throbbing heart and aching head;—
125
Nor pain, nor thought would let him sleep;
Weigh'd well the warnings he receiv'd,
Felt as he ought, and inly griev'd.
—Memory, first, with painful power,
Seiz'd on the penitential hour,
And brought to his reluctant view
Those scenes he now was doom'd to rue.
Then came Reflection, that prepar'd
The mind to make its due award,
And, as its pensive eye it cast
O'er the wild vision of the past,
Brought forward to the grave debate,
The picture of his present state.
But here he practis'd no deceit,
The upbraiding of his thoughts to cheat,
Nor strove to baffle Truth's decree
By any playful sophistry:
Nor did he tempt the prone denial,
Fairly to bring himself to trial.
—Thus as he lay, in studious trance,
He ventur'd, though, with fearful glance,
126
O'er hasty time's approaching hours:
His sicken'd Fancy thought he heard
The keen reproach, the angry word
Which stern Affection would proclaim
In a kind Father's hallow'd name:
He thought he saw a Mother's woe
With all the tears he caus'd to flow:
He seem'd to see his sad disgrace
In ev'ry friend's lamenting face;
To the sad change, he look'd with dread
From cheering smiles, to shaking head.
—Reason now came these thoughts to aid,
And, in her Ballance, duly weigh'd
The pleasures that from Duty flow,
And Virtue only can bestow;—
The well-earn'd honour of the name
Which Merit consecrates to Fame;
The Dignity that Knowledge gives;
The noble Pride the mind receives,
When, without vain, assum'd pretence,
It feels a conscious Excellence;
127
Which Fashion's Foplings Honour name)
That guards the breast which is endu'd
With a firm sense of Rectitude:
The Promise of ingenuous Youth,
Instructed by the voice of Truth,
Who, proud of honourable praise,
Ne'er in the paths of Error strays;—
Or, if he should, in careless hour,
Comply with Folly's vagrant power,
Soon he the treach'rous impulse spurns,
And to the good he left, returns.
—Thus Reason urg'd within his breast
Of human Qualities the best,
And the strong contrast then exprest.
—Folly, with all its idle train
Of pleasures sure to end in pain;
—Excess, with all its noisy joys,
That Wisdom spurns and Health destroys;
—Spirit, that dares the world defy,
Or sneaks beneath Hypocrisy;
128
E'en Virtue's self, if humble born,
And shuts th'inhospitable door
'Gainst the loud cravings of the poor;
Yet still the social hour submits
To flatt'ring knaves and ribbald wits,
And thinks it marks superior taste,
To laugh, to riot, and to waste;—
Calls Prudence meanness, a spare jade,
That Fortune and high birth degrade;
A Hack for toiling Sons of Trade;—
Profusion, which all care disdains,
So that unbounded plenty reigns;
While every sensual delight
May wait on greedy appetite.
—Thus the sick Student travell'd o'er
His present ills, and many more;
And thus, with Reason for his guide,
He weigh'd the Fate that might betide
His way through Life, or short or long,
If his first outset should be wrong.
| CHAPTER IV. YOUTH. The Dance of Life | |