The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
298
ODE.
[Ah! this our world's a world of sad mishaps]
Peter descanteth on the Precariousness of Life, wisheth to be at his own Disposal, and showeth no Objection to an emendation of Nature.
Ah! this our world's a world of sad mishaps;
Beset with Death's uncomfortable traps!
Hard squeez'd we sometimes get away to groan:
Now half the body's in the spiteful gin,
And now the unlucky tail, to make us grin,
So that we dare not call our souls our own.
Beset with Death's uncomfortable traps!
Hard squeez'd we sometimes get away to groan:
Now half the body's in the spiteful gin,
And now the unlucky tail, to make us grin,
So that we dare not call our souls our own.
I do not like entails—I hate control—
Jove!—give me the fee simple of my soul;
Around this system let me range at ease,
To stay, or quit it, whensoe'r I please.
Jove!—give me the fee simple of my soul;
Around this system let me range at ease,
To stay, or quit it, whensoe'r I please.
Amid the wonders of Creation's field,
Strange! that existence should to trifles yield!
Behold that promising Herculean boy:
A zephyr on his infant cradle blows;
Lo! out at once Life's little candle goes,
The flame too of a parent's hope and joy.
Strange! that existence should to trifles yield!
Behold that promising Herculean boy:
A zephyr on his infant cradle blows;
Lo! out at once Life's little candle goes,
The flame too of a parent's hope and joy.
Thus shall the poor mean solitary worm
Kill, in the acorn's kind protecting cell,
The small oak-embryo, that had mock'd the storm,
And smil'd upon the sulphur'd flash of hell;
Had push'd its roots where Earth's deep centre lies,
And with its tow'ring branches brav'd the skies.
Kill, in the acorn's kind protecting cell,
The small oak-embryo, that had mock'd the storm,
And smil'd upon the sulphur'd flash of hell;
Had push'd its roots where Earth's deep centre lies,
And with its tow'ring branches brav'd the skies.
'Tis a strange world we live in, to be sure;
A world of wounds, I fear, without a cure!
Dame Nature seems a sad unnat'ral mother:
Methinks 'tis hard, one animal should die,
Groan out his last, and ever close his eye,
To treat with life and rosy health another.
A world of wounds, I fear, without a cure!
Dame Nature seems a sad unnat'ral mother:
299
Groan out his last, and ever close his eye,
To treat with life and rosy health another.
'Tis strange indeed! yet true, tho' passing strange;
Where'er the foot or eye of man can range,
This munching, mad, devouring system reigns!
O could our mortal palate feed on roses,
As on their dainty essence, feed our noses,
This world were then a pleasurable scene.
Where'er the foot or eye of man can range,
This munching, mad, devouring system reigns!
O could our mortal palate feed on roses,
As on their dainty essence, feed our noses,
This world were then a pleasurable scene.
'Tis murder, murder, now, from morn to night!
Look at a simple act that yields delight—
The ploughman toiling thro' his fallow'd ground:
Happy he turns the glebe for vegetation—
Yet in this act how many a harmless nation
Of worms, poor reptiles, feel the grinding wound!
Whilst rooks, and crows, and magpies, hop behind,
Alert and greedy, gobbling all they find!
Look at a simple act that yields delight—
The ploughman toiling thro' his fallow'd ground:
Happy he turns the glebe for vegetation—
Yet in this act how many a harmless nation
Of worms, poor reptiles, feel the grinding wound!
Whilst rooks, and crows, and magpies, hop behind,
Alert and greedy, gobbling all they find!
That 'tis a good world cannot be contended—
I wish 'twere mended.
I wish 'twere mended.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |