I
Happy the man who turns to Heav'n,
When on the landscape's verge of green
Old-age appears, to whom 'tis giv'n
To creep in sight, but fly, unseen!
Stealer of marches, subtile foe,
Sinon of stratagem and woe!
Thy fatal blows ah! who can ward?
Around thee lurks a motley train
Of wants, and fears, and chronic pain,
The hungry Croats of thy guard.
II
[Thus on the flow'r-enamel'd lawn,
Unconscious of the least surprize,
In thoughtless gambols sports the fawn
Whilst veil'd in grass the tygress lies.
The silent trait'ress crouches low,
Her very lungs surcease to blow:
At length she darts on hunger's wings;—
Sure of her distance and success,
Where Newton could but only guess,
She never misses, when she springs
.]
III
More truly wise the man, whose early youth
Is offer'd a free off'ring to the Lord,
A self-addicted votary to truth,
Servant thro' choice, disciple by accord!
Heav'n always did th'unblemish'd turtle chuse,
Where health conjoin'd with spirit most abounds:
Heav'n seeks the young, nor does the old refuse,
But youth acquits the debt, which age compounds!
Aukward in time, and sour'd with self-disgrace,
The spend-thrift pays his all, and takes the bankrupt's place.
