Poems, and a tragedy :: :: University of Virginia Library

CANTO II.

In musefull stownd Syr Martyn rews
His Youthhedes thoughtlesse stage;
But Dissipation haunts him to
The blossomes of old age.

I

With gracefull pause awhile the Wizard stood,
Then thus resumd,—As he whose homeward way
Lies through the windings of some verdant wood;
Through many a mazy turn and arbour gay
He sues the flowery steps of jollie May,
While through the openings many a lawnskepe new
Bursts on his sight; yet, never once astray,
Still home he wends: so we our theme pursue,
Through many a bank and bowre close following still our cue.

II

Soothd by the murmurs of a plaintive streame,
A wyld romantick dell its fragrance shed;
Safe from the thonder showre and scorching beame
Their faerie charmes the summer bowres displaid;
Wyld by the bancks the bashfull cowslips spread,
And from the rock above each ivied seat
The spotted foxgloves hung the purple head,
And lowlie vilets kist the wanderers feet:
Sure never Hyblas bees rovd through a wilde so sweet,

III

As winds the streamlett serpentine along,
So leads a solemn walk its bowry way,
The pale-leaved palms and darker limes among,
To where a grotto lone and secret lay;
The yellow broome, where chirp the linnets gay,
Waves round the cave; and to the blue-streakd skyes
A shatterd rock towres up in fragments gray:
The shee goat from its height the lawnskepe eyes,
And calls her wanderd young, the call each banck replies.

IV

Here oft the Knight had past the Sommers morne
What time the wondering Boy to manhood rose,
When Fancy first her lawnskepes gan adorne,
And Reasons folded buddes their flowres disclose,
What time young Transport through the spirits flows,
When Nature smyles with charmes unseen before,
When with unwonted hopes the bosome glows,
While wingd with whirlwind speed the thoughts explore
The endlesse wylde of joys that Youth beholds in store.

V

The Dryads of the place, that nurst the flowres,
And hung the dew-drop in the hycinths bell,
For him employd their virtue breathing powres,
And Cambrias Genius bade his worth excell.
His youthfull breast confest the wondrous spell;
His generous temper warmd with fayre design,
The friend and patriot now his bosome swell;
The lover and the father now combine,
And smyling visions form, where bliss and honour join.

VI

Of these loved soothings this the loved retreat
Must now no more with dreams of bliss decoy;
Yet here he liken still himself to meet,
Though woes, a gloomy train, his thoughts employ:
Oh lost to peace, he sighs, unhappy Boy!
Oh lost to every worth that life adorns!—
Oh lost to peace, to elegance, and joy!
Th'aërial Genius of the cave returns,
Whiles in the bubbling rill the plaintive Naiade mourns.

VII

Thus as he spake the magic lawnskepe rose,
The dell, the grotto, and the broome-clad hill;
See, quoth the Wizard, where the Knight bestows
An houre to thought and Reasons whispers still;
Whiles, as a nightly vision boding ill,
Seen with pale glymps by lonely wandering swayne,
Truth, gleaming through the fogs of biast will,
Frowns on him sterne, and honest Shame gins fayne
In her reflective glass his life's ignoble straine.

VIII

His earlie hopes she shews and shews againe;
How oft hast Thou, she cries, indignant viewd
The titled Cypher and his solemn traine,
The busie face, and dull solicitude,
That, ever plodding in important mood,
Has not a soul to reach one noble aim,
Nor soul, nor wish—whose vacant mind endewd
With not one talent, yet would lewdly claim
For his vile leaden bust the sacred wreath of Fame:

IX

Who to the patrons lawrells would aspire,
By labouring in the British clime to rear
Those arts that quencht prowd Romes patrician fire,
And bowd her prone beneath the Gothick spear;
Illustrious cares! befitting patriot peer!
Italian sing-song and the eunuchs squall!
Such arts as soothd the base unmanly ear
Of Greece and Persia bending to their fall;
When Freedome bled unwept, and scornd was Glorys call.

X

While these thy breast with scorne indignant fird,
What other views before thee would disclose!
As Fancy painted and thy wish inspird,
What glorious scenes beneath thy shades arose!
Britannias guardians here dispell her woes,
Forming her laws, her artes, with godlike toil;
There Albion, smyling on her learnd repose,
Sees manly Genius in ther influence smile,
And spread the hallowd streames of Virtue round the ile.

XI

How blest, ah Heaven! such selfe-approving houres,
Such views still opening, still extending higher,
Cares whence the state derives its firmest powres;
And scenes where Friendship sheds her purest fire?
And did, ah shame! these hopes in vain expire
A morning dreame!—As lorn the spendthrift stands,
Who sees the fieldes bequeathd him by his sire,
His own no more, now reapt by strangers hands;
So languid must I view faire Honours fertile lands.

XII

Silence would then ensue; perhaps reclind
On the greene margin of the streame he lay,
While softlie stealing on his languid mind
Th'ideal scene would hold a moments sway,
And the domestick houre all smyles display,
Where fixt esteeme the fond discourse inspires:
Now through his heart would glide the sprightlie ray
Where Married Love bids light his purest fires,
Where Elegance presides, and wakes the Young Desires.

XIII

Strait to his brawling Lemman turns his mind;
Shockd he beholds the odious colours rise,
Where selfishnesse, low pride and spleen combind,
Bid every anguishd thought his mate despise,
His mate unformd for sweete Affections ties:
Grovling, indelicate—Stung to the heart
His indignation heaves in stifled sighs;
But soon his passion bursts with suddein start:
His children strike his thoughts with lively piersant smart.

XIV

The mothers basenesse in their deeds he sees,
And all the wounded father swells his breast:
Suddein he leaves the cave and mantling trees,
And up the furzie hill his footsteps haste,
While sullenly he soothes his soul to rest:
Meantime the opening prospect wide he gains,
Where, crownd with oake, with meadow flowres ydrest,
His British chaplet, buxom Summer reigns,
And waves his mantle greene farre round the smyling plains.

XV

Still as he slow ascends, the bounteous farms,
And old grey towres of rural churches rise,
The fieldes still lengthening shew their crowded charms
In fayre perspective and in richest guise:
His sweeping scythe the white-sleevd mower plies,
The plowman through the fallow guides his teame,
Acrosse the wheaten fielde the milkmayde hies,
To where the kine, foreby the reedy streame,
With frequent lowe to plaine of their full udders seeme.

XVI

See, now the Knight arrives where erst an oak
Dan Æols blustering stormes did long repell,
Till witchd it was, when by an headlong shock,
As the hoar fathers of the village tell,
With horrid crash on All Saints eve it fell:
But from its trunk soon sprouting saplings rose,
And round the parent stock did shadowy swell;
Now, aged trees, they bend their twisted boughs,
And by their moss-greene roots invite the swains repose.

XVII

Here on a bending knare he pensive leans,
And round the various lawnskepe raunge his eyes:
There stretch the corny fieldes in various greens,
Farre as the sight: there, to the peaceful skyes
The darkning pines and dewy poplars rise:
Behind the wood a dark and heathy lea,
With sheepe faire spotted, farre extended lies,
With here and there a lonlie blasted tree;
And from between two hills appears the duskie sea.

XVIII

Bright through the fleeting clouds the sunny ray
Shifts o'er the fieldes, now glids the woody dale,
The flockes now whiten, now the ocean bay
Beneath the radiance glistens clear and pale;
And white from farre appears the frequent sail,
By Traffick spread. Moord where the land divides,
The British red-cross waving in the gale,
Hulky and black, a gallant warre ship rides,
And over the greene wave with lordly port presides.

XIX

Fixt on the bulwark of the British powre
Long gazd the Knight, with fretfull languid air;
Then thus, indulging the reflective houre,
Pours forth his soul: Oh, glorious happy care!
To bid Brittanias navies greatly dare,
And through the vassal seas triumphant reign,
To either India waft victorious warre,
To join the poles in Trades unbounded chain,
And bid the British Throne the mighty Whole sustain.

XX

With what superiour lustre and command
May stedfast Zeal in Albion's Senate shine!
What glorious lawrells court the Patriots hand!
How base the hand that can such Meed decline!
And was, kind Fate! to snatch these honours mine?
Yes! greene they spred, and fayre they bloomd for me;
Thy birth and duty bade the chiefe be thine;
Oh lost, vain Trifler, lost in each degree!
Thy Country never turnd her hopefull eyes on Thee.

XXI

Yet, how the Fielde of Worth luxurious smiles!
Nor Africk yields, nor Chilys earth contains
Such funds of wealth as crown the Plowmans toils,
And tinge with waving gold Britannias plains;
Even on her mountains cheerful Plenty reigns,
And wildly grand her fleecy wardrobe spreads.
What noble Meed the honest Statesman gains,
Who through these publique nerves new vigour sheds,
And bids the Useful Artes exalt their drooping heads:

XXII

Who, founding on the Plough and humble Loome
His Countrys greatnesse, sees, on every tide,
Her fleets the umpire of the world assume,
And spread her justice as her glories wide—
Oh wonder of the world, and fairest pride,
Britannias Fleet! how long shall Pity mourn
And stain thy honours? from his weeping Bride
And starving babes, how long inhuman torn
Shall the bold Sailor mount thy decks with heart forlorn!

XXIII

Forlorn with sinking heart his task he plies,
His Brides distresse his restlesse fancy sees,
And fixing on the land his earnest eyes,
Cold is his breast and faint his manly knees.
Ah! hither turn, ye sons of courtlie Ease,
And let the Brave Mans wrongs, let interest plead:
Say, while his arme his Countrys fate decrees,
Say, shall a Fathers anguish be his meed;
His wrongs unnerve his soul, and blight each mighty deed?

XXIV

Whatever Party boasts thy glorious name,
O thou reservd by Heavens benign decree
To blast those artes that quench the British flame,
And bid the meanest of the Land be free;
Oh, much Humanity shall owe to Thee!
And shall that palm unenvyd still remain!
And hear, ye lordlings, each severitie,
And every woe the labouring tribes sustain,
Upbraids the Man of Powre, and dims his honours vain.

XXV

While thus the Knights long smotherd fires broke forth,
The rousing musicke of the horne he hears
Shrill echoing through the wold; and by the North
Where bends the hill, the sounding chace appears;
The hounds with glorious peal salute his ears,
And wood and dale rebound the swelling lay;
The Youths on coursers fleet as fallow deers
Pour through the downs, while, foremost of the fray;
Away! the jolly Huntsman cries; and Echoe sounds, Away!

XXVI

Now han the beagles scourd the bushy ground,
Till where a brooke strays hollow through the bent,
When all confusd, and snuffing wyldlie round,
In vain their fretfull haste explord the scent:
But Reynards cunning all in vain was spent;
The Huntsman from his stand his arts had spyd,
Had markt his doublings and his shrewd intent,
How both the bancks he trac'd, then backward plyd
His track some twentie roods, then bounding sprong aside.

XXVII

Eke had he markt where to the broome he crept,
Where, harkening everie sound, an hare was laid;
Then from the thickest bush he slylie lept,
And wary scuds along the hawthorne shade,
Till by the hills slant foot he earths his head
Amid a briarie thickett: Emblem meet
Of wylie statesman of his foes adred;
He oft misguides the peoples rage, I weet,
On others, whilst himself winds off with slie deceit.

XXVIII

The cunning Huntsman now cheers on his pack,
The lurking hare is an instant slain:
Then opening loud, the beagles scent the track
Right to the hill; while thondring through the plain
With blythe huzzas advaunce the jovial train:
And now the Groomes and Squires, Cowherds and Boys,
Beat round and round the brake; but all in vain
Their poles they ply, and vain their oathes and noise,
Till plonging in his den the Terrier fiercely joys.

XXIX

Expelld his hole, upstarts to open sky
The Villain bold, and wildly glares around;
Now here, now there, he bends his knees to fly,
As oft recoils to guard from backward wound,
His frothie jaws he grinds—with horrid sound
The Pack attonce rush on him: foming ire,
Fierce at his throte and sides hangs many a hound;
His burning eyes flash wylde red sparckling fire,
Whiles weltring on the swaird his breath and strength expire.

XXX

Straight to Syr Martyns hall the Hunters bend,
The Knight perceives it from his oak-crownd hill,
Down the steep furzie height he slow gan wend,
With troublous thoughts keen ruminating still;
While grief and shame by turns his bosom fill.
And now, perchd prowdlie on the topmost spray,
The sootie Blackbird chaunts his vespers shrill;
While Twilight spreads his robe of sober grey,
And to their bowres the Rooks loud cawing wing their way:

XXXI

And bright behind the Cambrian mountains hore
Flames the red beam; while on the distant East
Led by her starre, the horned Moone looks o'er
The bending forest, and with rays increast
Ascends; while trembling on the dappled West
The purple radiance shifts, and dies away;
The willows with a deeper green imprest
Nod o'er the brooks; the brooks with gleamy ray
Glide on, and holy Peace assumes her woodland sway.

XXXII

All was repose, all but Syr Martyns brest;
There, Passions tearing gusts tempestuous rise.
Are these, he murmurs, these my friends! the best
That croud my hall! the Sonnes of madning Noise,
Whose warmest friendship with the revel dies?
Whose glee it were my dearest peace destroy,
Who with my woes could sport, my wrongs despise;
Could round my coffin pledge the cup of Joy,
And on my crimes even then their base-tongue witt employ:

XXXIII

Whose converse, oft as fulsom Bawdrie fails,
Takes up the barkings of Impiety,
The Scepticks wild disjointed dreams retails,
These modern ravings of Philosophy
Made drunk, the Cavil, the detected Ly,
The witt of Ignorance, and Gloss unfair,
Which honest Dullness would with shame deny;
The hope of Baseness vaumpt in Candours air:
Good Heaven! are such the friends that to my hearth repair!

XXIV

The Man of Worth shuns Thy reputelesse dore;
Even the old Peasant shakes his silverd head,
Old saws and stories babbling evermore,
And adding still, Alas, those dayes be fled!
Here Indignation pausd, when, up the glade,
Pale through the trees his houshold smoke ascends;
Wakd at the sight, his Brothers wrongs upbraid
His melting heart, and grief his bosome rends:
And now the keen Resolve its gleaming comfort lends.

XXXV

Perdie, now were I bent on legends fine
My Knight should rise the flowre of Chivalrie,
Brave as Syr Arthegal or Valentine,
Another Saint George England then should see,
Britannias Genius should his Sabra bee,
Chaind to the rock by Dragon to be slain;
But he the Virgin Princesse soon should free,
And stretch the monster breathlesse on the plain;
Bribery, the Dragon huge, should never rise again.

XXXVI

Eke should he, freed from foul Enchaunters spell,
Escape his false Duessas magicke charms,
And Folly quaid, yclepd an Hydra fell,
Receive a beauteous Lady to his arms;
While Bardes and Minstrales chaunt tbe soft alarms
Of gentle Love, unlike his former thrall.
Eke should I sing, in courtly cunning terms,
The gallant feast, servd up by Seneshall,
To Knights and Ladies gent in painted bowre and hall.

XXXVII

But certes, while my tongue fayre truth indites,
And does of human frailtie soothly tell,
Unmeet it were indulge the daintie flights
Of Phantasie, that never yet befell:
Uneath it is long habits to expell,
Ne may the best good heart its bliss secure,
Ne may the lively powre of judging well,
In ardhous worthy deed long time endure,
Where Dissipation once has fixt her footing sure.

XXXVIII

Such was the powre that angrie Jove bestowd
On this faire Nymph: the legend thus is told.
To Dians care her life her Mother owd;
Faire Dian found her naked on the wold,
Some Peasants babe, exposed to deadlie cold,
And to a favourite Satyr gave to rear:
Then, when the Nymph was fifteen springtimes old,
Equipt her with the bow and Huntresse spear,
And of her Woodland Traine her made a welcome fere.

XXXIX

But ill her mind received chast Phæbes lore,
Fain would she at the chace still lag behind:
One sultry noone, as Phæbe sped afore,
Beneath a leafy vine the nymph reclind,
And, Fan my breast, she cried, Oh Western Wind!
Soon as the wish-for word Favonius came.
From that day forth the conscious Nymph declind
The near inspection of the Sovereign Dame;
Till mid the chace, one morne, her throes betrayd her shame.

XL

Her throes with scorne the taunting Dryads eyd,
The Nymph changd colour, and hung down her head;
Still change thy blushing hue, the Goddess cryd:
Forthwith a freezing languor gan invade
Her limbs; and now, with suddein leaves arrayd,
A Russian Poppey she transmed remains;
The various colours ever rise and fade,
The tints still shifting mock the Painters pains;
And still her drowsie mood the beauteous Nymph retains.

XLI

Meanwhile his new-born elfe Favonius bore,
Soft lapt, on balmy pinions farre away;
And with the Fawns, by Peneus flowery shore,
From earlist youth the laughing Imp did play,
For ever fluttering, debonair, and gay,
And restlesse, as the dove Deucalion sent
To spy if peering oake did yet bewray
Its braunching head above the flooded bent;
But ydlie beating round, the day in vain was spent.

XLII

When now the Nymph to riper yeares gan rise,
To fayre Parnassus groves she took her flight;
There, culling flowretts of a thousand dyes,
Still did her head with tawdry girlonds dight;
As soon the wreath ill sorted would she quight:
Ne ever did she climb the twyforkt hill,
Ne could her eyen explore in lofty height,
Ne did she ever taste the sacred rill
From Inspirations fount that ever doth distill.

XLIII

Her sprightly levitie was from her Syre,
Her drowsy dulness from her Mother sprong;
This never would allow her mind aspyre,
That never would allow her patience long,
Thus as she slightly rovd the lawns among,
High Jove beheld her from his starry seat,
And called her Dissipation: Wylde and young
Still shalt Thou be, he said; and this thy fate,
On Man thy sleights employ, on Man that prowd ingrate.

XLIV

All happinesse he claims his virtues due,
And holds him injurd when my care denies
The fondling wish, whence sorrow would ensue;
And idle still his prayers invade my skies:
But bold and arduous must that virtue rise
Which I accept, no vague inconstant blaze.
Then be it Thine to spred before his eyes
Thy changing colours, and thy wyld-fire rays,
And fruitlesse still shall be that virtue thou canst daze.

XLV

So swore the God, by gloomy Styx he swore:
The Fates assented, and the Dæmon flew
Right to the Seats of Men. The robe she wore
Was starrd with dewdrops, and of palest blue;
Faire round her head playd many a beauteous hue,
As when the rainbow through the bean-flowres plays;
The fleeting tints the Swaynes with wonder view,
And ween to snatch a prize beneath the rays;
But through the meadows dank the beauteous meteor strays.

XLVI

So shone the Nymph, and prank in Pleasures guize
With wylie traines the Sonnes of Earth besett;
Goodnesse of Heart before her yawns and dies,
And Friendship ever feels the drowsie fitt
Just when its powre to serve could serve a whitt.
And still behind her march Remorse and Shame,
That never will their yron scourge remitt,
Whenso the Fiend resigns her thralls to them:
Sad case, I weet, where still Oneselfe Oneselfe must blame.

XLVII

Long had the Knight to her his powres resignd;
In wanton dalliance first her nett she spred,
And soon in mirthful tumult on his mind
She softlie stole: yet, while at times he sped
To Contemplations bowre, his sight she fled;
Ne on the mountainett with him durst bide;
Yet homewards still she mett him in the glade,
And in the social cup did slily glide,
And still his best resolve eftsoons she scatterd wide.

XLVIII

And now, as slowly sauntering up the dale
He homeward wends, in heavie musefull stowre,
The smooth Deceiver gan his heart assail;
His heart soon felt the fascinating powre:
Old Cambrias Genius markt the fatal houre,
And tore the girlond from her sea-greene hair.
The conscious oakes above him rustling lowre,
And through the braunches sighs the gloomy air,
As when indignant Jove rejects the Flamens prayer.

XLIX

The Dryads of the Grove, that oft had fird
His opening mind with many a raptured dream,
That oft his evening wanderings had inspird,
All by the silent hill or murmuring stream,
Forsake him now; for all as lost they deem:
So homeward he wends; where, wrapt in jollitie,
His hall to keepen holiday mote seem,
And with the Hunters soon full blythe was he,
The blythest wight of all that blythesome companie.

L

As when th'Autumnal Morne with ruddy hue
Looks through the glen besprent with silver hore,
Across the stubble, brushing off the dew,
The younkling Fowler gins the fieldes explore,
And, wheeling oft, his Pointer veres afore,
And oft, sagacious of the tainted gale,
The fluttering bird betrays; with thondring rore
The shott resounds, loud echoing through the dale;
But still the Younkling kills nor partidge, snipe, nor quail.

LI

Yet still the queint excuse is at command;
The dog was rash, a swallow twittered by,
The gun hung fire, and keenness shook his hand,
And there the wind or bushes hurt his eye.
So can the Knight his mind still satisfye:
A lazie Fiend, Self Imposition hight,
Still whispers some excuse, some gilden lye,
Himself did gild to cheat himselfe outright:
God help the man bewitchd in such ungracious plight.

LII

On Dissipation still this Treachor waits,
Obsequiously behind at distance due;
And still to Discontents accurse gates,
The House of Sorrow, these ungodlie Two,
Conduct their fainty thralls—Great things to do
The Knight resolvd, but never yet could find
The proper time, while still his miseries grew:
And now these Dæmons of the captive mind
Him to the drery Cave of Discontent resignd,

LIII

Deep in the wyldes of Faerie Lond it lay;
Wide was the mouth, the roofe all rudely rent;
Some parts receive, and some exclude the Day,
For deepe beneath the hill its caverns went:
The ragged walls with lightning seemd ybrent,
And loathlie vermin ever crept the flore:
Yet all in sight, with towres and castles gent,
A beauteous lawnskepe rose afore the dore,
The which to view so fayre the Captives grieved sore.

LIV

All by the gate, beneath a pine shade bare,
An owl-frequented bowre, some tents were spred;
Here sat a Throng, with eager furious stare
Rattling the dice; and there, with eyes half dead,
Some drowsie Dronkards, looking black and red,
Dozd out their days: and by the path-way green
A sprightlie Troupe still onward heedlesse sped,
In chace of butterflies alert and keen
Honours, and Wealth, and Powre, their butterflies I ween.

LV

And oft, disgustfull of their various cares,
Into the Cave they wend with sullen pace;
Each to his meet apartment dernly fares:
Here, all in raggs, in piteous plight most bace,
The Dronkard sitts; there, shent with foul disgrace.
The thriftlesse Heir; and o'er his reeking blade
Red with his Friends heart gore, in woefull cace
The Duellist raves; and there, on vetchie bed,
Crazd with his vain pursuits, the Maniack bends his head.

LVI

Yet round his gloomy cell with chalk he scrawls
Ships, coaches, crownes, and eke the gallow tree
All that he wishd or feard his ghastlie walls
Present him still, and mock his miserie.
And there, self-doomd, his cursed selfe to flee,
The Gamester hangs in corner murk and dread;
Nigh to the ground bends his ungratious knee;
His drooping armes and white-reclining head
Lim seen, cold Horror gleams athwart th'unhallowed shade.

LVII

Near the dreare gate, beneath the rifted rock,
The Keeper of the Cave all haggard satt,
His pining corse a restlesse ague shook,
And blistering sores did all his carkas frett:
And with himselfe he seem'd in keen debate;
For still the muscles of his mouth he drew
Ghastly and fell; and still with deepe regrate
He lookd him round, as if his heart did rew
His former deeds, and mournd full sore his sores to view.

LVIII

Yet not Himself, but Heavens Great King he blamd,
And dard his wisdom and his will arraign;
For boldy he the ways of God blasphemd,
And of blind governaunce did loudly plain,
While vild Self-pity would his eyes distain,
As when an Wolfe, entrapt in village ground,
In dread of death ygnaws his limb in twain,
And views with scalding tears his bleeding wound
Such fierce Selfe-pity still this Wights dire portaunce crownd.

LIX

Near by there stood an hamlett in the dale,
Where, in the silver age, Content did wonne;
This now was His: yet all mote nought avail,
His loathing eyes that place did ever shun;
But ever through his Neighbours lawns would run,
Where every goodlie fielde thrice goodlie seemd.
Such was this weary Wight all woe-begone;
Such was his life; and thus of things he deemd;
And such like was his Cave that all with sorrowes teemd.

LX

To this fell Carle gay Dissipation led,
And in his dreary purlieus lest the Knight.
From the dire Cave fain would the Knight have fled,
And fain recalld the treachrous Nymphe from flight
But now the late Obtruder shuns his fight,
And dearly must be wooed: hard by the den,
Where listless Bacchus had his tents ypight,
A transient visit sometimes would he gain,
While Wine and merry Song beguild his inward pain.

LXI

Yet, ever as he reard his slombering head,
The ghastly tyrant at his couch stood near;
And ay with ruthless clamour gan upbraid,
And words that would his very heartstrings tea:
See now, he sayes, where setts thy vain career:
Approaching elde now wings its cheerlesse way,
Thy fruitlesse Autumn gins to blanche thy heare,
And aged Winter asks from Youth its stay;
But thine comes poore of joy, comes with unhonoured gray.

LXII

Thou hast no friend!—still on the worthlesse Traine
Thy kindnesse flowd, and still with scorne repaid;
Even She on whom thy favours heapt remain,
Even she regards thee with a bosome dead
To kindly passion, and by motives led
Such as the Planter of his Negroe deems;
What profit still can of the wretch be made
Is all his care, of more he never dreams:
So, farre remote from her, thy troubles she esteems.

LXIII

Thy Children too! Heavens! what a hopelesse fight!
Ah, wretched Syre!—but ever from this scene
The wretched Syre precipitates his flight,
And in the Bowls wylde fever shuns his teene,
So pass his dayes, while What he might have been
Its beauteous views does every morne present:
So pass his dayes, while still the raven Spleen
Croaks in his eares, The brightest parts mispent
Beget an hoarie age of grief and discontent.

LXIV

But boast not of superiour shrewd addresse,
Ye who can calmly spurn the ruind Mayd,
Ye who unmovd can view the deepe distresse
That crushes to the dust the Parents head,
And rends that easie heart by You betrayd,
Boast not that Ye his numerous woes eskew;
Ye who unawd the Nuptial couch invade,
Boast not his weaknesse with contempt to view;
For worthy is He still compard, perdie, to YOU.