Poems on Several Occasions By Thomas Gilbert |
 |
|
|
|
|
The Second Epistle of the First Book of Horace imitated. First published in 1741–2.
|
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
217
The Second Epistle of the First Book of Horace imitated. First published in 1741–2.
While you, dear Paulus, sacrifice your rest,
To plead in noisy courts for worth distress'd;
Or, bold in senates for the public cause,
Revive our injur'd country's dying laws;
Watch o'er the growth of pow'r with zealous eye,
And unexcis'd preserve our liberty:
From all the vanities of life retir'd
To Cam's fair banks, where Spenser lay inspir'd,
I read with rapture Homer's sacred page,
Whose strong description glows with martial rage.
Whose nervous lines, with wisdom fraught, impart
Those virtues, which adorn or mend the heart;
With greater force the moral rules explain,
Than Whitfield's cant, or Clarke's pathetic strain.
But, left you think this doctrine too severe,
My reasons, Paulus, if at leisure, hear.
Fair Helen's charms, that kindled fierce desire
In Paris' breast, and set the world on fire,
For ever bloom in his immortal strains,
Whose fable with such energy contains
The zeal of foolish monarchs mad with pride,
The mob's wild tumult, like a rapid tide.
To plead in noisy courts for worth distress'd;
Or, bold in senates for the public cause,
Revive our injur'd country's dying laws;
Watch o'er the growth of pow'r with zealous eye,
And unexcis'd preserve our liberty:
From all the vanities of life retir'd
To Cam's fair banks, where Spenser lay inspir'd,
I read with rapture Homer's sacred page,
Whose strong description glows with martial rage.
218
Those virtues, which adorn or mend the heart;
With greater force the moral rules explain,
Than Whitfield's cant, or Clarke's pathetic strain.
But, left you think this doctrine too severe,
My reasons, Paulus, if at leisure, hear.
Fair Helen's charms, that kindled fierce desire
In Paris' breast, and set the world on fire,
219
Whose fable with such energy contains
The zeal of foolish monarchs mad with pride,
The mob's wild tumult, like a rapid tide.
Antenor his dear country's fate deplor'd,
And said the fatal fair should be restor'd;
But peevish Paris, obstinately wrong,
Detain'd the blooming theme of Homer's song.
The sage of Pylos eloquently show'd,
What dire effects from civil discord flow'd.
From love's soft passion equal evil springs,
To the rash violence of lawless kings.
All the foul vices of an earthly God
Prove to the meanest slave an iron rod.
Sedition, dark deceit, and burning lust,
Corruption, violence, and breach of trust,
On courtier, citizen, and templar seize,
And spread o'er all the land the rank disease.
Again Ulysses' bright example tells,
What good in wisdom, and in virtue dwells;
Who left Troy's smoaking ruins to explore
The men and manners of a distant shore;
Rough toil encounter'd with a steady soul,
Which pleasure could not melt, nor fear controul.
You know the fable of the syren's strain,
And Circe's feast, that charm'd the thoughtless train;
But, had her soothing arts allur'd his soul
To taste the banquet, or partake the bowl,
The sage had dwindled to as low a thing,
As G---h in senates, or some modern king.
But we seem mortals of another race,
The sons of luxury, contempt, disgrace;
Soft as Phœacian
fops, who turn'd their care
To mend a feature, or adjust a hair:
Mere pimps, and revellers of Comus' court,
Where beaux' in muffs, fools, parasites resort;
All the lewd tribe of prodigals undone,
Who, steep'd in vice, sleep down a summer's fun,
And by soft music, languishingly slow,
Detain the drowsy God from realms below.
Shall dark assassins, for a golden prize,
Amidst the sable gloom of night arise?
And will no danger break your calm repose,
No friend's misfortune, or your country's woes?
Nor e'en that high regard, which patriots feel
For Vernon's safety, and the public weal!
When no malignant fever fires the brain,
And health luxuriant revels in each vein,
Tho' sunk in sloth, from all diseases free,
In dropsies, you will run to Reeve or Lee.
Soon as Aurora dawns, some book peruse,
That treats of subjects pleasing, yet of use!
To charm each wand'ring thought from envy's rage,
Or love, that tyrant o'er our blooming age.
Whate'er offends the sight we shun with haste,
And shall the mind's disease for ever last?
Dare to begin, and half your work is done:
Plain reason tells us what to seek, or shun.
Whoe'er delays to live by reason's rule,
Waits on the river's bank, like nature's fool;
With visionary hope, like courtiers fed,
He thought the stream would leave its ouzy bed;
But still the sacred spring for ever glides
Thro' flow'ry meadows, with revolving tides.
Wealth, beauty, children, are the joys of life,
That make each mortal happy in a wife:
Patient of cold we tame the stubborn plain,
And pant beneath the noon-tide heat for gain.
Why should we wish for more? If fortune grants
That competence, which modest nature wants:
Except that Godlike pleasure to bestow
On friends who sink beneath a weight of woe.
Not all the splendor, which the world admire,
The pride of life, each object of desire,
From burning fevers can preserve their lord,
Or to the wounded spirit ease afford.
Still W---e's conscience throbs beneath a star,
And shakes his fabric with intestine war;
Our country's wrongs sit heavy on his breast,
And, like Macbeth, his guilt has murder'd rest;
Exalted on the top of fortune's wheel,
He wants that peace, which men of virtue feel.
Wealth is but vain, if gout, or stone annoy;
'Tis health alone that gives us to enjoy.
Who live dependant slaves to hope or fear,
To them life's greatest blessings will appear
As Kneller's pictures to a German race,
Or Ward's specific in a gouty case!
To such Belinda's melody of voice,
With Handel's music, seems a grating noise.
And said the fatal fair should be restor'd;
But peevish Paris, obstinately wrong,
Detain'd the blooming theme of Homer's song.
220
What dire effects from civil discord flow'd.
From love's soft passion equal evil springs,
To the rash violence of lawless kings.
All the foul vices of an earthly God
Prove to the meanest slave an iron rod.
Sedition, dark deceit, and burning lust,
Corruption, violence, and breach of trust,
On courtier, citizen, and templar seize,
And spread o'er all the land the rank disease.
221
What good in wisdom, and in virtue dwells;
Who left Troy's smoaking ruins to explore
The men and manners of a distant shore;
Rough toil encounter'd with a steady soul,
Which pleasure could not melt, nor fear controul.
222
And Circe's feast, that charm'd the thoughtless train;
But, had her soothing arts allur'd his soul
To taste the banquet, or partake the bowl,
The sage had dwindled to as low a thing,
As G---h in senates, or some modern king.
But we seem mortals of another race,
The sons of luxury, contempt, disgrace;
223
To mend a feature, or adjust a hair:
Mere pimps, and revellers of Comus' court,
Where beaux' in muffs, fools, parasites resort;
All the lewd tribe of prodigals undone,
Who, steep'd in vice, sleep down a summer's fun,
And by soft music, languishingly slow,
Detain the drowsy God from realms below.
224
Amidst the sable gloom of night arise?
And will no danger break your calm repose,
No friend's misfortune, or your country's woes?
Nor e'en that high regard, which patriots feel
For Vernon's safety, and the public weal!
When no malignant fever fires the brain,
And health luxuriant revels in each vein,
Tho' sunk in sloth, from all diseases free,
In dropsies, you will run to Reeve or Lee.
225
That treats of subjects pleasing, yet of use!
To charm each wand'ring thought from envy's rage,
Or love, that tyrant o'er our blooming age.
Whate'er offends the sight we shun with haste,
And shall the mind's disease for ever last?
Dare to begin, and half your work is done:
Plain reason tells us what to seek, or shun.
226
Waits on the river's bank, like nature's fool;
With visionary hope, like courtiers fed,
He thought the stream would leave its ouzy bed;
But still the sacred spring for ever glides
Thro' flow'ry meadows, with revolving tides.
Wealth, beauty, children, are the joys of life,
That make each mortal happy in a wife:
Patient of cold we tame the stubborn plain,
And pant beneath the noon-tide heat for gain.
227
That competence, which modest nature wants:
Except that Godlike pleasure to bestow
On friends who sink beneath a weight of woe.
Not all the splendor, which the world admire,
The pride of life, each object of desire,
From burning fevers can preserve their lord,
Or to the wounded spirit ease afford.
Still W---e's conscience throbs beneath a star,
And shakes his fabric with intestine war;
228
And, like Macbeth, his guilt has murder'd rest;
Exalted on the top of fortune's wheel,
He wants that peace, which men of virtue feel.
Wealth is but vain, if gout, or stone annoy;
'Tis health alone that gives us to enjoy.
Who live dependant slaves to hope or fear,
To them life's greatest blessings will appear
As Kneller's pictures to a German race,
Or Ward's specific in a gouty case!
229
With Handel's music, seems a grating noise.
In vain philosophers their rules define,
Except their pupils breathe a soul divine.
Youth's fleeting pleasures leave a sting behind;
And want eternal racks the miser's mind.
With bold rebuke each wild desire restrain,
Nor let another's bliss create your pain.
No tyrant can a greater plague invent,
Than restless envy, foe to calm content.
Who lets each sudden gust of passion rise,
And, like a tempest, mingles earth and skies;
Thro' various scenes, some rash exploit will mourn,
And trace repentant sorrow to his urn.
Rage is a short-liv'd madness, that requires
The firmest curb to check its warm desires;
So strong an impulse can no medium have,
But reigns a tyrant, or becomes a slave.
Who knows with skill the fiery steed to rule,
While young, will train his spirit in the school;
And tender hounds their infant voices try,
Before they join the chorus of the cry.
Except their pupils breathe a soul divine.
Youth's fleeting pleasures leave a sting behind;
And want eternal racks the miser's mind.
With bold rebuke each wild desire restrain,
Nor let another's bliss create your pain.
230
Than restless envy, foe to calm content.
Who lets each sudden gust of passion rise,
And, like a tempest, mingles earth and skies;
Thro' various scenes, some rash exploit will mourn,
And trace repentant sorrow to his urn.
Rage is a short-liv'd madness, that requires
The firmest curb to check its warm desires;
So strong an impulse can no medium have,
But reigns a tyrant, or becomes a slave.
231
While young, will train his spirit in the school;
And tender hounds their infant voices try,
Before they join the chorus of the cry.
Now, in the bloom of your untainted youth,
Imbibe the precepts of unerring truth!
Such early principles will ever last,
Like season'd vessels that preserve the taste
Of their first tincture; but if you remain
Supinely slothful, and the prize disdain,
Or rush impetuous o'er the dusty plain;
I will not emulate the glorious strife,
But save my distance in the course of life.
Imbibe the precepts of unerring truth!
Such early principles will ever last,
Like season'd vessels that preserve the taste
232
Supinely slothful, and the prize disdain,
Or rush impetuous o'er the dusty plain;
I will not emulate the glorious strife,
But save my distance in the course of life.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |