The Dance of Life A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson |
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PROLOGUE. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
 | The Dance of Life |  |
PROLOGUE.
LIFE!—How stupendous is the thought!
With what mysterious matter fraught;
For, in its sphere, it doth embrace
The wonders of the Human Race.
From the first hour when Time began,
By power divine, to flow for man,
We see the History is the same:
The thirst of rule, the love of fame;
The sacrifice of ease and health
To gain the shining stores of wealth;
The laurel wreath by blood obtain'd,
And mighty kingdoms lost and gain'd.
Changes and chances take their course,
From good to bad, from bad to worse;
And then revert—such is their mood,
From worse to bad, from bad to good.
The Hermit's cave, th'imperial throne,
Alike their fretful influence own.
Virtue and Vice have each their rules,
To make men wise, and pamper fools.
Thus Man, upon Time's boist'rous main,
Is toss'd by joy, or sunk by pain.
The Passions, by their strong controul,
Or agitate or calm the soul;
And, by their never-failing strife,
Display the colouring of Life.
The breezy coolness that doth cheat
The Summer's noontide of its heat,
The lightnings flash, the rolling storm
The sky's æthereal Blue deform:
The Eastern blight's destroying doom
Robs vernal beauty of its bloom;
And driven snow, in silver shower,
Enlightens Winter's darksome hour.
With what mysterious matter fraught;
For, in its sphere, it doth embrace
The wonders of the Human Race.
From the first hour when Time began,
By power divine, to flow for man,
We see the History is the same:
The thirst of rule, the love of fame;
The sacrifice of ease and health
To gain the shining stores of wealth;
The laurel wreath by blood obtain'd,
And mighty kingdoms lost and gain'd.
2
From good to bad, from bad to worse;
And then revert—such is their mood,
From worse to bad, from bad to good.
The Hermit's cave, th'imperial throne,
Alike their fretful influence own.
Virtue and Vice have each their rules,
To make men wise, and pamper fools.
Thus Man, upon Time's boist'rous main,
Is toss'd by joy, or sunk by pain.
The Passions, by their strong controul,
Or agitate or calm the soul;
And, by their never-failing strife,
Display the colouring of Life.
The breezy coolness that doth cheat
The Summer's noontide of its heat,
The lightnings flash, the rolling storm
The sky's æthereal Blue deform:
The Eastern blight's destroying doom
Robs vernal beauty of its bloom;
And driven snow, in silver shower,
Enlightens Winter's darksome hour.
3
Thus, thus will man do right or err,
Nor deviate from his character:
And while some most submissive yield,
To every Imp in Folly's field,
Others acquire the blest condition
To conquer Love and starve Ambition;
Two passions which require, 'tis true,
Something like Wisdom to subdue.
'Tis thus that motley man appears
In early life and fading years.
Nor deviate from his character:
And while some most submissive yield,
To every Imp in Folly's field,
Others acquire the blest condition
To conquer Love and starve Ambition;
Two passions which require, 'tis true,
Something like Wisdom to subdue.
'Tis thus that motley man appears
In early life and fading years.
Doctrines indeed, may change their name,
But then their tenour is the same:
Indeed, so wise and sage their rules,
One wonders there are any fools;
And then we're call'd to wonder more,
When we see Folly at threescore.
Are there not those whose care pursues,
What, if possess'd, they cannot use;
While such there are, whose silly pride
What they could use will throw aside:
But 'tis not right alone to tell
Of things that do with Folly dwell;
Which the weak parts of man expose,
And where the stream of error flows.
Why should we chaunt the languid lay,
That Lux'ry sings through Fashion's day?
Why should we join the painted train,
The croud where sick'ning pleasures reign;
Or, as time rolls its hours along,
Be list'ning to the Syren's song?
Or seek the couch where pining wealth,
On velvet laid, calls out for health
Lost 'midst excess, but calls in vain,
Nor finds that gold can cure his pain.
But these are scenes which, to the eye,
Present their vast variety;
And he who paints Life's picture true,
Must hold up to the Gazer's view.
But then their tenour is the same:
Indeed, so wise and sage their rules,
One wonders there are any fools;
And then we're call'd to wonder more,
When we see Folly at threescore.
Are there not those whose care pursues,
What, if possess'd, they cannot use;
While such there are, whose silly pride
What they could use will throw aside:
4
Of things that do with Folly dwell;
Which the weak parts of man expose,
And where the stream of error flows.
Why should we chaunt the languid lay,
That Lux'ry sings through Fashion's day?
Why should we join the painted train,
The croud where sick'ning pleasures reign;
Or, as time rolls its hours along,
Be list'ning to the Syren's song?
Or seek the couch where pining wealth,
On velvet laid, calls out for health
Lost 'midst excess, but calls in vain,
Nor finds that gold can cure his pain.
But these are scenes which, to the eye,
Present their vast variety;
And he who paints Life's picture true,
Must hold up to the Gazer's view.
But still the higher duties move,
To trace the philosophic grove,
Which Wisdom's sons are known to love:
Where studious thought delights to plan
The happiness of social man;
And, passion's active flame suppress'd,
To plant each virtue in the breast.
Nor should we pass the secret cell,
Where lonely Science loves to dwell,
Pleas'd, from its lamp, to cast the ray
That lights the mind's beclouded day.
Nor can we fail with awe to bless
That certain source of happiness,
The altar's form on which we read
The good man's hope, the Christian's creed;
Tells the best joys to mortals given,
And shews the path that leads to Heaven.
To trace the philosophic grove,
Which Wisdom's sons are known to love:
5
The happiness of social man;
And, passion's active flame suppress'd,
To plant each virtue in the breast.
Nor should we pass the secret cell,
Where lonely Science loves to dwell,
Pleas'd, from its lamp, to cast the ray
That lights the mind's beclouded day.
Nor can we fail with awe to bless
That certain source of happiness,
The altar's form on which we read
The good man's hope, the Christian's creed;
Tells the best joys to mortals given,
And shews the path that leads to Heaven.
Thus we may trace, with thought refin'd,
The progress of th'immortal mind;
From the young smile, the speaking eye,
The struggling tongue of Infancy,
Through childhood's fair, unconscious hour,
To the first dawnings of the power,
When Reason beams, with genial ray,
To bring on intellectual day.
So youth proceeds, on Nature's plan,
To gain the character of man.
O then farewell to fairy fields,
And many a flower that fancy yields,
To climb, through varying pain and ease,
Th'ascent of Time by due degrees;
While Virtue dignifies the care
That mortal man is doom'd to bear.
The patriot's toil, the victor's crown
With honour sought, by honour won;
And all the wide extending powers
That govern Life's most active hours.
At length the Patriarch's hoary age
Displays the venerable sage,
Who waits, each virtuous course pursued,
The recompense of being good.
The progress of th'immortal mind;
From the young smile, the speaking eye,
The struggling tongue of Infancy,
Through childhood's fair, unconscious hour,
To the first dawnings of the power,
When Reason beams, with genial ray,
To bring on intellectual day.
6
To gain the character of man.
O then farewell to fairy fields,
And many a flower that fancy yields,
To climb, through varying pain and ease,
Th'ascent of Time by due degrees;
While Virtue dignifies the care
That mortal man is doom'd to bear.
The patriot's toil, the victor's crown
With honour sought, by honour won;
And all the wide extending powers
That govern Life's most active hours.
At length the Patriarch's hoary age
Displays the venerable sage,
Who waits, each virtuous course pursued,
The recompense of being good.
Here it were well—if, in the scene,
No uncouth shapes should intervene,
But he who paints to nature true,
Must take all objects in his view:
The good, the ill, or sense or folly,
Light-footed joy, and melancholy,
Upon the canvas claim a place
For truth, in order due, to trace,
Hope's angel form and grim despair,
And saints and sinners must be there.
No uncouth shapes should intervene,
But he who paints to nature true,
Must take all objects in his view:
7
Light-footed joy, and melancholy,
Upon the canvas claim a place
For truth, in order due, to trace,
Hope's angel form and grim despair,
And saints and sinners must be there.
Thus will the mental artist scan
The changeful state and powers of man:
Each various being will display
Inform'd with Life and Reason's ray;
And his weak, feebler force combine
With strength and energy divine.
He views him groveling, sad and low,
The child of misery and woe:
Anon he sees him rich and great,
Clothed in the plenitude of state.
The lights and shades, in contrast due,
Relieve each other in the view:
Alike the moral painter's part
T'obey the rules of studious art;
Thus to attract the mental eye
With height'ning variety;—
And as the pencil truly gives
Each form that on the canvas lives,
To make his pen adopt the plan,
In picturing the mind of man.
Oft must he quit the tow'ring aim
Of wisdom, and the boast of fame
To view the sport where folly plays
And courts the flatt'rer's empty praise.
The labourer who tills the soil,
Whose bread is gain'd by daily toil;
The humble home within the dale,
Which no rude storms of Life assail,
Present their subjects to the eye,
As chance unfolds the scenery.
The lofty turrets too must share
His contemplation's watchful care,
Where the old halls with banners gay,
The pride of ancient times display:
He too, in modern domes will trace
Bright Fashion's more luxuriant grace:
While at the costly sumptuous board,
Some Dives rules, the pamper'd Lord:
But even there the eye may see
The heaven-born form of Charity:
E'en in those scenes where lux'ry reigns,
The ear attends when man complains.
In ev'ry corner of our Isle
The kind and healing virtues smile;
And pining penury commands
The melting hearts, the op'ning hands:
There, if a Lazarus asks for bread,
The humble mendicant is fed.
The changeful state and powers of man:
Each various being will display
Inform'd with Life and Reason's ray;
And his weak, feebler force combine
With strength and energy divine.
He views him groveling, sad and low,
The child of misery and woe:
Anon he sees him rich and great,
Clothed in the plenitude of state.
The lights and shades, in contrast due,
Relieve each other in the view:
Alike the moral painter's part
T'obey the rules of studious art;
Thus to attract the mental eye
With height'ning variety;—
8
Each form that on the canvas lives,
To make his pen adopt the plan,
In picturing the mind of man.
Oft must he quit the tow'ring aim
Of wisdom, and the boast of fame
To view the sport where folly plays
And courts the flatt'rer's empty praise.
The labourer who tills the soil,
Whose bread is gain'd by daily toil;
The humble home within the dale,
Which no rude storms of Life assail,
Present their subjects to the eye,
As chance unfolds the scenery.
The lofty turrets too must share
His contemplation's watchful care,
Where the old halls with banners gay,
The pride of ancient times display:
He too, in modern domes will trace
Bright Fashion's more luxuriant grace:
While at the costly sumptuous board,
Some Dives rules, the pamper'd Lord:
9
The heaven-born form of Charity:
E'en in those scenes where lux'ry reigns,
The ear attends when man complains.
In ev'ry corner of our Isle
The kind and healing virtues smile;
And pining penury commands
The melting hearts, the op'ning hands:
There, if a Lazarus asks for bread,
The humble mendicant is fed.
Fancy, who with her playful power,
Bedecks the scene with many a flower;
Smiles on the view so fair and gay,
And frolics in the sweets of May;
Will, 'midst its joys, be forc'd to fly
From the dark threat'nings of the sky,
And leave its fairy work undone
When murky clouds obscure the sun.
—The Passions too, in their degrees,
As they distract, or charm, or please,
To keen reflection's view arise,
In rude or soften'd energies.
Firm Friendship's bright unsullied flame
That burns and ever is the same;
Vengeance, with threat'ning fury arm'd,
And Fear, at its own voice alarm'd,
And Patience, that so often bears
Th'o'erflowing vase of bitter tears;
Courage, that will not be subdued,
And the stern force of Fortitude;
Pride, that displays the demi-god
Amid the croud that courts its nod;
And all the joys and pangs that move
The heart which feels the wounds of Love:
Contrition, that is ever found
Fixing its pale looks on the ground;
And Faith, that turns her stedfast eyes
To happier worlds and brighter skies.
Bedecks the scene with many a flower;
Smiles on the view so fair and gay,
And frolics in the sweets of May;
Will, 'midst its joys, be forc'd to fly
From the dark threat'nings of the sky,
And leave its fairy work undone
When murky clouds obscure the sun.
—The Passions too, in their degrees,
As they distract, or charm, or please,
10
In rude or soften'd energies.
Firm Friendship's bright unsullied flame
That burns and ever is the same;
Vengeance, with threat'ning fury arm'd,
And Fear, at its own voice alarm'd,
And Patience, that so often bears
Th'o'erflowing vase of bitter tears;
Courage, that will not be subdued,
And the stern force of Fortitude;
Pride, that displays the demi-god
Amid the croud that courts its nod;
And all the joys and pangs that move
The heart which feels the wounds of Love:
Contrition, that is ever found
Fixing its pale looks on the ground;
And Faith, that turns her stedfast eyes
To happier worlds and brighter skies.
Thus through sorrow and through pleasure,
Life moves in ev'ry various measure;
To harmonies unheard, 'tis true,
Nor e'er presented to the view
Of mortal vision, yet the mind,
By sense of higher things refined,
Can see the parts which form the whole,
In regular confusion roll;
Can well explain Time's passing day,
Checquer'd with clouds and beaming ray;
Can the æthereal spirit trace
That elevates the human race;
The maze of nature dares to scan,
And thus, through Life, to picture man.
Life moves in ev'ry various measure;
11
Nor e'er presented to the view
Of mortal vision, yet the mind,
By sense of higher things refined,
Can see the parts which form the whole,
In regular confusion roll;
Can well explain Time's passing day,
Checquer'd with clouds and beaming ray;
Can the æthereal spirit trace
That elevates the human race;
The maze of nature dares to scan,
And thus, through Life, to picture man.
Such is the task to him assign'd,
Who paints the features of the mind:
Such is the tale so often told,
With forms we ev'ry day behold.
The transient figures dance along,
To sober strain or lively song,
In the same measure o'er and o'er
As our great grandsires did before.
Who paints the features of the mind:
Such is the tale so often told,
With forms we ev'ry day behold.
The transient figures dance along,
To sober strain or lively song,
In the same measure o'er and o'er
As our great grandsires did before.
12
No novelties beneath the sun,
The wise man says, are seen or done;
Nor do we aim at ought that's new—
Content, if what is told, be true.
If but the moral painter's art
Should, by its pictures, mend the heart;
Turn the too heedless steps of youth
From devious paths in search of truth:
Content to wake the careless thought
To think the very thing it ought;
To combat Passion's fierce controul,
And calm the hurries of the soul;
Vice, with its gorgon terrors crown,
On manhood's brow to plant the frown
Of stern contempt for Folly's train,
With Pride's array, and Fashion's reign:
Content, if Virtue's struggling form
Disdainful of the adverse storm,
Confirms the heart, yet unsubdued,
In the pure love of what is good.
The wise man says, are seen or done;
Nor do we aim at ought that's new—
Content, if what is told, be true.
If but the moral painter's art
Should, by its pictures, mend the heart;
Turn the too heedless steps of youth
From devious paths in search of truth:
Content to wake the careless thought
To think the very thing it ought;
To combat Passion's fierce controul,
And calm the hurries of the soul;
Vice, with its gorgon terrors crown,
On manhood's brow to plant the frown
Of stern contempt for Folly's train,
With Pride's array, and Fashion's reign:
Content, if Virtue's struggling form
Disdainful of the adverse storm,
Confirms the heart, yet unsubdued,
In the pure love of what is good.
| The Dance of Life | |