 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
224
CHORAL ODE ON THE EVILS OF LIFE
Οστις του πλεονος μερους.
Sophocles: Œdipus at Colonos.
Alas! that thirst of wealth and power
Should pass the bounds by wisdom laid,
And shun Contentment's mountain-bower,
To chase a false and fleeting shade!
The torrid orb of summer shrouds
Its head in darker, stormier clouds,
Than quenched its vernal glow:
And streams, that meet the expanding sea,
Resign the peace and purity,
That marked their infant flow.
Should pass the bounds by wisdom laid,
And shun Contentment's mountain-bower,
To chase a false and fleeting shade!
225
Its head in darker, stormier clouds,
Than quenched its vernal glow:
And streams, that meet the expanding sea,
Resign the peace and purity,
That marked their infant flow.
Go, seek what joys, serene and deep,
The paths of wealth and power supply!
The eyes no balmy slumbers steep,
The lips own no satiety,
Till, where unpitying Pluto dwells,
And where the turbid Styx impels
Its circling waves along,
The pale ghost treads the flowerless shore,
And hears the unblest sisters pour
Their loveless, lyreless song.
The paths of wealth and power supply!
The eyes no balmy slumbers steep,
The lips own no satiety,
Till, where unpitying Pluto dwells,
And where the turbid Styx impels
Its circling waves along,
The pale ghost treads the flowerless shore,
And hears the unblest sisters pour
Their loveless, lyreless song.
Man's happiest lot is not to be:
And, when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.
From wisdom far, and peace, and truth,
Imprudence leads the steps of youth,
Where ceaseless evils spring:
Toil, frantic passion, deadly strife,
Revenge, and murder's secret knife,
And envy's scorpion sting.
And, when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.
From wisdom far, and peace, and truth,
Imprudence leads the steps of youth,
Where ceaseless evils spring:
Toil, frantic passion, deadly strife,
Revenge, and murder's secret knife,
And envy's scorpion sting.
Age comes—unloved, unsocial age,—
Exposed to fate's severest shock,
As to the ocean-tempest's rage
The bleak and billow-beaten rock.
There ills on ills commingling press:
Morose, unjoying helplessness,
And pain, and slow disease:
As, when the storm of winter raves,
The wild winds rush from all their caves
To swell the northern seas.
Exposed to fate's severest shock,
226
The bleak and billow-beaten rock.
There ills on ills commingling press:
Morose, unjoying helplessness,
And pain, and slow disease:
As, when the storm of winter raves,
The wild winds rush from all their caves
To swell the northern seas.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |