K003605.000.txt

THE LOVE OF GAIN: A POEM.IMITATED FROM THE THIRTEENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.Oh! thou sweet King-killer, and dear Divorce'Twixt natural Son and Sire! thou bright DefilerOf Hymen's purest Bed! thou valiant Mars!Thou ever-loved, fresh, young, and delicate Wooer,Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snowThat lies on Dian's lap!SHAKESPEARE.By M. G. LEWIS, ESQ. M. P. AUTHOR OF THE MONK, CASTLE-SPECTRE, ETC.LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. BELL, NO. 148, OXFORD-STREET.1799.TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES JAMES FOX,THE following Lines are respectfully inscribed, as a trifling Mark of the Veneration in which I hold his Talents and Character, and which his present Retirement from Public Life gives me an Opportunity thus to declare without running the Hazard of subjecting myself to Party Censure.M. G. LEWIS.January 28th, 1799.THE LOVE OF GAIN.JUVENAL.SATIRE THE THIRTEENTH. EXEMPLO quodcunque malo committitur, ipsiDisplicet auctori. Prima est haec ultio, quod, seJudice, nemo nocens absolvitur, improba quamvisGratia fallaci Praetoris vicerit urna. Quid sentire putas omnes, Calvine, recentiDe scelere, & fidei violatae crimine? sed necTam tenuis census tibi contigit, ut mediocrisJacturae te mergat onus: nec rara videmus,Quae pateris. Casus multis hic cognitus, ac jamTritus, & è medio Fortunae ductus acervo.Ponamus nimios gemitus: flagrantior aequoNon debet dolor esse viri, nec vulnere major.Tu, quamvis levium minimam, exiguamque malorumParticulam vix ferre potes, spumantibus ardensVisceribus, sacrum tibi quod non reddat amicusDepositum. Stupet haec, qui jam post terga reliquitSexaginta annos, Fontejo Consule natus?An nihil in melius tot rerum proficit usu?Magna quidem, sacris quae dat praecepta libellis,Victrix Fortunae Sapientia. Ducimus autemHos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitae,Nec jactare jugum vitâ didicere magistrâ, Quae tam festa dies, ut cesset prodere furem,Persidiam, fraudes, atque omne ex crimine lucrumQuaesitum, et partos gladio, vel pyxide nummos?Rari quippe boni: numerus vix est totidem, quotThebarum portae, vel divitis ostia Nili.Nona aetas agitur, pejoraque secula ferriTemporibus: quorum sceleri non invenit ipsaNomen, & à nullo posuit Natura metallo. Nos hominum Divùmque fidem clamore ciemus,Quanto Faesidium laudat vocalis agentemSportula. Die senior bullâ, dignissime, nescis,Quas habeat Veneres aliena pecunia? nescis,Quem tua simplicitas risum vulgo moveat, cumExigis à quoquam, ne pejeret: & putet ullisEsse aliquod numen templis, araeque rubenti?Quondam hoc Indigenae vivebant more, prius quamSumeret agrestem posito diademate falcemSaturnus fugiens. Tunc, cum virguncula Juno,Et privatus adhuc Idaeis Jupiter antris. Nunc, si depositum non inficietur amicus,Si reddat veterem cum tota aerugine follem,Prodigiosa fides, & Tuscis digna libellis,Quaeque coronatâ lustrari debeat agnâ. Egregium, sanctumque virum si cerno, bimembriHoc monstrum puero, vel mirandis sub aratroPiscibus inventis, & foetae comparo mulae. Intercepta decem quaereris sestertia fraudeSacrilegâ? quid si bis centum perdidit alterHoc arcana modo Tam facile & pronum est superos contemnere testes,Si mortalis idem nemo sciat! adspice, quantaVoce neget, quae sit ficti constantia vultus? Si vero & pater est: "Comedam," inquit, "flebile gnatiSinciput elixi." Sunt in Fortunae qui casibus omnia ponant,Et nullo credant mundum rectore moveri,Naturâ volvente vices & lucis, & anni,Atque ideo intrepidi quaecunque altaria tangunt. Est alius metuens ne crimen poena sequatur.Hic putat esse Deos, & pejerat, atque ita secum: Decernat quodcumque volet de corpore nostroIsis, & irato feriat mea lumina sistro,Dummodo vel coecus teneam, quos abnego, nummos. Ut sit magna, tamen certè Ienta ira Deorum est. —Sed & exorabile NumenFortasse experiar. Solet his ignoscere. MultiCommittunt eadem diverso crimina fato.Ille crucem pretium sceleris tulit, hic diadema. Sic animum dirae trepidum formidine culpaeConfirmant. Tunc te sacra ad delubra vocantemPraecedit, trahere imo ultro ac vexare paratus.Nam cùm magna malae superest audacia causae,Creditur à multis fiducia. Tu miser exclamas, ut Stentora vincere possis,Vel potiùs quantùm Gradivus Homericus. Accipe quae contrà valeat solatia ferreEt qui nec Cynicos, nec Stoïca dogmata legitA Cynicis tunicâ distantia; non EpicurumSuspicit exigui laetum plantaribus horti. Curentur dubii Medicis majoribus aegri:Tu venam vel discipulo committe Philippi. Si nullum in terris tam detestabile factumOstendis, taceo, nec pugnis caedere pectusTe veto, nec planâ faciem contundere palmâ;Quandoquidem accepto claudenda est janua damno,Et majore domûs gemitu, majore tumultuPlanguntur nummi, quàm funera. —Nemo doloremFingit in hoc casu, vestem diducere summamContentus, vexare oculos humore coacto.Ploratur lacrymis amissa pecunia veris. Sed si cuncta vides simili fora plena querelâTen' O Delicias extra communia censesPonendum; quia tu gallinae filius albae. Rem pateris modicam, & mediocri bile ferendam,Si flectas oculos majora ad crimina. Haec quota pars scelerum, quae custos Gallicus urbisUsque à Lucifero, donec lux occidat, audit?Humani generis mores tibi nosse volentiSufficit una domus. Nullane perjuri capitis, fraudisque nefandaePoena erit? Abreptum crede hunc graviore catenâProtinus, & nostro (quid plus velit ira?) necari Arbitrio. Manet illa tamen jactura, nec unquamDepositum tibi sospes erit. Sed corpore truncoInvidiosa dabit minimus solatia sanguis. At vindicta bonum vitâ jucundius ipsâ. —Quippe minutiSemper & infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas,Ultio. —Cur tamen hos tuEvasisse putes, quos diri conscia factiMens habet attonitos, et surdo verbere caedit,Occultum quatiente animo tortore flagellum? Poena autem vehemens ac multò saevior illisQuas & Caeditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus,Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem. Perpetua anxietas nec mensae tempore cessat,Faucibus ut morbo siccis, interque molaresDifficili crescente cibo: sed vina misellusExspuit. Nocte brevem si fortè indulsit cura soporem,Et toto versata toro jam membra quiescunt,Continuò templum, & violati Numinus aras,Et (quod praecipuis mentem sudoribus urget)Te videt in somnis. Tua sacra & major imagoHumaná turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri. Hi sunt qui trepidant, & ad omnia fulgura pallent,Cùm tonat, exanimes primo quoque murmure coeli;Non quasi fortuitus, nec ventorum rabie, sed,Iratus cadat in terras, & vindicet ignis. Illa nihil nocuit, curâ graviore timeturProxima tempestas; velut hoc dilata sereno. Praetereà, lateris vigili cum febre doloremSi coepere pati, missum ad sua corpora morbumInfesto credunt à Numine; saxa Deorum Haec, & tela putant. Pecudem spondere sacelloBalantem & Laribus cristam promittere galliNon audent. Quid enim sperare nocentibus aegrisConcessum? Cùm scelus admittunt, superest constantia: quid fas,Atque nefas, tandem incipiunt sentire peractis Criminibus. Tamen ad mores natura recurritDamnatos, fixa & mutari nescia. Nam quisPeccandi finem posuit sibi! quando recepitEjectum semel attritâ de fronte ruborem?Quisnam hominum est, quem tu contentum videris unoFlagitio? Dabit in laqueum vestigia nosterPerfidus, & nigri patietur carceris uncum. —Tandemque fatebere laetusNec surdum, nec Tiresiam quenquam esse Deorum.THE LOVE OF GAIN.EMILIUS—THE AUTHOR.THE AUTHOR.THOUGH oft the heart, when raging passions storm,To Vice we kneel, and fain would veil her form,Her native darkness ever mocks disguise,And crimes look foul, e'en in their author's eyes.Here the first mark of heav'nly vengeance view;Vice, false to others, to herself is true!When the pack'd jury, and the quibbled flawDelude the eye, and lame the arm of law;When Erskine's wit the culprit-client saves,And fraud unscourged offended justice braves; Still is the wretch in private doom'd to hearFrom his own heart a verdict more severe.
There dwells a judge, whose voice no bribe can pay,No party silence, and no flattery sway;The sinner shrinks, before himself arraign'd,And almost sorrows, that his cause is gain'd.Nor does his guilt himself alone disgust;The world condemns, for here the world is just:Unpunish'd crimes still shock the public ear,And crimes unpunish'd doubly foul appear.Then why, Emilius, thus in furious strainOf broken faith, and laws corrupt complain?Less warmth, my testy friend; more justly soundYour injury's depth, nor call your scratch a wound.With plenteous store by Fortune's bounty blest,Of bonds, and stock, and fertile lands possest,Your loss is trifling, and so trite your case,Scarce in the public prints 'twill find a place.While, then, we mark your breast with passion rise,Your trembling lips, clench'd hands, and flashing eyes,When ask'd the cause, how poor the answer sounds,"A friend is false! I've lost a thousand pounds."—
A friend is false? Does that amaze the eyeWhich lately saw its sixtieth year go by?Has age then bleach'd your raven locks in vain,Impair'd your limbs, and not matur'd your brain?Oh! mourn your dross no more: with tears lamentYour mind unfurnish'd, and your time mispent.Blest is the man, whom philosophic loreBeyond proud Fortune's reach has taught to soar; Who, when she frowns, her falshood not reviles,Nor boasts her favour when the harlot smiles.Nor him less happy count, whose years have boughtPrecious experience, and deep-searching thought,Wisdom to know all bliss is insecure,Courage to hope, and patience to endure.Say, loud complainant, does the rolling yearPresent one day from fraud or knavery clear,Whose spotless White no thefts, no murders stain,Writing in blood man's damning lust for gain?In vain you search:—yet still the search pursue,Examine men, and find of good how few!
So few, alas! that if that guilt to flyWhich daily, hourly, here disgusts the eye,The just resolv'd to leave the British strand,And seek some distant less polluted land,The whole fair troop away with ease might bearMy lord-mayor's barge, and still have room to spare.Now let the iron age no more be blam'd;Blest should its memory be, when ours is nam'd,For which no bard can find in nature's pageSo base a metal as would mark the age!Yet though ourselves still sin, not less we blameOur neighbour's sin, and, when he errs, exclaimLouder than fishwives scold, or asses bray,Or Vapid puffs his own dry dull damn'd play!All-hail, mouth-virtue! at your altar bendEach canting hypocrite, and perjur'd friend;Spare Lovegold sees his houshold god in you,Who cost no sixpence, and who seem Peru!Boy-witted Elder! must thou still be told,No sorcerer's spell can witch an heart like gold?
That in each guinea conqu'ring Cupids swarm,And Venus less than good King George can charm?Hear you not, how the rude but wiser crowdMock your simplicity with laughter loud,When raving about faith, and virtuous dread,And lightnings destin'd for each perjur'd head,You hope the traitor (by your threats dismay'd)Will keep the promise, which he can evade?If such things were, 'twas sure ere Adam fell,Or Eve lost Eden for a nonpareil!But now a debt if some strange man should own,When neither bond or witness prove the loan,To mark an act so just, and truth so rare,His marble form should grace some public square,And his name blazon'd in the historic page,Attest that one good man adorn'd our age.For me, whene'er such acts of faith I hear,Lost in amaze, and trusting scarce mine ear,"Let all," I cry, "to view this wonder run,"And Pidcock Keeper of the Exhibition at Exeter 'Change. own his rarities outdone.
"Mourn, hapless Pidcock, mourn! your reign is o'er;"In vain your eagles scream, and tigers roar;"The crowds, who erst to view your monsters ran,"Now seek a rarer sight, an honest man!"What drinks, what eats he? for I ne'er can think,"Like common mortals he can eat or drink."How speaks, how walks he? ere I sleep to-night,"On this rare creature I must feast my sight."And when, at length, this wonder I behold,Amaz'd to find him cast in human mould,I'm vex'd that like ourselves on earth he treads,And scarce believe he hasn't got two heads.But say, Emilius, if a wrong thus slightSo wounds thy feelings and disgusts thy sight,How wouldst thou rave, if Fraud's glib tongue had foundThe means to 'reave thee of thy last poor pound;Or how support a friend's more guilty stealth,When loss of freedom follows loss of wealth?Turn to yon prison! list yon captive's tale,Who rashly stood his smooth-tongu'd brother's bail:
Pent in those walls, the wretch all hope resigns,Now wildly raves, and now dejected pines;While his free life abroad the debtor spends,Enjoys new pleasure, and defrauds new friends.EMILIUS.Oh! but my wretch so wondrous well deceiv'd,Suspicion's self had sure his faith believ'd!He swore such oaths!.....THE AUTHOR.He swore! did that prevail,And wert thou blinded by a trick so stale?Oaths now are trifles few refuse to take,Easy to form, and easier still to break;Their perjur'd vows but few with horror scan;But few fear heavenly wrath, if safe from man,Or shuddering think, their guilt that angels know,The secret sin a secret still below.Mark'd you, when late your cause in court was tried,And your false friend his lawful debt denied,One slight convulsion, or one transient blushBid his lip quiver, or his forehead flush?
Falter'd his tongue, when, lost all sacred fear,On God he call'd to prove his words sincere;And wish'd, if just your charge, to curse his sinFlames might consume himself and all his kin?No! such his earnest air, and changeless face,Each word, each look such candour seem'd to grace,So firm his voice, so bold and clear his eye,Yourself could scarce believe his tale a lye!EMILIUS.'Tis true! 'tis true! with horror struck I heardThe unblushing villain speak the damning word.Gods! how can man thus brave celestial ire,While heaven has justice, and while hell has fire!THE AUTHOR.Alas! my friend, an awful truth to tell,There are, who scorn that heaven, and mock that hell.In vain for these alternate seasons reign,Spring robes the fields, and Autumn swells the grain;In vain the moon now gilds the brow of night,And now the sun pours floods of glorious light:
"'Twas chance," they cry, "to those fair orbs gave birth,"And chance alone with produce bless'd the earth!"Then boldly on the sacred book they layTheir lips to swear some good man's wealth away,And while his spoils their ravish'd eyes bewitch,Laugh at poor rogues, less impious and less rich.Others, whom timid guilt forbids to climbThose dreadful heights where Atheists soar sublime,Own that a Power Supreme exists on high,But while they own a power, that power defy.To these the priest inspir'd describes in vainEach promis'd pleasure, and each threaten'd pain:Heaven's future joys their notice scarce seem worth,Wealth in this world, their present heaven on earth,Nor fear they to deserve the Eternal's curse,Hell bad, 'tis true, but want of money worse!"Let wrath divine," thus Gripe in transport cries,"Curse every limb, and quench my blasted eyes,"If still harmonious sounds mine ears may drink,"While in yon chest my counted guineas chink,
"And still my palsied hands have power to hold,"Close to my heart, this bag of darling gold!"What! shall I fear, indignant Heaven to see"Its magazine of plagues exhaust on me?"What! shall I mourn the bargain made, if wealth"I buy with loss of fame, and loss of health?"No, still with glad content my heart shall beat,"Though tortures rack my hands, my eyes, my feet,"If hoards of gold my bursting coffers fill,"Gold, which can soothe each pang, each fear can still,"Comfort for every care, and balm for every ill!"Yet why these fears? Celestial wrath, we know,"Though just, is merciful; though fierce, is slow:"Perhaps too, when arrives the avenging hour,"Repentant prayers may calm Heaven's angry power;"Nor always in the world's vast book we find"To equal sin an equal doom assigned."Here see with honours crown'd, there'whelm'd with grief,"The Indian spoiler, and the English thief;"And mark, what varying fates their plunders stop"Who robb'd a nation, and who robb'd a shop.
"Rascals alike, by Fortune's wayward sport "One goes to Tyburn, t'other goes to Court;"And while this rogue is doom'd in air to swing,"That for a peerage kneels to thank the King."The sophist's fears thus calm'd, the legal warNo more he dreads, but dauntless seeks the bar,Arrives before you, wonders why you stay,And cries—"Sure conscience makes the wretch delay!"Caught by his tranquil air and front of brass,(Oft does for innocence assurance pass)The judge declares your charge must groundless be,Its malice blames, and sets the prisoner free;While you with fiercer rage assert your cause,And term the judge corrupt, unjust the laws,Than Sappho felt when Drury damn'd her work,Or Gallia's struggles rais'd in zealous Burke!Yet now, Emilius, let my prayers assuageAwhile this flood of grief, this storm of rage,Nor scorn my counsel, though from one it flows,Whose life few years, whose brain small judgment knows:Your lack of temper suits my lack of wit,And boyish griefs with boyish counsels fit.When amputation risques a patient's life,Some skilful hand should guide the surgeon's knife;But who to bleed him Farquhar need retain,When the next barber's boy could breathe the vein?Mark then!—If what you mourn, were some dire illNo partner suffer'd, and no time could still;If some strange curse, some plague to nature new,On you had fall'n, and fall'n on none but you,No word of mine should mock your publish'd pain,Or strive to bind your wrath in reason's chain.Who knows the human heart, must also knowHow keen the pangs which make your sorrows flow:Not with those sighs, which heave the nephew's heart,Who sees his hoarding uncle's life depart;Not with those tears, which custom bids be shedBy youthful widows for old husbands dead;Grieve they, who dear departing wealth behold,And mourn, not loss of friends, but loss of gold.
No forc'd affliction bids their sorrows rise; They need no onion to provoke their eyes;No!—Lost that idol most adored and dear,Heart-felt despair, wild rage, and grief sincereBurst in each bitter sigh, gush in each scalding tear.Yet sure, my friend, 'tis wrong, unusual rageTo feel at crimes so usual in this age,Unless your lot by fate you hoped design'dFree from all crosses common to mankind.Alas! ere beat your breast, ere rent your hair,Weigh, what you bear yourself, what others bear.No pangs are yours past man's, past Heaven's relief,No mighty mischiefs move this mighty grief;Search but the world, then own your wrongs how smallPlaced near those wrongs on other heads which fall.Must I attest the fact? To prove how ViceReigns sovereign here, one house can well suffice.To Bow-street turn!The lines from the 247th to the 270th are by the Hon. William Lambe.—Ye giddy, gay, and proud,Who swell great London's ever-bustling crowd,London, where all extremes together meet,Folly's chief throne, and Wisdom's gravest seat; Where disagreements in agreement lie,Our close-knit mass of contrariety;Where throng the rich and poor, the fool and knave,Where statesmen juggle, and where patriots rave;Where balls for advocates prepare their work,And embryo law-suits in a whisper lurk;Where Cupid pays in specie for his wiles,And judges frown whene'er a lady smiles;Where equal farce continual sport affordsAt Covent-Garden, or the House of Lords; Where beggars with feigned tears and ready smiles,Cringe to St. James, or blubber to St. Giles;Ye who confusedly sail in motley trimDown this full flood of pleasure, business, whim,Whether you frame smooth, glib, and specious liesTo cheat a tradesman, or to raise supplies,With private or with public misery sport,Cheats upon 'Change, or Parasites at Court,Now pause awhile!—For one reflecting hourForego your hopes of gain, your dreams of power,And hark, while tells the Muse what monstrous crimes,What new-found sins reserv'd for our strange times,Their hideous forms to Addington betray,From morn's first languish to the death of day.Here mark the thankless child, the unnatural sire,The Pandar slave who lets his spouse for hire,The adulterous friend, the trusted wanton wife,The brother aiming at the brother's life,The rake who cools in beauty's arms his heat,Then lets her starve, or ply for bread the street,And that dark train of foes to moral rules,Thieves, Bawds, Assassins, Gamblers, Knaves, and Fools,Fools, who would fain be knaves ...... No more I'll write,Hence, odious forms, nor longer shock my sight!Else by disgust and scorn to madness driven,Bursting those chains which bind my soul to Heaven,I shall disdain to breathe such tainted air,Shall blush an human form like these to wear,For present ease shall barter future bliss,And sure no world can be more black than this,Deep in my swelling heart shall plunge the knife,And cry, while flies my soul from mortal strife,"Heaven bless my father, though he gave me life!"Cease, wild enthusiast! end thy angry tale,O'er human frailties drop compassion's veil;View them with grief, not rage, nor dare to scanWith censure too severe thy fellow-man!Think, had no parent watch'd thy pliant youth,Curb'd thy wild passions, turn'd thy steps to Truth,And taught thee by her radiant light to know That bliss is virtue, and that guilt is woe,Spurning restraint, and scorn'd each sacred vow,Haply thyself had been what these are now;These, who by headstrong passions forc'd away,Or pressing want, or strong example's sway,Strangers to love of man, or fear of God,But trod perhaps those paths their parents trod,While ignorance led them to that whirlpool's brink,Where long they struggled, and where now they sink!Oh! view their lot, my soul, nor more repine To bear those evils Fate has fix'd on mine;Content, though many a grief my bosom wrings,If still that bosom owns no conscious stings,If still I know for others wounds to feel,With pity view them, and with pleasure heal,And still those pangs which cause so keen a smart,Nor sour my temper, nor deprave my heart.Yes! though by fate with heaviest sorrows curst,From my pale lips no murmuring breath should burst,If still my hand had power to raise the opprest,And, though unblest myself, make others blest!That power, Emilius, still is yours!—Then whyThus pants your bosom, and thus flames your eye?Your gold, though lost.....EMILIUS.......Nay, 'tis not gold which makesThis fury tear me; but my bile it shakes,That still my lawful suit in vain I urge,And still yon caitiff mocks the avenging scourge!
Could I but once his well-earn'd sufferings see!....THE AUTHOR.And would his sufferings then bring wealth to thee?Would with his blood gold to thy coffers run,Or all his groans repay thee one pound one?EMILIUS.Not so; but vengeance.....THE AUTHOR.......Hush!—To mention fearWhat thou must shame to speak, I shame to hear!Base minds alone delight in vengeance find,That low vile passion of a low vile mind!Oh! think, when summoned to the throne of Heaven,As thou forgav'st, so thou shalt be forgiven!And think, what pangs would rack each throbbing nerve,If God should judge us, as our faults deserve!Say, at this moment should the perjur'd wretch,Stung with remorse, his hands imploring stretchTow'rds thee for pardon, while with tears and groansThy foot he kisses, and his guilt he owns,
Should that foot spurn him? Would'st thou frown, and cry"Back, sinner, to the flames thou fain would'st fly!"'Twere nobler far, thy thirst of vengeance o'er,To bid the sinner rise, and sin no more;'Twere nobler far to play the Christian's part,Aid struggling Conscience to secure his heart,Confirm his faith, with hope inspire his breast,And make him virtuous now, hereafter blest.Then, when thou died'st, the transport thine would beProudly to boast—"God owes a soul to me!"But if revenge alone can please you, know,E'en now, though law was blind, though justice slow,More pangs he feels, his heart by conscience rent,Than you could name, or mortal brain invent.True, from his lips no 'plaints inform the crowdWhat pains are his — deep are his groans, not loud"Curses not loud, but deep." MACBETH.;True, from his eyes no streams of anguish roll,His burning tears fall inwards on his soul:There brood thy vipers, Conscious Guilt, and dartWith ceaseless spite their fangs into his heart;
There prints with bloodless stroke thy silent steelWounds, that no balm can ease, no time can heal!Not all the pangs which Dante's visions swell,No freezing limbo, and no fiery hell,Surpass his torments, who still bears unblestA self-accuser in his own sad breast.Disgust, and ceaseless Care, and anxious Fear Still share his bed, and at his board appear.In vain his Cooks their various arts combineEach dish to season, and each sauce refine;Champagne's rich grape in vain, to chear his soul,With brilliant bubbles fills his chrystal bowl:The harpy Conscience pounces on her preyAt subitae horrisico lapsu de montibus adsuntHarpyiae, & magnis quatiunt clangoribus alas,Deripiuntque dapes, contactuque omnia foedantImmundo.AENEID, Book III.,Tears from his hand the untasted food away,And, ere the wine his pallid lips can pass,Her gall-fraught tongue drops poison in his glass.Next mark, my friend, his slumbers!—If Repose Lists to his suit, and bids his eye-lids close,Mark what convulsions heave his martyr'd breast,And frequent starts, and heart-drawn sighs attest,Though Nature grants him sleep, that Guilt denies him rest.Now groans of tortur'd ghosts his ear affright;Now ghastly phantoms dance before his sight;And now he sees (and screams in frantic fear)To size gigantic swell'd thy angry shade appear!Swift at thy summons rush with hideous yellTheir prey to seize the Denizens of hell!Headlong they hurl him on some ice-rock's point,Mangle each limb, and dislocate each joint;Or plunge him deep in blue sulphureous lakes;Or lash his quivering flesh with twisted snakes;Or in his brain their burning talons dart;Or from his bosom rend his panting heartTo bathe their fiery lips in guilty gore!—Then starts he from his couch, while dews of horror pourDown his dank forehead—wrings his hands, and prays to sleep no more.Hark! the Storm-daemon shrieks!—It thunders!—Lo!How pale his cheeks, how wild his eye-balls grow,Heard the first murmur; while he waits the crash,And dreads to see the etherial meteors flash.No shock of clouds, he thinks, no casual handRolls the red bolt, or darts th' avenging brand;'Tis Heaven's own voice in thunder bids him die,And 'tis to blast him yon blue lightnings fly!His fears were vain; the storm disperses;—true,But who can answer what the next may do?Though now sweet nature sleeps, and skies are fair,Soon gathering clouds again may gloom the air;Soon shafts divine, winged by celestial breath,Again may glare, and the next shaft brings death!With ceaseless fears and conscious pangs opprestBy day, by night unknown one hour of rest,Wasted his limbs, his strength and spirits fled,Disease now chains him on her thorny bed.The couch in crowds though Galen's sons surround,His dire complaints deride their skill profound;
No med'cine brings relief, no pang is eas'd,For who can medicine to a mind diseas'dCan'st thou not minister to a mind diseased,Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,Raze out the written troubles of the brain,And with some sweet oblivious antidoteCleanse the foul spirit of that perilous stuffThat weighs upon the heart?MACBETH.?Heaven's Lord alone!—"And shall I dare invoke"With prayers that Power, whose holiest law I broke?"In heaven still fresh my violated vow,"Will angels heed my forced repentance now?"Hence, idle thought! no prayers can now obtain"Aid from insulted Heaven, and man's is vain!"Thus cries the wretch, distraction in his eye,Hopeless to live, yet unprepared to die;By fear his soul, by pain his body vext,By conscience tortured, and by doubt perplext,Loathing this world, and shuddering at the next.Yet though his old offence thus brands with shameHis conscious forehead, and unmans his frame,
When some new sin excites his impious zeal,His heart is adamant, his nerves are steel:Nor think, your perjur'd friend, reform'd by time,Will bound his forfeits to this single crime.The rose of innocence, once rent away,No more shall grace his brow. And who can say,"One step, and then no further?"—This first sinCrown'd with success, ere long his feet shall winTo loftier heights of vice, and urge his fateFrom bad to worse, from little crimes to great,Till his broad guilt for public vengeance calls,And to the laws his life a victim falls.Then shalt thou own (and blush at thy mistrust),Crimes still are punish'd, and God still is just!Here break we off!—Speed thou to Lombard-street,Or plod the gambling 'Change with busy feet,'Midst Bulls and Bears some false report to spread,Of Prussia armed, or Buonaparte dead,From specious lies an honest gain to draw,And spoil some wretch in forms allowed by law;
More dupes to find, more knavish tricks to learn,And fooled thyself, fool others in thy turn:While I, sequestered in some favourite nook,Or guide the pencil, or explore the book,Blest, if still free from mad Ambition's dreams,Youth's vain rash hopes, and Interest's fordid schemes,I sometimes hear, to chear my lonely hours,The Muse awake her lute's harmonious powers,And still can boast (when down life's vale I bendMy steps, nor grieved, nor glad my days to end),A feeling heart, an open hand, content, and one true friend.FINIS.