'But yield an ampler scene to Bounty's eye, An ampler range to Mercy's ear expand: And, 'midst admiring nations, set on high Virtue's fair model, framed by Wisdom's hand. Go, then: the moan of Woe demands thine aid: // Pride's licensed outrage claims thy slumbering ire: Pale Genius roams the bleak neglected shade, Truth, Freedom, Love, O where is your abode ? Nor meek Contentment fly the humble cell! 'Wilt thou, my prince, th' beauteous train implore, 'Midst Earth's forsaken scenes once more to bide? Then shall the shepherd sing in every bower, And Love with garlands wreath the domes of Pride. 'The bright tear starting in th' impassion'd eyes Of silent gratitude; the smiling gaze Of gratulation, faltering while he tries With voice of transport to proclaim thy praise; 'Th' ethereal glow that stimulates thy frame, When all th' according powers harmonious move, And wake to energy each social aim, Attuned spontaneous to the will of Jove; Be these, O man, the triumphs of thy soul; And all the conqueror's dazzling glories slight, That, meteor-like, o'er trembling nations roll, To sink at once in deep and dreadful night. 'Like thine, yon orb's stupendous glories burn With genial beam; nor, at th' approach of even, In shades of horror leave the world to mourn, But gild with lingering light th' impurpled Heaven.' Thus while she spoke, her eye, sedately meek, For young unpractised Guilt distrusts the guise While lawless Fancy roam'd afar, unblest, 'Till every sprightly hour, and blooming scene, Then still exult to hail the present joy; No flattering hope thy longing hours beguile. Ah! why should man pursue the charms of Fame, Light as the gaudy rainbow's pillar'd gleam, What though her throne irradiate many a clime, If hung loose-tottering o'er th' unfathom'd tomb? What though her mighty clarion, rear'd sublime, Display the imperial wreath, and glittering plume? 'Can glittering plume, or can th' imperial wreath Redeem from unrelenting fate the brave? What note of triumph can her clarion breathe, T' alarm th' eternal midnight of the grave? 'That night draws on: nor will the vacant hour Of expectation linger as it flies: Nor Fate one moment unenjoy'd restore : Each moment's flight how precious to the wise! 'O shun th' annoyance of the bustling throng, That haunt with zealous turbulence the great; There coward Office boasts th' unpunished wrong, And sneaks secure in insolence of state. • O'er fancied injury Suspicion pines, And in grim silence gnaws the festering wound; Deceit the rage-embitter'd smile refines, And Censure spreads the viperous hiss around. 'Hope not, fond prince, though Wisdom guard thy throne, Though Truth and Bounty prompt each generous aim, Though thine the palm of peace, the victor's crown, 'Hope not, though all that captivates the wise, Envy, stern tyrant of the flinty heart, Can aught of Virtue, Truth, or Beauty charm? Can soft Compassion thrill with pleasing smart, Repentance melt, or Gratitude disarm? Ah no. Where Winter Scythia's waste enchains, And monstrous shapes roar to the ruthless storm, Not Phoebus' smile can cheer the dreadful plains, Or soil accursed with balmy life inform. Then, Envy, then is thy triumphant hour, When mourns Benevolence his baffled scheme: When Insult mocks the clemency of Power, And loud Dissension's livid firebrands gleam: When squint-eyed Slander plies th' unhallow'd tongue, From poison'd maw when Treason weaves his line, And muse apostate (infamy to song!) Grovels, low-muttering, at Sedition's shrine. 'Let not my prince forego the peaceful shade, The whispering grove, the fountain and the plain : Power, with th' oppressive weight of pomp array'd, Pants for simplicity and ease in vain. The yell of frantic Mirth may stun his ear, But frantic Mirth soon leaves the heart forlorn : And Pleasure flies that high tempestuous sphere, Far different scenes her lucid paths adorn. She loves to wander on th' untrodden lawn, Or to the long and lonely shore retires; What time, loose-glimmering to the lunar beam, Faint heaves the slumberous wave, and starry fires Gild the blue deep with many a lengthening gleam. Then to the balmy bower of Rapture borne, While strings self-warbling breathe elysian rest, Melts in delicious vision, till the morn Spangle with twinkling dew the flowery waste. The frolic Moments, purple-pinion'd, dance Around, and scatter roses as they play : And the blithe Graces, hand in hand, advance, Where, with her loved compeers, she deigns to stray. 'Mild Solitude, in veil of rustic die, Her sylvan spear with moss-grown ivy bound: And Indolence, with sweetly-languid eye, And zoneless robe that trails along the ground. But chiefly Love-O thou, whose gentle mind Nor I from Virtue's call decoy thine ear; Far from thy haunt be Envy's baneful sway, 'No savage joy th' harmonious hours profane ! Free let the feathery race indulge the song, Well suits, O man, thy pleasurable sphere; |