And, lulling others’ hopes in dreams supine,
A fell assault she meditates on thine.
The cruel blow which suffer’d from her rage
Thy poor estate will not her wrath assuage,
Till from thy breast her fury may depose
The blissful calm to innocence it owes.
Such is her nature, that she loathes the sight
Of happiness for man in her despite.
Thus to thine eyes insidious she presents
The phantasies of good, with which she paints
The road to favour, and would fain employ
Her arts thy holds of virtue to destroy.
Ah! heed her not. See her to rob thee stand
Ev’n of the happiness now in thy hand.
’Tis not of her; she cannot it bestow:
She makes men fortunate;—but happy? No.
Thou think’st it strange! Dost thou the names confound
Of Fortune with felicity as bound?
Like the poor idiots, who so foolish gaze
On the vain gifts and joys which she displays,
So cunning to exchange for real good.
O cheat of human wisdom! say withstood,
What does she promise, but what beings born
To our high destiny should hold in scorn?
In reason’s balance her best offers weigh,
And see what worthless lightness they betray.
There are who, burning in the track of fame,
Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.
Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;
And if with horrid arm is death descried,
Waving his pennon as from some high tower,
Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scour
The field o’er brothers’ bodies as of foes!
Then sing a triumph, while in secret flows
The tear they shed as from an anguish’d heart.
Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,
Another sighs for ill-secure command:
With flatteries solicitously plann’d,
Follows the air of favour, and his pride
In adulation vile he serves to hide,
To exalt himself; and if he gain his end
His brow on all beneath will haughty bend;
And sleep, and joy, and inward peace, the price
To splendour of command, will sacrifice:
Yet fears the while, uncertain in his joy,
Lest should some turn of Fortune’s wheel destroy
His power in deep oblivion overthrown.
Another seeks, with equal ardour shown,
For lands, and gold in store. Ah! lands and gold,
With tears how water’d, gain’d with toils untold!
His thirst unquench’d, he hoards, invests, acquires;
But with his wealth increased are his desires;
And so much more he gains, for more will long:
Thus, key in hand, his coffers full among;
Yet poor he thinks himself, and learns to know
His state is poor, because he thinks it so.
Another like illusion his to roam
From wife and friends, who flying light and home,
To dedicate his vigils the long night
In secret haunts of play makes his delight,
With vile companions. Betwixt hope and fear
His anxious breast is fluctuating drear.
See, with a throbbing heart and trembling hand,
There he has placed his fortune, all to stand
Upon the turning of a die! ’Tis done:
The lot is cast; what is it? has he won?
Increased is his anxiety and care!
But if reverse, O Heaven! in deep despair,
O’erwhelm’d in ruin, he is doom’d to know
A life of infamy, or death of woe.
And is he happier, who distracted lies
A slave beneath the light of beauty’s eyes?
Who fascinated watches, haunts, and prays,
And at the cost of troubles vast essays,
’Mid doubts and fears, a fleeting joy to gain?
Love leads him not: his breast could ne’er profane
Admit Love’s purer flame; ’tis passion’s fire
Alone that draws him, and in wild desire
He blindly headlong follows in pursuit:
And what for all his toils can he compute?
If gain’d at length, he only finds the prize
Bring death and misery ev’n in pleasure’s guise.
Then look on him, abandon’d all to sloth,
Who vacant sees the hours pass long and loth
O’er his so useless life. He thinks them slow,
