Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries, For wealth or title, perishable prize; 20 While I those transitory blessings scorn, Secure of praise from ages yet unborn. This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late, He flies to press, and hurries on his fate; Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread, And feels the unfading wreath surround his head. Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise, Those dreams were Settle's[1] once, and Ogilby's![2] The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise, To some retreat the baffled writer flies, 30 Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest, Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest; There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot-- Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.
[Footnote 1: 'Settle;' see Life of Dryden.]
[Footnote 2: 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.]
PRINTED IN THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, 1743.
1 Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven, The noble mind's delight and pride-- To men and angels only given, To all the lower world denied!
2 While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires, The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires;
3 With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Alike o'er all his lightnings fly; Thy lambent glories only beam Around the favourites of the sky.
4 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys, On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatterer for a friend.
5 Directress of the brave and just, Oh, guide us through life's darksome way! And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey.
6 Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, When souls to peaceful climes remove: What raised our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above.
1 Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening gray, Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way.
2 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, Scarce repress'd the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'
1 Long-expected one-and-twenty, Lingering year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * *, are now your own.
2 Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell.