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Just scars us as we reap the golden grain;
More than thy balm, O Gilead! heals the wound.
Birth's feeble cry, and Death's deep dismal groan,
Are slender tributes low-tax'd Nature pays
For mighty gain : the gain of each a life!
But, O ! the last the former so transcends,
life dies compar'd; Life lives beyond the grave.
And feel I, Death ! no joy from thought of thee? Death ! the great counsellor, who man inspires With every nobler thought and fairer deed! Death ! the deliverer, who rescues man! Death 1 the rewarder, who the rescued crowns! Death ! that absolves my birth, a curse without it! 'Rich Death! that realizes all my cares, Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera! Death ! of all pain the period, not of joy; Joy's source and subject still subsist unhurt; One in my soul, and one in her great sire, Though the four winds were warring for my dust. Yes, and from winds and waves, and central night, Though prison'd there, my dust, too, I reclaim, (To dust when drop proud Nature's proud est spheres) And live entire. Death is the crown of life: Were death denied, poor man would live in vain: Were death denied, to live would not be life: Were death denied, ev'n fools would wish to die. Death wounds to cure; we fall, we rise, we reign! Spring from our fetters, fasten in the skies, Where blooming Eden withers in our sight. Death gives us more than was in Eden lost: This king of terrors is the prince of peace. When shall I die to vanity, pain, death? When shall I die ?—when shall I live for ever?
LOVE OF FAME,
Tanto major fama? sitis est, quam
Virtutis. Juv. Sat, 10.
'VTY verse is Satire; Dorset! lend your ear,
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right. And dedications wash an Ethiop white? Set up each senseless wretch for Nature's boast, On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post? Shall funeral Eloquence her colours spread, And scatter roses on the wealthy dead? Shall authors smile on such illustrious days, And satirize with nothing—but their praise?
Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train, Nor hears that virtu; which he loves complain f Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead, And guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled; Congreve, who, crpwn'd with laurels fairly won. Sits smiling at the goal while others run, He will not write ; and (more provoking still!,) Ye gods! he will not write, and Msevins will.
Doubly distress'd, what author shall we find Discreetly daring, and severely kind, The courtly Roman's shining path to tread, And sharply smile prevailing folly dead? Will no superior genins snatch the quill. And save me, on the brink, from writing ill? Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise: What will not men attempt for sacred praise?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal* d by art. Reigns, more or less, and glows in every heart; The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; The modest shun it, but to make it sure. O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells, Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells: Tis tory, whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads. Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades: Here to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence. There, bolder, aim3 at Pulteney's eloquence: It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head, And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead; Nor ends witli life, but nods in sable plumes, Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud? the pimp is proud to see So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
Others with wishful eyes on glory look, When they have got their picture tow'rds a book, Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign, Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine. If at his title Trapp had dropp'd his quill, Trapp might have pass'd for a great genius still. But Trapp, alas! (excuse him, if you can) Is now a scribbler, who was once a man. Imperious, some a classic fame demand, For heaping up, with a laborious hand, A waggon-load of meanings for one word, "While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor'd.
Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote. To patch-work learn'd quotations are allied; Both strive to make our poverty our pride.
On glass how witty is a noble peer? Did ever diamond cost a man so dear t
Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see; And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery, Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean, By spitting on your face to make it clean.
Nor is't enough all hearts are swoln with Pride, Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can she not perform? the love of Fame Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame; Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep;. And (stronger still) made Alexander weep;
Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,
Though her lov'd lord has four half months been dead.
This passion with a pimple have I seen Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen. By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!) Some lord-* have learn'd to spell, and some to knot, It makes Globose a speaker in the House; He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse: It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail, And J the little hero of each tale.
Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in, Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin? My growing subject seems but just begun, And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules, To take a catalogue of British fools. Satire 1 had I thy Dorset's force divine, A knave or fool should perish in each line, Though for the first all Westminster should plead. And for the last all Gresham intercede.
Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My Lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar! at your peril give him room: He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet, By heraldry prov'd valiant or discreet. With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three descents less wise? If virtues at his noble hands you crave, You bid him raise his fathers from the grave. Men should press forward in Fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high birth trinmph! what can be more great? Nothing—but merit in a low estate. To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer Vice, though descended from the Conqueror. Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, Slight or important, only by their place I Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.