AN IMITATION OF HORACE
BOOK II., ODE 16.
WRITTEN BY WARREN HASTINGS ON HIS PASSAGE FROM BENGAL TO ENGLAND IN 1785. ADDRESSED TO JOHN SHORE, ESQ.
For ease the harass'd seaman prays,
When Equinoctial tempests raise
The Cape's surrounding wave;
When hanging o'er the reef, he hears
The cracking mast, and sees or fears,
Beneath, his wat'ry grave.
For ease the slow Maratta spoils,
And hardier Sic erratic toils,
While both their ease forego;
For ease, which neither gold can buy,
Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie,
The cover'd heart bestow;
For neither gold nor gems combin'd
Can heal the soul, or suffering mind;
Lo! where their owner lies,
Perch'd on his couch Distemper breathes,
And Care like smoke, in turbid wreathes,
Round the gay cieling flies.
He who enjoys, nor covets more,
The lands his father held before,
Is of true bliss possess'd:
Let but his mind unfetter'd tread
Far as the paths of knowledge lead,
And wise as well as blest.
No fears his peace of mind annoy
Lest printed lies his fame destroy,
Which labour'd years have won,
Nor pack'd committees break his rest,
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the sun.
Short is our span; then why engage
In schemes, for which man's transient age
Was ne'er by Fate designed?
Why slight the gifts of Nature's hand?
What wanderer from his native land
E'er left himself behind?
The restless thought, and wayward will,
And discontent attend him still,
Nor quit him while he lives;
At sea care follows in the wind,
At land it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the postboy drives.
He would happy live to-day
Must laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come,
For come they will or soon or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By Heaven's eternal doom.
To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,
With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed;
Too long, alas! he lived to hate
His envied lot, and died [22] too late,
From life's oppression freed.
An early death was Elliott's [23] doom;
I saw his opening virtues bloom,
And manly sense unfold,
Too soon to fade! I bade the stone
Record his name 'midst Hordes unknown,
Unknowing what it told.
To thee, perhaps, the fates may give—
I wish they may—in health to live,
Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields,
Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine;
With these, the muse already thine
Her present bounties yields.
For me, O Shore! I only claim
To merit, not to seek for fame,
The good and just to please,
A state above the fear of want,
Domestic love, Heaven's choicest grant,
Health, leisure, peace, and ease.
[Footnote 22: Lord Clive committed suicide 1774.]
[Footnote 23: Mr. Elliott died in October, 1778, on his way to Nangpore, the capital of Moodagees Boofla's dominions, being deputed on an embassy to that prince by the Governor-General and Council; a monument was erected to his memory on the spot where he was buried, and the Marattas have since built a town there, called Elliott Gunge, or Elliott's Town.]