OF
A LATE MAN OF QUALITY,
Well known for his Atheistical Principles.
Written at Thirteen.
Behold that man by Fortune’s fickle pow’r,
The gilded fav’rite of the “varying hour;”—
The gallant lord, whom noble ladies love,
Whom senates homage, and whom crowds approve.
For him, the bards attune their soften’d lays,
In mellow notes, declare their patron’s praise;—
For him, soft luxury courts each distant shore,
To tempt his palate with its varied store;—
For him, the goblet flows with Gallia’s wine,
And wit, and beauty, all their pow’rs combine;10
His sov’reign’s smile illumes his pageant day;
And thronging courtiers servile incense pay.
Revers’d the scene!—behold him stript of all!
Though great his height, yet greater still his fall!
Ah! see him stretch’d upon his dying bed,
His vain associates, num’rous flatt’rers fled:
Dim are those eyes, once darting soul and fire—
Pallid that cheek, which ladies wont t’ admire;—
Clos’d are those lips, once eloquently gay,
Whose fire of wit illum’d the festive day;—20
Ah! see his wasted limbs convuls’d by death,
Painful, and hard, he draws his quivering breath.
How different far, he views the face of things!—
How poor the comfort worldly wisdom brings!—
How deep he rues the fatal time that’s past,
When each new day was guiltier than the last;—
How much regrets the tale of former years,
The wide, black prospect, scarce a virtue cheers:
Tremendous mem’ry, to his mind displays,
The vice, the crimes, that stain’d his earlier days.30
Lo, he starts up;—his matted ringlets stare,
Like dying lamps, his glazing eye-balls glare.
Heard ye that scream?—and see ye not the fiend,
Come hot from hell to warn him of his end?
See ye him grin?—and wide display a scroll,
The horrid records of the sable soul?
Or is it Conscience all?—Again that cry,
That mocks description in its agony.
Peace!—peace!—upon that withering sound at last,
To heav’n’s high Judgement-Seat th’ escaping spirit’s past.40
TO LYRA.
Written at Fifteen Years Old.
By Idalia’s secret grove—
By the streams so dear to love—
By the beds, and fragrant bow’rs,
Fram’d from Flora’s brightest flow’rs—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?