Nor you, their lords, expect of these the toil,
When o'er their minds a soft oblivion steals,
And through the long-drawn hookah's pliant coil
They soothe their senses, and digest their meals.
For Knowledge to their ears her ample store,
Rich with the latest news, does then impart,
Whose source, when known, shall chill you to the core,
And freeze the genial cockles of the heart.
For once, to dumb Neglectfulness a prey,
Resentment led me undetected near,
To know the reason of this cool delay,
And teach my trusty pluralist to hear.
There to my vassals' ruminating throng
Some total stranger, seated on a pail,
Perused, translating as he went along,
My private letters by the current mail.
One moment, horror baulked my strong intent;
Next o'er the compound wall we saw him go,
While uncouth moan, with hapless gesture blent,
Deplored the pressing tribute of the toe.
THE MORAL
To you, fresh youths, with round unblushing cheeks,
Some moral tag this closing verse applies;
E'en from the old the voice of Wisdom speaks—
Even the youngest are not always wise!
No further seek to probe the Best Unknown,
From Exploration's curious arts refrain;
Lest Melancholy mark you for her own,
And you should learn—nor ever smile again.