The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour—
Mere transitory things!
The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But, when to pomp and power are join’d
An equal dignity of mind—
When titles are the smallest claim—
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good—
Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.
Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov’d, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:
Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,
And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free
Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity!
Song.—By a Man.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush’d to rest,
Loses every pain in dying,
In the hope of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows;
Every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
Woman Speaker.
Yet, ah! what terrors frown’d upon her fate—
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
Determin’d took their stand:
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb’d the relic and defac’d the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death’s growing power,
And trembled as he frown’d.
As helpless friends, who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross—
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant! at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance, and provoke thy rage.
Song.—By a Man.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!