Can he, how vain is mortal power,
Stretch life beyond the destin'd hour?
"Consider, man, weigh well thy frame;
The king, the beggar, is the same, |
Dust form'd us all,—each breathes his day,
Then sinks into his mortal clay."
Thus wrote the fabling Muse of Gay. | } |
| |
Such thoughts as these of moral kind
Quæ Genus weigh'd within his mind: |
For wherefore should it not be thought
That, as his early mind was taught,
It might be with sage maxims fraught? | } |
—Thus seated, or as he stood sentry,
Sole guardian of the butler's pantry,
Which lock'd up all the household state,
The cumbrance rich of massy plate,
And all the honour that could grace
The power of superior place,
That did acknowledg'd rank bestow
O'er all the kitchen-folk below;
What wonder that his mind should range
On hopes that waited on the change
Which unexpected Fortune's power
Seem'd on his present state to shower.
Though while his wand'ring mind embrac'd
The present time as well as past,
The visions of the future too
Gave a fair prospect to his view.
But life this well-known feature bears,
Our hopes' associates are our fears,
And ever seem, in reason's eye,
As struggling for the mastery,
In which they play their various part,
To gain that citadel the heart. |
Thus though our Hero's honest pride
Was, for the present, satisfied;
And did things, as they seem'd to show,
Promise to stay in Statu Quo,
He, surely, would have ask'd no more
For Fortune on his lot to pour,
And with all due contentment wait