Some fiery fop, with new commission vain, Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man ; Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast, Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.
: Yet ev❜n these heroes, mischievously gay,
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine ;
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,
And shun the shining train and golden coach.
In vain these dangers past, your doors you close, And hope the balmy blessings of repose: Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murd'rer bursts the faithless bar; Invades the sacred hour of silent rest,
And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast.
Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die, With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band, Whose ways and means support the sinking land; Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring, To rig another convoy for the king.
A single jail, in ALFRED's golden reign, Could half the nation's criminals contain ; Fair Justice then, without constraint ador'd, Held high the steady scale, but drop'd the sword;
No spies were paid, no special juries known,
Blest age! but ah! how different from our own!
Much could I add, but see the boat at hand,
The tide retiring, calls me from the land :
Farewell!-When youth, and health, and fortune
spent,
Thou fly'st for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
And tir'd like me with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times;
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
In virtue's cause once more exert his rage,
Thy satire point, and animate thy page.
THE REV. T. WARTON, F. S. A.
Πολυπονος ἱππεια,
Ως εμόλες αιανη
Tade ya.
HIS Country's hope, when now the blooming heir
Has lost the parent's, or the guardian's care;
Fond to possess, yet eager to destroy,
Of each vain youth, say, what's the darling joy?
Of each rash frolic what the source and end,
His sole and first ambition what?-to spend.
Some Squires, to Gallia's cooks devoted dupes, Whole manors melt in sauce, or drown in soups: Another doats on fidlers, till he sees
His hills no longer crown'd with towering trees; Convinc'd too late, that modern strains can move, Like those of ancient Greece, th' obedient grove. In headless statues rich, and useless urns, Marmoreo from the classic tour returns.
But would ye learn, ye leisure-loving Squires,
How best ye may disgrace your prudent sires;
How soonest soar to fashionable shame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin-and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
What dreams of conquest flush'd Hilario's breast,
When the good knight at last retir'd to rest!
Behold the youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleasing prospect of the spacious park,
That park, where beauties undisguis'd engage,
Those beauties less the work of art than age;
In simple state where genuine Nature wears
Her venerable dress of ancient years;
Where all the charms of Chance with Order meet,
The rude, the gay, the graceful, and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
And form dark groves, which Druids might adore ;
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here shoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
Here various trees compose a chequer'd scene,
Glowing in gay diversities of green :
There the full stream through intermingling glades,
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep cascades:
Nor wants there hazle copse, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with sun or shade the bounding fawn.
And see the good old seat, whose Gothic towers Awful emerge from yonder tufted bowers;
Whose rafter'd hall the crowding tenants fed,
And dealt to Age and Want their daily bread :
Where crested knights, with peerless damsels join'd,
At high and solemn festivals have din'd;
Presenting oft fair Virtue's shining task,
In mystic pageantries, and moral masque.
But vain all ancient praise, or boast of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt, and a prosperous heir,
Hilario bets-park, house, dissolve in air.
With antique armor hung, his trophied rooms
Descend to gamesters, prostitutes, and grooms.
He sees his steel-clad sires, and mothers mild,
Who bravely shook the lance, or sweetly smil'd,
All the fair series of the whisker'd race,
Whose pictur'd forms the stately gallery grace,
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck some tavern vile, at auctions sold.
The parish wonders at th' unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts arise,
And all the social scene in silence lies.
Himself, the loss politely to repair,
Turns atheist, fidler, highwayman, or player.
At length, the scorn, the shame of Man and God,
Is doom'd to rub the steeds that once he rode.
Ye rival Youths, your golden hopes how vain, Your dreams of thousands on the listed plain !
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