Ah! how unstable are the joys of life! The pleasures, ah, how few !—Now smile the skies With aspect mild; and now the thunders shake, Till Death, the ghastly monarch, shuts the scene. And now we gain the May, whose midnight light, Like vestal virgins' offerings undecayed, Thanks, kindest Nature! for those floating gems, Those green-grown isles, with which you, lavish, strew Great Neptune's empire. But for thee! the main Were an uncomfortable mazy flood. No guidance, then, would bless the steersman's skill, No resting-place would crown the mariner's wish, When he to distant gales his canvas spreads, To search new wonders.-Here the verdant shores Teem with new freshness, and regale our sight With caves, that ancient time, in days of yore, Sequestered for the haunt of Druid lone, There to remain in solitary cell, Beyond the power of mortals to disjoin From holy meditation.-Happy now To cast our eyes around from shore to shore, And now, by Fancy led, we wander wild Where o'er the rugged steep the buried dead Remote lie anchored in their parent mould; Where a few fading willows point the state Of man's decay. Ah, Death! where'er we fly, Whether we seek the busy and the gay, The mourner or the joyful, there art thou! E'er awed thy progress, or controlled thy sway, To bless us with that comfort, length of days, By all aspired at, but by few attained. To Fife we steer; of all beneath the sun The most unhallowed 'mid the Scotian plains! And here (sad emblem of deceitful times!) Hath sad Hypocrisy her standard borne. Mirth knows no residence; but ghastly Fear Stands trembling and appalled at airy sights. Once, only once! Reward it, gracious Powers! Did Hospitality, with open face, And winning smile, cheer the deserted sight, To tempt Misfortune on the Fifan coast: gale Is fraught with fulness, blessed with living hope, That fears no canker from the year's decay. TO SIR JOHN FIELDING, On his Attempt to suppress the Beggar's Opera. When you censure the age, Be cautious and sage, Lest the courtiers offended should be; When you mention vice or bribe, 'Tis so pat to all the tribe, Each cries, It was levelled at me. GAY. 'Tis woman that seduces all mankind. FILCH. BENEATH what cheerful region of the sky Shall Wit, shall Humour, and the Muses fly? For ours, a cold, inhospitable clime, Refuses quarter to the Muse and rhyme. If on her brows an envied laurel springs, Let fortune-dealers, wise predictors! tell From what bright planet Justice Fielding fell. Augusta trembles at the awful name; The darling tongue of Liberty is tame, Basely confined by him in Newgate chains, Nor dare exclaim how harshly Fielding reigns. In days when every mercer has his scale, Of In vain, O Gay! thy Muse explored the way yore, to banish the Italian lay; Gave homely numbers sweet, tho' warmly strong; The British chorus blessed the happy song: |