This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.
To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies;
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.
ODE TO POVERTY.
HAIL! mighty power! who o'er my lot
Presidest uncontroll'd and free;
Sole ruler of the rural cot,
I bid thee hail, dread Poverty!
Thine aid I crave to guide my strain,
Nor shall I supplicate in vain.
When on this world of woe and toil,
A helpless stranger I was cast,
Like mariner on desert isle,
The sport and victim of the blast,
Thy russet robe was o'er me flung,
And to thy cold, lean hand I clung.
In youth I felt thy guardian care,
Each saving, self-denying rule,
Awful for those of fortune spare,
I learnt and practis'd in thy school;
And of my lengthen'd life at large,
Thou still hast taken special charge.
Much have I seen-much more I've heard, Of chance and change in this vain world; The low to high estate preferr'd—
From high estate the haughty hurl'd;
But chance or change ne'er pass'd o'er me-
I'm still thy subject, Poverty!
(Oh how unwise are they who scorn
Thy homely garb and homely fare;
Who scale the tropic's burning bourne,
Ideal happiness to share;
They tread the wild, and plough the wave,
In quest of gold-but find a grave.)
There are who know thee but by name,
Who spurn thy salutary laws,
And count thy badge a mark of shame,
And hold it sin to own thy cause.
Fools that they are! they never knew
Thy guiltless pride-thy spirit true.
Full oft in danger's darkest day
Thy sons have prov'd their country's shield, When wealth's effeminate array
Appear'd not on the battle field:
"Twas theirs to grasp the patriot brand,
That dropp'd from luxury's nerveless hand.
Full oft, where wealth-engender'd crime Roll'd o'er the lands its whelming tide, Their fervent faith and hope sublime
Have stable prov'd, though sorely tried: In virtue's heavenward path they trode, When Pleasure's sons forsook their God.
And yet nor stone, nor poet's strain,
Records their honours undefil'd;
Even poesy would weave in vain
The laurel wreath for penury's child: Should fashion sneer, or fortune frown, "Twould wither ere the sun went down.
But greater, happier far is he,
More ample his reward of praise-
Though he should misery's kinsman be,
Though hardships cloud his early days-
Who triumphs in temptation's hour,
Than he who wins the warlike tower.
What though he may not write his name
On history's ever-living page!
What though the thrilling trump of fame
Echo it not from age to age?
"Tis blazon'd bright in realms on high,
Enroll'd in records of the sky.
What though the hireling bard be mute
When humble worth for notice calls?
There wants not voice of harp or lute
To hymn it high in heavenly halls :
Around the cell where virtue weeps,
His nightly watch the seraph keeps.
If peace of mind your thoughts employ,
Ye restless murmuring song of earth!
Ah! shun the splendid haunts of joy;
Peace dwells not with unholy mirth:
But oft amidst a crowd of woes,
As in the desert blooms the rose.
Thick fly the hostile shafts of fate,
And wreck and ruin mark their course; But the pure spirit, firm, sedate,
Nor feels their flight, nor fears its force: So storms the ocean's surface sweep, While calm below the waters sleep.
O! may eternal peace be mine,
Though outward woes urge on their war;
And, Hope, do thou my path define,
And light it with thy radiant star.
Thou, Hope; who through the shades of sorrow
Couldst trace the dawn of joy's bright morrow.
(Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez.)
I AM monarch of all I survey;
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach;
I must finish my journey alone;
Never hear the sweet music of speech-
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth;
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth,
Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smil❜d when a sabbath appear❜d.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land, I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see!
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