Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold!
Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir,
All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold,
The silly tenant of the summer-air,
In folly lost, of nothing takes he care.
Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile,
And thieving tradesmen him among them share :
His father's ghost from Limbo-lake, the while,
Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile.
This globe portray'd the race of learned men,
Still at their books, and turning o'er the page,
Backwards and forwards: oft they snatch the pen,
As if inspir'd, and in a Thespian rage;
Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage.
Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore?
To lose the present, gain the future age,
Praised to be when you can hear no more,
And much enrich'd with fame, when useless worldly store.
Then would a splendid city rise to view,
With carts, and cars, and coaches roaring all:
Wide-pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew;
See how they dash along from wall to wall!
At every door, hark how they thund'ring call!
Good Lord! what can this giddy rout excite?
Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall;
A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace to blight,
And make new tiresome parties for the coming night.
The puzzling sons of party next appear'd,
In dark cabals and nightly juntos met;
And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging rear'd
Th' important shoulder: then, as if to get
New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set.
No sooner Lucifer recalls affairs,
Than forth they various rush in mighty fret;
When, lo! push'd up to power, and crown'd their cares, In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs.
But what most show'd the vanity of life,
Was, to behold the nations all on fire,
In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife:
Most Christian kings, inflam'd by black desire,
With honourable ruffians in their hire,
Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour :
Of this sad work when each begins to tire,
They sit them down just where they were before,
Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force restore.
To number up the thousands dwelling here,
A useless were, and eke an endless task;
From kings, and those who at the helm appear,
To gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask.
Yea, many a man, perdie, I could unmask,
Whose desk and table make a solemn show,
With tape-tied trash, and suits of fools that ask
For place or pension laid in decent row;
But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe.
Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
There was a man of special grave remark :1
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face.
Pensive, not sad; in thought involv’d, not dark :
As soot this man could sing as morning-lark,
And teach the noblest morals of the heart:
But these his talents were yburied stark ;
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart,
Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art.
To noon-tide shades incontinent he ran,
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound;
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found:
There would he linger, till the latest ray
Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound;
Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray,
Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day.
Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they pass'd:
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew reveal'd.
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field,
And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind,
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build,
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind;
But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind.
1 'A man of special,' &c.: William Paterson, Thomson's successor in the office of Surveyor-general to the Leeward Islands.
With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke),
One shyer still,1 who quite detested talk.
Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke,
To groves of pine and broad o'ershading oak:
There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone,
And on himself his pensive fury wroke;
Ne ever utter'd word, save, when first shone
The glittering star of eve, "Thank Heaven! the day is
Here lurk'd a wretch,2 who had not crept abroad
For forty years, ne face of mortal seen;
In chamber brooding like a loathly toad:
And sure his linen was not very clean.
Through secret loop-holes, that had practis'd been
Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took;
Unkempt and rough, of squalid face and mien;
Our Castle's shame! whence, from his filthy nook,
We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look.
One day their chaunc'd into these halls to rove
A joyous youth,3 who took you at first sight:
Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove,
Before the sprightly tempest tossing light.
Certes, he was a most engaging wight,
Of social glee, and wit humane though keen,
Turning the night to day, and day to night:
For him the merry bells had rung, I ween,
If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been.
'One shyer still:' Dr Armstrong, author of 'The Art of Preserving Health.' 2A wretch: Henry Welby, an eccentric solitaire of the period.- 'Joyous youth' John Forbes, son of President Forbes.
But not even pleasure to excess is good: What most elates then sinks the soul as low: When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, The higher still th' exulting billows flow, The farther back again they flagging go, And leave us grovelling on the dreary shore. Taught by this son of joy, we found it so ; Who, whilst he stay'd, kept in a gay uproar Our madden'd Castle all, th' abode of sleep no more.
As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky, Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, Soothing at first the gay reposing throng: And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drown'd, He, thence recov'ring, drives their beds among, And scares their tender sleep with trump profound; Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round.
Another guest1 there was, of sense refin'd,
Who felt each worth,-for ev'ry worth he had ;
Serene yet warm, humane yet firm his mind,
As little touch'd as any man's with bad.
Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad,
To him the sacred love of Nature lent;
And sometimes would he make our valley glad.
Whenas we found he would not here be pent,
To him the better sort this friendly message sent:
1 'Another guest:' Lord Lyttelton.
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