NOW while the fields in vivid green are drest,
And early flowers adorn Spring's simple vest;
While brighter suns the opening landscape warm,
And Nature's beauties in each object charm;
Far from the tumult of the worldly crowd,
From mad extravagance and folly loud,
Here let me sit, and court the Muse to tell
By what attractions, by what magic spell,
Fashion's frail chains the heaven-born soul can bind,
And fix on trifles the deluded mind;
Can lead us from the path mild Reason taught,
Corrupt our principles, debase our thought;
And render Man, for noblest views design'd,
To all Creation's boundless glories blind.
The sons of earth in emulation vie
To gain applause, to draw the public eye,
And to become, pursuing different rules,
The praise and envy of surrounding fools.
To few, alas! th' indulgent hand of Heaven
Has dazzling wit or deep discernment given:
To few superior talents are allow'd,
To rise sublime above the grovelling crowd;
To view unmov'd what meaner mortals prize,
And all Ambition's glittering toys despise.
Not so the favourites of Fortune's train —
Hers are the gay, the trivial, and the vain;
To them profuse the partial goddess pours
Her lavish honours, and her golden stores.
Yet shall the happy triflers want a name,
Unnoted in the shining lists of Fame?
A name nor wealth nor titles can bestow:
That, and that only, to ourselves we owe.
Convinc'd of this, to gain the envied prize
Each candidate some various method tries.
In rural scenes, where peaceful shades delight,
And flowery meadows fix the wandering sight —
Where pebbly streams in wild meanders flow,
And perfum'd winds o'er beds of roses blow —
Even there the love of fame mankind inspires,
And rustic breasts with rustic passions fires.
The 'Squire feels anguish more than words can tell,
If other hounds in swiftness his excel;
If other steeds, more forward in the race,
Outstrip his coursers in the devious chase.
The Country Justice, into years declin'd,
To more substantial honours turns his mind:
He glories in his barns with plenty stor'd,
And the luxuriance of his copious board;
Nor lets one care his placid mind molest —
Except some costlier dish should crown another's feast.
The rural Belle, impatient, seeks renown
In some new head-dress just arriv'd from Town;
Thinks how the wond'ring neighbourhood will gaze,
And circling beauties envy while they praise.
But few the cares that fill her artless breast,
Not yet by Vice or tainted or deprest,
Compar'd to those more courtly belles engage,
Where Fashion governs with despotic rage;
Where her fair vot'ry with contempt surveys
The long-lost innocence of former days:
Sever'd from blushing Modesty and Truth,
The dear companions of her happier youth,
No ties can bind, no principles restrain,
And Love and Duty plead, but plead in vain.
Yet, of the numbers who in error tread,
More are by weakness than by vice misled —
And rather act an imitative part,
Than follow the plain dictates of their heart. —
Elected by a grateful people's voice,
More from a sense of duty than from choice,
To join in senates in the loud debate,
The good Aurelius leaves his lov'd retreat.
With him the young Hermione he leads —
Hermione, who rear'd 'mid circling shades,
Remote from Fashion and remote from Strife,
He chose the partner of his blameless life.
Her cheeks disclos'd the rose's softest dye,
And innocence beam'd lovely from her eye;
On her red lips a mild composure charm'd,
And perfect symmetry her figure form'd.
In this new scene with timid steps she mov'd,
And blushing heard when Flattery approv'd;
The fluttering beaux in vain to please her sought —
Her dear Aurelius fill'd her every thought.
Now Envy loudly ridicules the fair,
Censures her dress, her manner, and her air;
And every female, swell'd with jealous hate,
Condemns what she can never imitate; —
And, lower than the last of womankind,
To theirs his taunts the silly coxcomb join'd,
Whom Nature form'd in a capricious mood,
Scorn'd by the wise, and pitied by the good.
Hermione abash'd view'd Envy's sneer,
While its rude satires piere'd her listening ear.
By nature virtuous, but too weak her sense
To brave th' attacks of dark Malevolence,
She leaves reluctant all she fondly loves,
And follows what her judgment disapproves;
With follies first, with vices next complied,
And sacrific'd her feelings to her pride.
Now, first in. Dissipation's giddy train,
Behold Hermione in triumph reign:
No more she rises with the morning ray,
But wastes in cards the night — in sleep the day;
Her pallid cheek, its native colour fled,
Assumes the glow of artificial red;
Her charms decay, her wonted health is flown,
Her former rectitude's for ever gone.
In vain with anxious care Aurelius tries
To clear the mists of error from her eyes.
At length he leads her to the rural plain,
Where once Contentment bless'd his wide domain:
But now no more Contentment will attend,
No more from Care's corrosive stings defend;
His chang'd Hermione he fondly mourns,
Whose alter'd heart no tenderness returns;
Till, long between contending passions tost,
His fortune sunk, his peace entirely lost,
He yielded to the welcome stroke of death,
And sigh'd Hermione! with latest breath.
O sad vicissitude of human state!
Daughters of Virtue, with vain pride elate,
Condemn not here a sister's levity;
But trembling think, such you, perhaps, may be. —
Yet, if o'er this sad tale we drop a tear,
What mortal, say, from laughter can forbear,
When he beholds Emilius' awkward grace,
His figure mean, and consequential face,
And views his mind — receptacle for all
The follies that to wretched mortals fall?
Bred in the City to an humble fate,
The sober youth behind his counter sat:
His study was of stocks the rise and fall,
And his grand festival a Lord Mayor's ball.
When Fortune, careful of the fool and knave,
A large estate beyond his wishes gave,
He hastes to figure where the Great resort,
And quits th' Exchange to bustle through the Court.
To ape the courtly fop in vain he tries;
Now with Lord Trinket in his carriage vies;
Now games, now drinks, now swears — and all for fame,
Since more illustrious blockheads do the same. —
But hark! what knell, inspiring awful fear,
In broken sounds thus strikes my wounded ear?
That knell it calls Olivia to the tomb,
Fallen in gay youth, in beauty's brightest bloom,
Adorn'd with sentiment and sense refin'd,
Whose only fault was a too feeling mind.
Propitious Fortune, at her natal hour,
Had added wealth to Nature's lavish dower:
The rich Hortensio's child and only heir,
She grew and flourish'd in his guardian care,
Till the pleas'd father with delight survey'd
His fondest hopes accomplish'd in the maid,
With native graces still by art,
Agenor sought, and won the virgin's heart:
Her sire consents, and Hymen's holy bands
Soon at the altar join their willing hands.
Unhappy fair! she hop'd the sacred rite
Their hearts should ever with their hands unite,
Her husband still her lover should remain,
And Death alone dissolve their lasting chain.
Not so Agenor. Bred in Fashion's schools,
And blindly govern'd by her senseless rules,
He thought affection for a wife disgrac'd
The nice refinement of a man of taste.
In vain mankind with one consent declare
Olivia fairest amid thousands fair:
Blind to her charms, unworthy of her love,
To meaner beauties his affections rove;
And, seeking fancied bliss, his footsteps roam
Far from the genuine happiness of home.
A soft concern, mix'd with offended pride,
Usurp'd the breast of his neglected bride,
To think that he alone unmov'd should view
Those peerless charms which all beside subdue.
At length her busy thought suggests a scheme
Destructive to her peace and to her fame,
And makes her strive by jealousy to gain
That fickle heart which scorn'd a milder chain.
Too soon the story restless Scandal spread,
How fair Olivia, by resentment led,
Justly incens'd against a faithless spouse,
Had in her turn forgot her plighted vows.
Agenor heard the tale; and, wild with rage,
Mistaken honour urg'd him to engage
His life for her, whom his caprice disdain'd
While undefil'd her character remain'd.
Why should on the sad relation dwell?
A hasty challenge sent — he fought, and fell!
Borne through those streets a senseless load of clay,
Where late he wander'd negligent and gay,
His alter'd features crowds with tears survey.
But who can paint the anguish and despair
That rack'd the bosom of the hapless fair
Who caus'd his death, when, pierc'd with many a wound,
The man she lov'd a breathless corse she found?
Horror, contrition, grief, at once combin'd
To rouse each feeling of her tortur'd mind,
Till, her weak frame unequal to the strife,
Prone on Agenor's bier she clos'd her wretched life.
Learn hence, ye fair, to shun each dangerous art,
Nor even in thought from rectitude depart:
Be still unmov'd by Jealousy's alarms,
For Temper more than Wit or Beauty charms.
So, when old age shall spoil each transient grace,
Dim thy bright eyes, and wrinkle o'er thy face —
Steal from thy faded cheek the rose's hue,
And bend that form which now delights the view —
Still chaste Affection with unclouded ray
Shall gild the evening of thy latest day;
Still powerful Virtue shall victorious prove,
And fix, where Beauty fails, a husband's love. —
Silius affects an absent careless mien,
Nothing by him is heard, and nothing seen;
Or, should his eyes a play or ball explore,
He listless yawns, and wishes it was o'er. —
His native England Lycidas disdains,
And quits her oaken groves for Gallia's plains:
Foreign his accent, foreign is his air,
His dress resplendent with Parisian glare;
And, while his apish tricks contempt inspire,
He vainly thinks the wondering crowds admire. —
Nothing so much delights Camillo's mind,
As to be thought a man of taste refin'd;
On pictures, statues, poems to decide,
And by his nod the sons of Genius guide.
Unnumber'd artists-crowd his plenteous board,
And needy Science courts the wealthy lord:
There, like the mimic heroes of the stage,
He acts Mæcenas to the present age,
While starving wits, amid their venal lays,
Pay for substantial dinners empty praise. —
But these are trifling faults, and less proceed
From heart defective than defective head.
But darker shades remain, whose force to paint,
Language is cold, ideas are but faint;
Crimes at which Reason starts with holy fear,
To which even Pity scarce can grant a tear.
Behold the reptile man, whose impious pride
Dares all that's sacred, all that's just, deride;
Dares the existence of that God deny,
Who was, and is, through all eternity;
Whose power, resistless, to destroy or save,
To man, ungrateful man, a being gave;
Whose mercy doom'd his only Son to bleed,
Our sinful race from paths of Death to lead;
Who, omnipresent, all our guilt can view,
And pitying yet withholds the vengeance due!
But let me hope that few thus madly dare
Wage with Omnipotence a desperate war.
Most men acknowledge and revere a God,
And dread at intervals his chastening rod:
But scarce the tears of soft Contrition spring,
When, borne on Dissipation's airy wing,
And mid the world's ensnaring pleasures tost,
Too oft the thoughtless wanderer is lost.
Children of Error, then, a moment stay,
Nor scorn to listen to my artless lay,
Which seeks no recompense, but to impart
A ray of Truth to the bewilder'd heart.
Yet think an hour shall come, nor far that hour,
When Death's dread horrors shall each sense o'erpower;
When ye shall ask in vain a little time,
In vain lament the errors of your prime;
With terror view your near approaching end,
And helpless, hopeless to the grave descend.
O then reform, while haply yet ye can,
While Providence allows a length'ning span,
Nor to a future time the change delay.
Perhaps your life may finish with this day;
The present day, the present hour alone,
Is all, weak mortal, thou can'st call thine own.
Then seize this fleeting moment to deplore
Thy sins, resolv'd to yield to sin no more;
Regard life's darkest hours, its scenes most gay,
As showers and sun-beams of an April day;
And fix thy mind on that sublime abode,
Where soon thy spirit may rejoin its God;
There, mix'd with angels and archangels, raise
The hymn of glory to thy Maker's praise;
Thy views o'er vast, unmeasur'd space extend,
And taste pure joys that know nor change nor end!