The ambitious wretch, whose discontented soul Is harrow'd day and night; he mourns, he pines, Until his prince's favour makes him great.
See there he comes, the exalted idol comes ! The circle's form'd, and all his fawning slaves Devoutly bow to earth; from every mouth The nauseous flattery flows, which he returns With promises, that die as soon as born. Vile intercourse! where virtue has no place. Frown but the monarch, all his glories fade; He mingles with the throng, outcast, undone, The pageant of a day; without one friend To soothe his tortured mind ; all, all are fled. For though they bask'd in his meridian ray, The insects vanish, as his beams decline.
Not such our friends ; for here no dark design, No wicked interest bribes the venal heart; But inclination to our bosom leads,
And weds them there for life; our social cups Smile, as we smile; open, and unreserved, We speak our inmost souls; good humour, mirth, Soft complaisance, and wit from malice free, Smooth every brow, and glow on every cheek.
O happiness sincere! what wretch would groan Beneath the galling load of power, or walk Upon the slippery pavements of the great, Who thus could reign, unenvied and secure?
Ye guardian powers who make mankind your care, Give me to know wise Nature's hidden depths; Trace each mysterious cause, with judgment read The expanded volume, and submiss adore That great creative Will, who at a word Spoke forth the wondrous scene. But if my soul, To this gross clay confined, flutters on earth
With less ambitious wing; From orb to orb, where Newton leads the way; And view with piercing eyes the grand machine, Worlds above worlds; subservient to his voice, Who veil'd in clouded majesty, alone
Gives light to all; bids the great system move, And changeful seasons in their turns advance, Unmoved, unchanged, Himself. Yet this at least Grant me propitious, an inglorious life,
Calm and serene, nor lost in false pursuits Of wealth or honours; but enough to raise My drooping friends, preventing modest Want That dares not ask. And if, to crown my joys, Ye grant me health, that, ruddy in my cheeks, Blooms in my life's decline; fields, woods, and streams,
Each towering hill, each humble vale below,
Shall hear my cheering voice, my hounds shall
The lazy morn, and glad the horizon round.
TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE.
Introduction-Description of flying at the stag with eagles, after the manner of the Asiatic princes-Description of hern-hawking-Of flying at the river-Partridge-hawking-Daring the lark with an hobby just mentionedShooting flying-Setting-Angling-Conclusion.
ONCE more, great Prince! permit an humble bard Prostrate to pay his homage at your feet; Then, like the morning lark from the low ground Towering aloft, sublime, to soar and sing; Sing the heart-cheering pleasure of the fields, The choice delight of heroes and of kings.
In earlier times monarchs of Eastern race, In their full-blaze of pride, as story tells, Train'd up the imperial eagle, sacred bird! Hooded, with jingling bells she perch'd on high; Not as when erst on golden wings she led The Roman legions o'er the conquer'd globe, Mankind her quarry; but a docile slave, Tamed to the lure, and careful to attend Her master's voice. Behold the man renown'd, Abbas the Great, (whom all his fawning slaves Deem'd king of kings; vain fools! they sure forgot Greater Leonidas, and those fatal straits1 [heaps, Blood-stain'd, where slaughter'd Persians fell on
1 Straits of Thermopyla. See the story of Xerxes.
A dreadful carnage!) see his numerous host Spread wide the plains, and in their front upborne Each on her perch, that bends beneath her weight, Two sister eagles, stately ponderous birds! The air's a desert, and the feather'd race Fly to the neighbouring covert's dark retreats. The royal pair on wing, this whirls around In circles wide, or like the swallow skims The russet plain, and mimics as she flies (By many a sleepless night instructed well) The hound's loud openings, or the spaniel's quest. What cannot wakeful industry subdue ?
Meanwhile that mounts on high, and seems to view A black ascending cloud, when pierced the gloom Of vapours dank condensed, the sun's bright beams Pain not her sight: she with expanded sails Works through the ethereal fluid; then perhaps Sees through a break of clouds this self-poised orb Hard by her handmaid moon. She looks beneath Contemptuous, and beholds from far this earth, This molehill earth, and all its busy arts Labouring for life, which lasts so short a day, Just blazing and extinct. So thou, my soul! That breath of life which all men must perceive, But none distinctly know, when once escaped From this poor helpless corse, and when on high Borne on angelic wings, look down with scorn On this mean lessening world, and knaves grown rich By chance, or fraud, or insolence of power.
Now from her highest pitch, by quick degrees, With less ambition, nearer earth she tends, As yet scarce visible; and high in air, Poised on extended wings, with sharper ken Attentive marks whate'er is done below.
Thus some wise general, from a rising ground,
Observes the embattled foe, where serried ranks Forbid access, or where their order loose Invites the attack, and points the way to fate.
All now is tumult; each heart swells with joy; The falconers shout, and the wide concave rings : Tremble the forests round; the joyous cries
Float through the vales; and rocks, and woods, and
Return the varied sounds.
Forth bursts the stag,
Nor trusts the mazes of his deep recess;
Fear hid him close, strange inconsistent guide! Now hurries him aghast, with busy feet, Far o'er the spacious plain: he pants to reach The mountain's brow, or with unsteady step To climb the craggy cliff; the greyhounds strain Behind to pinch his haunch, who scarce evades Their gaping jaws. One eagle, wheeling, flies In airy labyrinths, or with easier wing Skims by his side, and stuns his patient ear With hideous cries; then peals his forehead broad, Or at his eyes her fatal malice aims:
The other, like the bolt of angry Heaven, Darts down at once, and fixes on his back Her griping talons, ploughing with her beak His pamper'd chine: the blood and sweat, distill'd From many a dripping furrow, stains the soil. Who pities not this fury-hunted wretch, Embarrass'd thus, on every side distress'd? Death will relieve him; for the greyhounds fierce, Seizing their prey, soon drag him to the ground: Groaning he falls; with eyes that swim in tears He looks on man, chief author of his woe, And weeps, and dies! the grandees press around, To dip their sabres in his boiling blood. Unseemly joy! 'tis barbarous to insult
« EelmineJätka » |