« EelmineJätka »
By the world's kings, and kingdoms, most renown'd,
From short ambition's zenith set for ever,
Sad presage to vain boasters, now in bloom!
By the long list of swift mortality,
From Adam downward to this evening knell,
Which midnight waves in fancy's startled eye,
And shocks her with an hundred centuries;
Round Death's black banner throng'd, in human
By thousands, now, resigning their last breath,
And calling thee-wert thou so wise to hear!
By tombs o'er tombs arising; human earth
Ejected, to make room for-human earth;
The monarch's terror! and the sexton's trade!
By pompous obsequies that shun the day,
The torch funereal, and the nodding plume,
Which makes poor man's humiliation proud;
Boast of our ruin! triumph of our dust!
By the damp vault that weeps o'er royal bones;
And the pale lamp that shows the ghastly dead,
More ghastly through the thick incumbent gloom!
By visits (if there are) from darker scenes,
The gliding spectre! and the groaning grave!
By groans, and graves, and miseries that groan
For the grave's shelter! By desponding men,
Senseless to pains of death, from pangs of guilt!
By guilt's last audit! By yon Moon in blood,
The rocking firmament, the falling stars,
And thunder's last discharge, great Nature's knell!
By second chaos and eternal night.”—
Be wise-Nor let Philander blame my charm;
But own not ill-discharg'd my double debt,
Love to the living; duty to the dead!
For know I'm but executor; he left
This moral legacy; I make it o'er
By his command; Philander hear in me;
And Heaven in both.-If deaf to these, O! hear
Florello's tender voice: his weal depends
On thy resolve; it trembles at thy choice,
For his sake-love thyself: example strikes
All human hearts; a bad example more;
More still a father's; that insures his ruin.
As parent of his being, wouldst thou provo
Th' unnatural parent of his miseries,
The ship-boy's hammock, or the soldier's straw,
Whence sorrow never chas'd thee; with thee bring
Not hideous visions, as of late; but draughts
Delicious of well-tasted, cordial, rest;
Man's rich restorative; his balmy bath,
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play
The various movements of this nice machine,
Which asks such frequent periods of repair.
When tir'd with vain rotations of the day,
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn;
Fresh we spin on, till sickness clogs our wheels,
Or Death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends.
When will it end with me?
"THOU only know'st, Thou, whose broad eye the future, and the past, Joins to the present; making one of three To mortal thought! Thou know'st, and thou alone, All-knowing!-all-unknown!—and yet well-known. Near, though remote! and, though unfathom'd, felt!
And, though invisible, for ever seen!
And seen in all! the great and the minute :
Each globe above with its gigantic race,
Each flower, each leaf, with its small people
(Those puny vouchers of Omnipotence !) To the first thought, that asks, From whence?' declare
Their common source. Thou fountain, running o'er
In rivers of communicated joy!
Who gav'st us speech for far, far humbler themes!
Say, by what name shall I presume to call
Him I see burning in these countless suns,
As Moses, in the bush? Illustrious Mind!
The whole creation, less, far less, to thee,
Than that to the creation's ample round.
How shall I name thee?-How my laboring soul
Heaves underneath the thought, too big for birth!
"Great system of perfections! mighty cause
Of causes mighty! cause uncaus'd! sole root
Of Nature, that luxuriant growth of God!
First Father of effects! that progeny
Of endless series; where the golden chain's
Last link admits a period, who can tell?
And make him curse the being which thou gavest? Father of all that is or heard, or hears!
Is this the blessing of so fond a father?
If careless of Lorenzo! spare, Oh! spare
Florello's father, and Philander's friend!
Florello's father ruin'd, ruins him;
And from Philander's friend the world expects
A conduct no dishonor to the dead.
Let passion do, what nobler motive should;
Let love, and emulation, rise in aid
To reason and persuade thee to be blest.
This seems not a request to be denied;
Yet (such the infatuation of mankind!)
"Tis the most hopeless, man can make to man.
Shall I then rise in argument, and warmth?
And urge Philander's posthumous advice,
From topics yet unbroach'd-—
But, Oh! I faint! My spirits fail!-Nor strange !
So long on wing, and in no middle clime!
To which my great Creator's glory call'd;
And calls-but, now, in vain. Sleep's dewy wand
Has strok'd my drooping lips, and promises
My long arrear of rest; the downy god
(Wont to return with our returning peace)
Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose.
Haste, haste, sweet stranger! from the peasant's
Father of all that is or seen, or sees!
Father of all that is, or shall arise!
Father of this immeasurable mass
Of matter multiform; or dense, or rare;
Opaque, or lucid; rapid, or at rest;
Minute, or passing bound! in each extreme
Of like amaze, and mystery, to man.
Father of these bright millions of the night!
Of which the least full godhead had proclaim'd,
And thrown the gazer on his knee-Or, say,
Is appellation higher still, thy choice?
Father of matter's temporary lord!
Father of spirits! nobler offspring! sparks
Of high paternal glory; rich endow'd
With various measures, and with various modes
Of instinct, reason, intuition; beams
More pale, or bright from day divine, to break
The darker matter organiz'd (the ware
Of all created spirit); beams, that rise
Each over other in superior light,
Till the last ripens into lustre strong,
Of next approach to godhead. Father fond
(Far fonder than e'er bore that name on Earth)
Of intellectual beings! beings blest
With powers to please thee! not of passive ply
To laws they know not; beings lodg'd in seats
Of well-adapted joys, in different domes
Of this imperial palace for thy sons;
Of this proud, populous, well-policied,
Though boundless habitation, plann'd by thee:
Whose several clans their several climates suit;
And transposition, doubtless, would destroy.
Or, Oh! indulge, immortal King, indulge
A title less august indeed, but more
Endearing; ah! how sweet in human ears,
Sweet in our ears, and triumph in our hearts!
Father of immortality to man!
A theme that lately set my soul on fire-
And thou the next! yet equal! thou, by whom
That blessing was convey'd; far more! was bought:
Ineffable the price! by whom all worlds
Were made; and one redeem'd! illustrious light
From light illustrious! Thou, whose regal power,
Finite in time, but infinite in space,
On more than adamantine basis fix'd,
O'er more, far more, than diadems and thrones,
Inviolably reigns; the dread of gods!
And Oh! the friend of man! beneath whose foot,
And by the mandate of whose awful nod,
All regions, revolutions, fortunes, fates,
Of high, of low, of mind, and matter, roll
Through the short channels of expiring time,
Or shoreless ocean of eternity,
Calm, or tempestuous (as thy spirit breathes),
In absolute subjection!—And, O thou
The glorious third! distinct, not separate!
Beaming from both! with both incorporate;
And (strange to tell!) incorporate with dust!
By condescension, as thy glory, great,
Enshrin'd in man! of human hearts, if pure,
Divine inhabitant! the tie divine
Of Heaven with distant Earth! by whom I trust,
(If not inspir'd) uncensur'd this address
To thee, to them—to whom!—Mysterious power!
Reveal'd!-yet unreveal'd! darkness in light!
Number in unity! our joy! our dread!
The triple bolt that lays all wrong in ruin!
That animates all right, the triple sun!
Sun of the soul! her never-setting sun!
Triune, unutterable, unconceiv'd,
Absconding, yet demonstrable, great God!
Greater than greatest! Better than the best!
Kinder than kindest! with soft pity's eye,
Or (stronger still to speak it) with thine own,
From thy bright home, from that high firmament,
Where thou, from all eternity, hast dwelt;
Beyond archangel's unassisted ken;
From far above what mortals highest call;
From elevation's pinnacle; look down,
Through-What? confounding interval! through
And more than laboring fancy can conceive;
Through radiant ranks of essences unknown;
Through hierarchies from hierarchies detach'd
Round various banners of omnipotence,
With endless change of rapturous duties fir'd;
Through wondrous beings interposing swarms,
All clustering at the call, to dwell in thee;
Through this wide waste of worlds! this vista vast,
All sanded o'er with suns; suns turn'd to night
Before thy feeblest beam-Look down-down-
* Nights the Sixth and Seventh.
On a poor breathing particle in dust,
Or, lower, an immortal in his crimes.
His crimes forgive! forgive his virtues, too!
Those smaller faults, half-converts to the right.
Nor let me close these eyes, which never more
May see the Sun (though night's descending scale
Now weighs up morn), unpitied, and unblest!
In thy displeasure dwells eternal pain;
Pain, our aversion; pain, which strikes me now;
And, since all pain is terrible to man,
Though transient, terrible; at thy good hour,
Gently, ah gently, lay me in my bed,
My clay-cold bed! by nature now, so near;
By nature, near; still nearer by disease!
Till then, be this, an emblem of my grave:
Let it out-preach the preacher; every night
Let it out-cry the boy at Philip's ear;
That tongue of death! that herald of the tomb!
And when (the shelter of thy wing implor'd)
My senses, sooth'd, shall sink in soft repose,
O sink this truth still deeper in my soul,
Suggested by my pillow, sign'd by fate,
First, in fate's volume, at the page of man-
Man's sickly soul, though turn'd and toss'd for
Thou God and mortal! Thence more God to man!
Man's theme eternal! man's eternal theme!
Thou canst not 'scape uninjur'd from our praise.
Uninjur'd from our praise can he escape,
Who, disembosom'd from the Father, bows
The Heaven of Heavens, to kiss the distant Earth!
Breathes out in agonies a sinless soul!
Against the cross, Death's iron sceptre breaks!
From famish'd ruin plucks her human prey!
Throws wide the gates celestial to his foes!
Their gratitude, for such a boundless debt,
Deputes their suffering brothers to receive!
And, if deep human guilt in payment fails;
As deeper guilt prohibits our despair!
Enjoins it, as our duty, to rejoice!
And (to close all) omnipotently kind,
Takes his delight among the sons of men.”+
What words are these-And did they come from
And were they spoke to man? to guilty man?
What are all mysteries to love like this?
The songs of angels, all the melodies
Of choral gods, are wafted in the sound;
Heal and exhilarate the broken heart;
Though plung'd, before, in horrors dark as night.
Rich prelibation of consummate joy!
Nor wait we dissolution to be blest.
This final effort of the moral Muse,
How justly titled !‡ nor for me alone :
For all that read; what spirit of support,
What heights of Consolation, crown my song!
Then, farewell night! of darkness, now, no
Joy breaks; shines; triumphs; 'tis eternal day.
Shall that which rises out of nought complain
Of a few evils, paid with endless joys?
My soul! henceforth, in sweetest union, join
The two suppors of human happiness,
Which some, erroneous, think can never meet;
True taste of life, and constant thought of death!
The thought of death, sole victor of its dread!
Hope, be thy joy; and probity, thy skill;
Thy patron he, whose diadem has dropp'd
Yon gems of Heaven; eternity, thy prize:
And leave the racers of the world their own,
Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils:
They part with all for that which is not bread;
They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, power;
And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more.
How must a spirit, late escap'd from Earth,
Suppose Philander's, Lucia's, or Narcissa's,
The truth of things new-blazing in its eye,
Look back, astonish'd, on the ways of men,
Whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves!
And when our present privilege is past,
To scourge us with due sense of its abuse,
The same astonishment will seize us all.
What then must pain us, would preserve us now.
Lorenzo! 'tis not yet too late; Lorenzo!
Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise;
That is, seize wisdom, ere she seizes thee.
For what, my small philosopher, is Hell?
'Tis nothing but full knowledge of the truth,
-When truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe:
And calls eternity to do her right.
Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred silence whispering truths divine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace,
My song the midnight raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes,
Beyond the flaming limits of the world,
Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight
Of fancy, when our hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in flatteries and foes;
"Tis pride to praise her; penance to perform.
My verse is Satire; Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear.
To poets sacred is a Dorset's name;
Their wonted passport through the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applause to Blackmore, or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue:
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.
Instructive Satire, true to virtue's cause!
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the Law shows her teeth, but dares not bite
And South-sea treasures are not brought to light;
When churchmen Scripture for the classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying sinners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,
Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,
To more than words, to more than worth of And dedication wash an Ethiop white,
Lorenzo! rise, at this auspicious hour;
An hour, when Heaven's most intimate with man;
When, like a falling star,
Glides swift into the bosom of the just;
And just are all, determin'd to reclaim;
Which sets that title high within thy reach.
Awake, then: thy Philander calls: awake!
Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps;
When, like a taper, all these suns expire;
When Time, like him of Gaza in his wrath,
Plucking the pillars that support the world,
In Nature's ample ruins lies entomb'd;
And midnight, universal midnight! reigns.
Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast,
On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral eloquence her colors spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirize with nothing-but their praise?
Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train
Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,
And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking still!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find,
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raiso
What will not men attempt for sacred praise?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:
"Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humor makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud? the pimp is proud to see
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue, and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.
Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went:
One way they look, another way they steer,
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their sins they set sincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.
Others with wistful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book:
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,
Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title T had dropp'd his quill,
T- might have pass'd for a great genius still.
But T- alas! (excuse him if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious, some a classic fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A wagon-load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor❜d.
Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patchwork learn'd quotations are allied;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.
On glass how witty is a noble peer! Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?
Polite diseases make some idiots vain;
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see;
And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery;
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,
By spitting on your face, to make it clean.
Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with pride,
Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can she not perform? The love of Fame
Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame :
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep:
And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.
Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,
Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line;
Though for the first all Westminster should plead,
And for the last all Gresham intercede.
Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room :
He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry, prov'd valiant or discreet:
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raise his father's from the grave.
Men should press forward in Fame's glorious chase;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high-birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing-but merit in a low estate.
To virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.
Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean sons of earth, who on a South-sea tide
Of full success, swam into wealth and pride,
Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.
When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause'
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.
Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!
In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll outdo;
And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.
The pile is finish'd; every toil is past;
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;
When lo! my lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain, what is many a lordly seat,
But a discharge in full for an estate?
In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame :
Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known,
Though her lov'd lord has four half months been dead. Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.
This passion with a pimple have I seen
Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.
By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.
Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin?
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
The bailiffs come (rude men, profanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, sirs," he cries, "I'll sooner rot in jail:
Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"
Such heads might make their very bustos laugh:
His daughter starves; but Cleopatra's safe.*
Men, overloaded with a large estate,
May spill their treasure in a nice conceit:
The rich may be polite: but, oh! 'tis sad
To say you're curious, when we swear you're ma?
By your revenue measure your expense;
And to your funds and acres join your sense.
No man is bless'd by accident or guess ;
True wisdom is the price of happiness:
Yet few without long discipline are sage;
And our youth only lays up sighs for age.
But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire;-it abounds in lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin?"
One is just out, and one as lately in.
How comes it then to pass, we see preside
On both their brows an equal share of pride?"
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
As in its home it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their hands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign; and turns their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honors lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,
The boast of merely being out, or in.
Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back,)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypsy you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the jest you made.
Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew.
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates ;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages witout winding-up?
What numbers here, through odd ambition, strive Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame ?
To seem the most transported things alive!
As if by joy, desert was understood;
And all the fortunate were wise and good.
Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,
And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely dress'd by Monteuil* and grimace,
They take their birth-day suit and public face:
Their smiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night, with Lady B- -'s hair.
What bodily fatigue is half so bad?
With anxious care they labor to be glad.
What numbers, here, would into fame advance,
Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;
The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.
Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support,
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.
High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:
None think the great unhappy, but the great:
Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest ;
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still:
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.
The squire is proud to see his coursers strain, Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.
Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme:
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write so fast as men run mad?
My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end;
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line:
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When such the foe, a war eternal wage;
"Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.
So weak are human-kind by Nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the Sun, all colors dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reason to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolytus* demands the sylvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!
Why teems the Earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the Sun? To make Paul Diackt rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good:
What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair?
He dotes! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
OC! and be kind, ere 'tis too late.
*This refers to the first Satire.
†The name of a tulip.