« VorigeDoorgaan »
No borrow'd joys! they're all our own, While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot : Monarchs! we envy not your state; We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large indeed,
For Nature's calls are few !
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish with content
Nor aim beyond our pow'r ; For if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd when ills betide,
And pleas'd with favours given :
part, This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heav'n.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat, (Since winter life is seldom sweet) :
But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.
Thus hand in hand through life we'll go, Its checker'd paths of joy and woe
With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead :
While Conscience, like a faithful friend,
And cheer our dying breath ;
And smooth the bed of death.
Rang'd by all-ruling Heaven's design,
The stars high-blazing roll.
That chance directs the whole.
Yet nations wide adopt this plan :
Unknown in Nature's state;
Th'ignoble or the great.
While such the consecrated springs,
Why sleeps the parent's care?
Regardless of his heir.
But to no favour'd race confin'd,
All ranks alike may claim;
May bless an humble dame.
The charm that softens manly grace,
The sympathy of mind,
The mates by heaven design'd.
But peevish Age, and gloomy Pride,
Those links which powerful draw
And Tyranny is law.
Far other maxims form'd our state:
Compose the harmonious frame. Firm hath the mighty fabric stood, And Britain boasts her mingled blood
In many a deathless name.
Free should the sons of freedom wed
Nor, heaping wealth on wealth,
And Sickness blasting Health.
But house for house, and grounds for grounds,
Each parent's thought employ:
Count less substantial joy!
And yet no niggard care confines
Flame in the daughter's dress :
The victim comes in rich attire,
Thy child, O monster, sáve!
Thy fatal passion gave.