Like Nero, he's a fiddler, charioteer :
Or drives his phaëton in female guise ;
Quite unsuspected, till, the wheel beneath,
His disarray'd oblation he devours.
He most affects the forms least like himself,
His slender self: hence burly corpulence
Is his familiar wear, and sleek disguise.
Behind the rosy bloom he loves to lurk,
Or ambush in a smile; or, wanton, dive
In dimples deep; Love's eddies, which draw in
Unwary hearts, and sink them in despair.
Such on Narcissa's couch he loiter'd long
Unknown, and when detected, still was seen
To smile such peace has Innocence in death!
Most happy they, whom least his arts deceive'
One eye on Death, and one full fix'd on Heaven,
Becomes a mortal and immortal man.
Long on his wiles a piqued and jealous spy,
I've seen, or dream'd I saw, the tyrant dress,
Lay by his horrors, and put on his smiles.
Say, Muse! for thou remember'st, call it back,
And show Lorenzo the surprising scene;
If 'twas a dream, his genius can explain.
'Twas in a circle of the gay I stood:
Death would have enter'd; Nature push'd him back.
Supported by a doctor of renown,
His point he gain'd; then artfully dismiss'd
The sage; for Death design'd to be conceal'd:
He gave an old vivacious usurer
His meagre aspect, and his naked bones,
In gratitude for plumping up his prey,
A pamper'd spendthrift, whose fantastic air,
Well fashion'd figure, and cockaded brow,
He took in change, and underneath the pride
Of costly linen tuck'd his filthy shroud.
His crooked bow he straightened to a cane,
And hid his deadly shafts in Myra's eye.
The dreadful masquerader thus equipp'd,
Outsallies on adventures. Ask you where?
Where is he not? For his peculiar haunts
Let this suffice; sure as night follows day,
Death treads in Pleasure's footsteps round the world,
When Pleasure treads the paths which Reason shuns.
When against Reason, Riot shuts the door,
And Gaiety supplies the place of Sense,
Then, foremost at the banquet and the ball,
Death leads the dance, or stamps the deadly die,
Nor ever fails the midnight bowl to crown.
Gaily carousing to his gay compeers,
Inly he laughs to see them laugh at him,
As absent far; and when the revel burns,
When Fear is banish'd, and triumphant Thought,
Calling for all the joys beneath the moon,
Against him turns the key, and bids him sup
With their progenitors-he drops his mask,
Frowns out at full: they start, despair, expire.
Scarce with more sudden terror and surprise,
From his black mask of nitre, touch'd by fire,
He bursts, expands, roars, blazes, and devours.
And is not this triumphant treachery,
And more than simple conquest, in the fiend?
In soft security, because unknown
And now, Lorenzo, dost thou wrap thy soul
Rouse, stand in arms, nor lean against thy spear,
Lest slumber steal one moment o'er thy soul
And Fate surprise thee nodding. Watch, be strong; Thus give each day the merit and renown
Of dying well, though doom'd but once to die; ^ 895
Nor let life's period, hidden, (as from most)
Hide, too, from thee the precious use of life
Early, not sudden, was Narcissa's fate :
Soon, not surprising, Death his visit paid:
Her thought went forth to meet him on his
Nor Gaiety forgot it was to die ;
Though Fortune, too (our third and final theme,)
As an accomplice, play'd her gaudy plumes,
And every glittering gewgaw, on her sight,
To dazzle and debauch it from its mark.
Death's dreadful advent is the mark of man,
And every thought that misses it is blind.
Fortune with Youth and Gaiety conspired
To weave a triple wreath of happiness,
(If happiness on earth) to crown her brow:
That shining shield invites the tyrant's spear,
And could Death charge through such a shining зhield?
As if to damp our elevated aims,
And strongly preach humility to man.
O how portentous is prosperity!
How, cometlike, it threatens while it shines!
Few years but yield us proof of Death's ambition,
To cull his victims from the fairest fold,
And sheath his shafts in all the pride of life.
When flooded with abundance, purpled o'er
With recent honours, bloom'd with every bliss,
Set up in ostentation, made the gaze,
The gaudy centre, of the public eye;
When Fortune, thus, has toss'd her child in air,
Snatch'd from the covert of an humble state,
How often have I seen him dropp'd at once,
Our morning's envy! and our evening's sigh!
As if her bounties were the signal given,
The flowery wreath, to mark the sacrifice,
And call Death's arrows on the destined prey.
High Fortune seems in cruel league with Fate.
Ask you for what? to give his war on man
The deeper dread, and more illustrious spoil;
Thus to keep daring mortals more in awe.
And burns Lorenzo still for the sublime
Of life? to hang his airy nest on high,
On the slight timber of the topmcst bough,
Rock'd at each breeze, and menacing a fall?
Granting grim Death at equal distance there,
Yet peace begins just whore ambition ends.
What makes man wretched? Happiness denied?
Lorenzo! no; 'tis Happiness disdain'd!
She comes too meanly dress'd to win our smile,
And calls herself Content, a homely name!
Our flame is transport, and Content our scorn!
Ambition turns, and shuts the door against her,
And weds a toil, a tempest, in her stead;
A tempest to warm transport near of kin.
Unknowing what our mortal state admits,
Life's modest joys we ruin while we raise,
And all our ecstasies are wounds to peace
Peace, the full portion of mankind below.
And since thy peace is dear, ambitious youth Of fortune fond! as thoughtless of thy fate
As late I drew Death's picture, to stir up
Thy wholesome fears; now, drawn in contrast, see
Gay Fortune's thy vain hopes to reprimand.
See, high in air the sportive goddess hangs,
Unlocks her casket, spreads her glittering ware,
And calls the giddy winds to puff abroad
Her random bounties o'er the gaping throng.
All rush rapacious; friends o'er trodden friends,
Sons o'er their fathers, subjects o'er their kings,
Priests o'er their gods, and lovers o'er the fair,
(Still more adored) to snatch the golden shower. 965
Gold glitters most where virtue shines no more;
As stars from absent suns have leave to shine.
O what a precious pack of votaries,
Unkennel'd from the prisons and the stews,
Pour in, all opening in their idol's praise !
All, ardent, eye each wafture of her hand,
And, wide expanding their voracious jaws,
Morsel on morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, through mad appetite for more
Gorged to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still: 975 Sagacious all to trace the smallest game,
And bold to seize the greatest. If (bless'd chance') Court-zephyrs sweetly breathe; they launch, they fly, O'er just, o'er sacred, all-forbidden ground,
Drunk with the burning scent of place or power, 980
Stanch to the foot of Lucre-till they die.
Or, if for men you take them, as I mark
Their manners, thou their various fates survey.
With aim mismeasured and impetuous speed,
Some, darting, strike their ardent wish far off,
Through fury to possess it: some succeed,
But stumble, and let fall the taken prize.
From some, by sudden blasts, 'tis whirl'd away,
And lodged in bosoms that ne'er dream'd of gain.
To some it sticks so close, that, when torn off,
Torn is the man, and mortal is the wound.
Some, o'erenamour'd of their bags, run mad;
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
Together some (unhappy rivals!) seize,
And rend abundance into poverty:
Loud croaks the raven of the law, and smiles; Smiles, too, the goddess; but smiles most at those (Just victims of exorbitant desire !)
Who perish at their own request, and, whelm'd
Beneath her load of lavish grants, expire.
Fortune is famous for her numbers slain;
The number small which happiness can bear.
Though various for a while their fates, at last
One curse involves them all: at Death's approach
All read their riches backward into loss,
And mourn in just proportion to their store.
And Death's approach (if orthodox my song)
Is hasten'd by the lure of Fortune's smiles.
And art thou still a glutton of bright gold?
And art thou still rapacious of thy ruin?
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow;
A blow which, while it executes, alarms,
|