« AnteriorContinuar »
THERE are who think this scene of life
A frightful gladiatorial strife,
A struggle for existence,
Where class contends with class, and each
Must plunder all within his reach,
To earn his own subsistence.
Shock'd at the internecine air
Of this Arena, they forswear
Its passions and its quarrels;
They will not sacrifice, to live,
All that to life its charms can give,
Nor sell for bread their morals.
Enthusiasts! check your reveries,
Ye cannot always pluck at ease
From Pleasure's cornucopia;
Ye cannot alter Nature's plan,
Change to a perfect being Man,
Nor England to Utopia.
Plunge in the busy current-stem
The tide of errors ye condemn,
And fill life's active uses;
Begin reform yourselves, and live
prove that Honesty may thrive
Unaided by abuses.
TO A LADY.
[On giving the writer a little bronze Cupid from Pompeii.]
THANKS for thy little God of Love,
Dug from Pompeii-whose fate 'tis,
Henceforth to be install’d above
My household Lares and Penates.
Oh! could its lips of bronze unclose,
How sad a tale might they recall! How thrill us with th' appalling woes
Of the doom'd City's burial!
Perchance, on that benighted day
This tiny imp the table graced
The choicest stores of classic taste.
Methinks thy new abode is one
Thou wilt not, Cupid! disapprove,
For all my married life has run
A lengthen'd course of constant love.
Prompt me, thou type of higher hope!
To spread that love from me and mine,
Until, in its ascending scope,
It soar to social and divine.
So, little Elf ! shalt thou be eyed
With double favour by thine owner,
Both as a tutelary guide,
And a memorial of thy donor.