Inebriety and the Candidate | Page 5

fate, who flew too near the sun,
Shot far beyond his
strength, and was undone;
Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore

The billow sweeps him, and he's found no more.
Oh! for some god,
to bear my fortunes fair
Midway betwixt presumption and despair!
"Has then some friendly critic's former blow
Taught thee a prudence
authors seldom know?"
Not so! their anger and their love untried,
A woe-taught prudence
deigns to tend my side:
Life's hopes ill-sped, the Muse's hopes grow
poor,
And though they flatter, yet they charm no more;
Experience
points where lurking dangers lay,
And as I run, throws caution in my
way.
There was a night, when wintry winds did rage,
Hard by a ruin'd pile,
I meet a sage;
Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd,

Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard;
Whose fate-lopp'd
brow, the bat's and beetle's dome,
Shook, as the hunted owl flew
hooting home.
His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast,


And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past;
His thread-bare coat
the supple osier bound,
And with slow feet he press'd the sodden
ground,
Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow,
He shook,
from locks as white, December's snow;
Inured to storm, his soul ne'er
bid it cease,
But lock'd within him meditated peace.
Father, I said--for silver hairs inspire,
And oft I call the bending
peasant Sire -
Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower,
That works
fantastic round its trembling tower,
We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming
thunders roar,
Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor;
For
Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu,
And Fear acquaints me I shall
live with you.
There was a time when, by Delusion led,
A scene of sacred bliss
around me spread,
On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood,
And
saw my Canaan there, my promised good;
A thousand scenes of joy
the clime bestow'd,
And wine and oil through vision's valleys flow'd;

As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd,
And gazed upon the
good I ne'er possess'd:
On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand,

Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land.
"Son," said the
Sage--"be this thy care suppress'd;
The state the gods shall chose thee
is the best:
Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more,
And would
thy patience when they make thee poor;
But other thoughts within thy
bosom reign,
And other subjects vex thy busy brain,
Poetic wreaths
thy vainer dreams excite,
And thy sad stars have destined thee to
write.
Then since that task the ruthless fates decree,
Take a few
precepts from the gods and me!
"Be not too eager in the arduous chase;
Who pants for triumph
seldom wins the race:
Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,

And let thy labours one by one go forth:
Some happier scrap
capricious wits may find
On a fair day, and be profusely kind;


Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng,
Had pleased as little as a
new-year's song,
Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet,


Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet.
Merit not always--Fortune
feeds the bard,
And as the whim inclines bestows reward:
None
without wit, nor with it numbers gain;
To please is hard, but none
shall please in vain:
As a coy mistress is the humour'd town,
Loth
every lover with success to crown;
He who would win must every
effort try,
Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly;
Must gay or
grave to every humour dress,
And watch the lucky Moment of
Success;
That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost;
But vain
are Wit and Love, when that is lost."
Thus said the god; for now a god he grew
His white locks changing
to a golden hue,
And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue.

His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed
Of dove-like Delia
when her doubts reposed;
Mira's alone a softer lustre bear,
When
woe beguiles them of an angel's tear;
Beauteous and young the
smiling phantom stood,
Then sought on airy wing his blest abode.
Ah! truth, distasteful in poetic theme,
Why is the Muse compell'd to
own her dream?
Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line,
I only
wish to make its moral mine.
Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed,
May Hope indulge her
flight, and I succeed?
Say, shall my name, to future song prefixed,

Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd?
Shall my soft strains the
modest maid engage,
My graver numbers move the silver "d sage,

My tender themes delight the lover's heart,
And comfort to the poor
my solemn songs impart?
For Oh! thou Hope's, thou Thought's eternal King,
Who gav'st them
power to charm, and me to sing -
Chief to thy praise my willing
numbers soar,
And in my happier transports I adore;
Mercy! thy
softest attribute proclaim,
Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name;

That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray,
As the full moon-beam
gilds the watery way.

And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord,


Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford,
To all the soil of sooty
passion blind,
Pure as embracing angels and as kind;
Our Mira's
name in future times shall shine,
And--though the
harshest--Shepherds envy mine.
Then let me (pleasing task!) however hard,
Join, as of