Classic Poem

The prime rewards four suppliant sons of fame,
Lust, Rapine, Violence, and Slaughter, claim;
And tho' essential happiness is due,
For toys the Wise, for toys the Virtuous sue.
Deluded men, the ready ambush fly!
Dire lurking deaths behind Ambition lie —
The mourning block, keen axe, and racking wheel,
The poison'd goblet, and the bosom'd steel!

Here Pleasure on her velvet-couch reclines,
Smiles to undo, and in destruction shines;
With seeming negligence displays her charms;
The strong she withers, and the steel'd disarms.
Imagination, specious handmaid, waits,
And serves a pomp of visionary cates:
The Sorceress still essays the fresh repasts;
But mock'd eternally, she feeds, and fasts.
Around her couch unnumber'd votaries meet,
And wish to share the imaginary treat;
Devour each morsel with desiring eye,
And for large draughts of fancied nectar sigh:
A thousand nymphs of wanton sprightly mien,
Trip round the sofa, and amuse their Queen;
With transport she surveys the darling train,
All daughters of her light fermenting brain:
Here Laughter, Mirth, and Dalliance unite,
Illusive Joy, and volatile Delight,
Conceits, sports, gambols, titillations gay,
Hopes that allure, and projects that betray.
Prime sister of the inessential bands,
Erect, persuasive Expectation stands;
On each pursuit she flourishes with grace,
And gives a butterfly to lead the chace;
Or wafts a bubble on the parting gale,
And bids surrounding multitudes assail;
With sweets the fond pursuit alone is fraught,
The game still vanishes, when once it's caught:
Vain is the joy — but not the anguish vain;
And empty pleasure gives essential pain:
Couch'd as a tyger, watchful to surprize,
Grim Death beneath the false enchantress lies;
The fiends around invisibly engage,
Guilt stings, pains rack, and disappointments rage;
Aches, asthmas, cholicks, gouts, convulsions, rheums,
Remorse that gnaws, and languor that consumes.

Far other train, Apparent Queen! you lead;
True bliss attends, tho' arduous toils precede:
Serene thy bosom, tho' thy brow severe;
Pain points thy path, but Heaven is in thy rear.
Wondrous the influence thy power supplies,
Where triumphs only from oppression rise;
Peace springs from passion, and from weakness might;
Calm ease from travel, and from pain delight;
No sweets that vanish, and no gusts that cloy —
Clear is the rapture, and serene the joy;
Reflection culls from every labour past,
And gives the same eternal bliss to last.
Thus, by long trial, and severe distress,
You, Virtue ! truely, tho' severely, bless;
Thro' each tradition, each recorded page,
Thro' every nation, and thro' every age,
From purpled monarchs to the rural hind,
By pain you purified, by toil refined:
The mightier weight thy favourite heroes bore;
Chief you depress'd, whom chief you meant should soar;
Still with the foe gave forces to prevail,
And with this Moral form'd the following Tale.