Thou wert grown old before the birth of man,
And reign'dst before formation's self began ;
From thee creation took its new-born way,
When infant Nature smiled on opening day.
Now, winking, weary of the oppressive light,
It longs to be re-hushed in lulling night :
For each bold starter from thy powerful reign
Returns at length thy humble slave again.
Oh happy he who, conscious of thy sweets,
Safe to thy circling arms betimes retreats!
Raised on thy downy car, he shuns all strife,
And lolls along the thorny roads of life.
Indulgent dreams his slumbering senses please,
And his numbed spirits shrink to central ease.
Nor passion's conflicts his soft peace infest,
Nor danger rouses his unlistening rest.
Stretched in supine content, afloat, he lies,
And drives down time's slow stream, with unfixed eyes.
Lethargic influence bars the approach of pain,
And storms blow round him, and grow hoarse in vain.
Forgetfulness plays balmy round his head,
And halcyon fogs hang lambent o'er his bed.
O sovereign Sloth, to whom we quiet owe !
Nature's kind nurse! soft couch for weary woe !
Safe in thy arms the unbusied slumberer lies,
Lives without pain, and without sighing dies.
States rise or fall, his lot is still the same;
For he's above mischance who has no aim.
How curs'd the man who still is musing found! His mill-horse soul forms one eternal round;
When wiser beasts lie lost in needful rest,
He, madman! wakes, to war on his own breast. Thoughts dash on thoughts, as waves on waves increase, And storms of his own raising wreck his peace.
Now, like swift coursers in the rapid race,
His spirits strain for speed; now, with slow pace,
The sinking soul, tired out, scarce limps along,
Sullen and sick with such extremes of wrong.
What art thou, life, if care corrodes thy span?
A gnawing worm! a bosom-hell to man!
If e'er distracting business proves my doom,
Thou, Indolence, to my deliverance come :
Distil thy healing balm, like softening oil,
And cure the ignoble malady of toil.
Thou, best physician! canst the sulphur find
That dries this itch of action on the mind.
Malice and lust, voracious birds of prey,
That outsoar reason, and our wishes sway,
Desire's wild seas, on which the wise are tossed,
By pilot Indolence are safely crossed.
Hushed in soft rest they quiet captives lie,
And, wanting nourishment, grow faint and die.
By thee, O sacred Indolence, the sons
Of honest Levi loll like lazy drones;
While battered hirelings drudge in saying prayer,
Thou tak'st sleek doctors to thy downy care.
Well dost thou help to form the double chin,
Dilate the paunch, and raise the reverend mien.
By thee with stol'n discourses they are pleased,
That we with worse may not be dully teased:
A happiness that laymen ought to prize
Who value time and would be counted wise.
From thee innumerable blessings flow.
What coffee-man does not thy virtues know?
Tobacconists and newsmongers revere
Thy lordly influence, with religious fear.
Chairs, coaches, games, the glory of a land,
Are all the labours of thy lazy hand.
The Excise, the Treasury, strengthened by thy aid,
Own thy great use and energy in trade.
Who does not taste the pleasures of thy reign?
Princes themselves are servants in thy train.
Diogenes! thou venerable shade,
Thou wert by Indolence immortal made.
Thee most I envy of all human race ;
E'en in a tub, thou held'st thy native grace;
Thy soul outsoared the vulgar flights of life,
And looked abroad, with scorn, at noise and strife.
To thy hooped palace no bold business pressed,
No thought usurped the kingdom of thy breast.
Thou to high-fated Alexander's face
Maintain'dst that ease was nobler far than place.
The insulted world before him bowed the knee:
Thou sat'st unmoved, more conqueror than he.
Scarce, O ye advocates for wit's wild chase, Can your long heads be reconciled to Grace: In drowsy dullness deep devotion dwells, But searchful care contented faith expels. Did ever Indolence produce despair, Or to rash wishes prompt the impatient heir? When murmurings and rebellions shake a state, Does love of rest, or action, animate? When did two sleepers clash in murderous war, Or love of ease draw wranglers to the bar? O'er sea and land, the world's wide space around, Poise every loss, and probe each aching wound Then say which most, or business or repose, Worries our lives, and wakes us into woes.
What first gave talons to coercive law?
Small need to keep the indolent in awe!
Hatched we our South-Sea egg by want of thought?
Are jobbers' airy arts in slumber taught?
What state was ever bubbled out of sense
By good, unfeared, unmeaning Indolence?
Weigh and consider, now, which cause is best,
And, yawning, yield-There's happiness in rest.
Oh how I pity those deluded fools,
Who drudge their days out in bewildering schools—
Who, seeking knowledge with assiduous strife,
Lose their long toil, and make a hell of life!
Grasping at shadows, they but beat the air,
And cloud the spirits they attempt to clear.
Jargon of tongues, perplexive terms of art,
And mazy maxims, but benight the heart.
No end, no pause, of painful search they know,
But, still proceeding, aggrandize their woe;
Their nakedness of soul with fig-leaves hide,
And wrap their conscious shame in veils of pride.
Erring, they toil some shadowy gleam to find,
And, wandering, feel their way, sublimely blind.
Learning in this,-in that scale, doubt-be laid
And mark how pomp is by plain truth outweighed.
Hereafter then, ye poring students, cease,
Nor maze your minds, nor break your chain of peace :
Make truce with leisure for awhile, and view
What empty nothings your desires pursue.
Remember, Adam's fatal itch to know
Was the first bitter spring of human woe:
Think how presumptuous 'tis for breathing clay
To tread Heaven's winding paths, and lose its way.
Think what short limits understanding boasts,
And shun the enticements of her shoaly coasts.
With Solomon, that prudent sage, and me,
From fruitless labour set your spirits free:
Bind up bold thought in slumber's silky chain,
Since all we act, and all we know, is vain.
[Born at Barnstaple, Devonshire, in 1688, of an old but reduced family; died on 4th December 1732. His burlesque pastorals, The Shepherd's Week, following some dramatic and other works, obtained high popularity; greatly increased afterwards by his Fables, and above all by The Beggar's Opera, produced in 1727. Disappointed in some reasonably grounded claims to courtfavour, Gay was domesticated, in his closing years, with the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. He was of a remarkably good-natured, easy, attaching dis position
THE LION, THE FOX, AND THE GEESE.
A LION, tired with state affairs,
Quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares,
Resolved, remote from noise and strife,
In peace to pass his latter life.
It was proclaimed; the day was set :
Behold the general council met.
The Fox was Viceroy named. The crowd
To the new regent humbly bowed.
Wolves, bears, and mighty tigers, bend,
And strive who most should condescend.
He straight assumes a solemn grace,
Collects his wisdom in his face.
The crowd admire his wit, his sense:
Each word hath weight and consequence.
The flatterer all his art displays:
He who hath power is sure of praise.
A Fox stepped forth before the rest,
And thus the servile throng addressed :-
"How vast his talents, born to rule,
And trained in Virtue's honest school!
What clemency his temper sways!
How uncorrupt are all his ways!
Beneath his conduct and command,
Rapine shall cease to waste the land.
His brain hath stratagem and art;
Prudence and mercy rule his heart;
What blessings must attend the nation
Under this good administration !"
He said. A Goose, who distant stood,
Harangued apart the cackling brood :
"Whene'er I hear a knave commend,
He bids me shun his worthy friend.
What praise! what mighty commendation!
But 'twas a Fox who spoke the oration.
Foxes this government may prize
As gentle, plentiful, and wise;
If they enjoy the sweets, 'tis plain
We Geese must feel a tyrant reign.
What havoc now shall thin our race,
When every petty clerk in place,
To prove his taste and seem polite,
Will feed on Geese both noon and night!"
THE LION AND THE CUB.
How fond are men of rule and place,
Who court it from the mean and base!
These cannot bear an equal nigh,
But from superior merit fly.
They love the cellar's vulgar joke,
And lose their hours in ale and smoke :
There o'er some petty club preside;
So poor, so paltry is their pride !
Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit,
In hopes to be supreme in wit.
If these can read, to these I write,
To set their worth in truest light.
A Lion-cub, of sordid mind,
Avoided all the lion kind;
Fond of applause, he sought the feasts
Of vulgar and ignoble beasts;
With asses all his time he spent,
Their club's perpetual president.
He caught their manners, looks, and airs:
An ass in everything but ears!
If e'er his highness meant a joke,
They grinned applause before he spoke ;
But at each word what shouts of praise!
"Good gods! how natural he brays!"
Elate with flattery and conceit,
He seeks his royal sire's retreat;
Forward and fond to show his parts,
His highness brays; the Lion starts.
"Puppy, that curs'd vociferation
Betrays thy life and conversation :
Coxcombs, an ever noisy race,
Are trumpets of their own disgrace."
Why so severe?" the Cub replies;
"Our senate always held me wise."
"How weak is pride!" returns the sire: "All fools are vain when fools admire ! But know, what stupid asses prize Lions and noble beasts despise."
THE RATCATCHER AND CATS.
THE rats by night such mischief did,
Betty was every morning chid.
They undermined whole sides of bacon,
Her cheese was sapped, her tarts were taken; Her pasties, fenced with thickest paste,
Were all demolished and laid waste.
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