[]
THE LOVE OF GAIN: A POEM.
IMITATED FROM THE THIRTEENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.
Oh! thou ſweet King-killer, and dear Divorce
'Twixt natural Son and Sire! thou bright Defiler
Of Hymen's pureſt Bed! thou valiant Mars!
Thou ever-loved, freſh, young, and delicate Wooer,
Whoſe bluſh doth thaw the conſecrated ſnow
That lies on Dian's lap!
SHAKESPEARE.
By M. G. LEWIS, ESQ. M. P. AUTHOR OF THE MONK, CASTLE-SPECTRE, ETC.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. BELL, NO. 148, OXFORD-STREET.
1799.
TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES JAMES FOX,
[]THE following Lines are reſpectfully inſcribed, as a trifling Mark of the Veneration in which I hold his Talents and Character, and which his preſent Retirement from Public Life gives me an Opportunity thus to declare without running the Hazard of ſub⯑jecting myſelf to Party Cenſure.
M. G. LEWIS.
January 28th, 1799.[]
THE LOVE OF GAIN.
JUVENAL.
SATIRE THE THIRTEENTH.
[2] EXEMPLO quodcunque malo committitur, ipſi
Diſplicet auctori. Prima eſt haec ultio, quod, ſe
Judice, nemo nocens abſolvitur, improba quamvis
Gratia fallaci Praetoris vicerit urna.
[4]
Quid ſentire putas omnes, Calvine, recenti
De ſcelere, & fidei violatae crimine? ſed nec
Tam tenuis cenſus tibi contigit, ut mediocris
Jacturae te mergat onus: nec rara videmus,
Quae pateris. Caſus multis hic cognitus, ac jam
Tritus, & è medio Fortunae ductus acervo.
Ponamus nimios gemitus: flagrantior aequo
Non debet dolor eſſe viri, nec vulnere major.
Tu, quamvis levium minimam, exiguamque malorum
Particulam vix ferre potes, ſpumantibus ardens
Viſceribus, ſacrum tibi quod non reddat amicus
Depoſitum. Stupet haec, qui jam poſt terga reliquit
Sexaginta annos, Fontejo Conſule natus?
An nihil in melius tot rerum proficit uſu?
[6]
Magna quidem, ſacris quae dat praecepta libellis,
Victrix Fortunae Sapientia. Ducimus autem
Hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitae,
Nec jactare jugum vitâ didicere magiſtrâ,
Quae tam feſta dies, ut ceſſet prodere furem,
Perſidiam, fraudes, atque omne ex crimine lucrum
Quaeſitum, et partos gladio, vel pyxide nummos?
Rari quippe boni: numerus vix eſt totidem, quot
Thebarum portae, vel divitis oſtia Nili.
Nona aetas agitur, pejoraque ſecula ferri
[8]
Temporibus: quorum ſceleri non invenit ipſa
Nomen, & à nullo poſuit Natura metallo.
Nos hominum Divùmque fidem clamore ciemus,
Quanto Faeſidium laudat vocalis agentem
Sportula.
Die ſenior bullâ, digniſſime, neſcis,
Quas habeat Veneres aliena pecunia? neſcis,
[10]
Quem tua ſimplicitas riſum vulgo moveat, cum
Exigis à quoquam, ne pejeret: & putet ullis
Eſſe aliquod numen templis, araeque rubenti?
Quondam hoc Indigenae vivebant more, prius quam
Sumeret agreſtem poſito diademate falcem
Saturnus fugiens. Tunc, cum virguncula Juno,
Et privatus adhuc Idaeis Jupiter antris.
Nunc, ſi depoſitum non inficietur amicus,
Si reddat veterem cum tota aerugine follem,
Prodigioſa fides, & Tuſcis digna libellis,
Quaeque coronatâ luſtrari debeat agnâ.
Egregium, ſanctumque virum ſi cerno, bimembri
Hoc monſtrum puero, vel mirandis ſub aratro
Piſcibus inventis, & foetae comparo mulae.
[12]
Intercepta decem quaereris ſeſtertia fraude
Sacrilegâ? quid ſi bis centum perdidit alter
Hoc arcana modo
[14]
Tam facile & pronum eſt ſuperos contemnere teſtes,
Si mortalis idem nemo ſciat! adſpice, quanta
Voce neget, quae ſit ficti conſtantia vultus?
[16]
Si vero & pater eſt: "Comedam," inquit, "flebile gnati
Sinciput elixi."
Sunt in Fortunae qui caſibus omnia ponant,
Et nullo credant mundum rectore moveri,
Naturâ volvente vices & lucis, & anni,
Atque ideo intrepidi quaecunque altaria tangunt.
[18]
Eſt alius metuens ne crimen poena ſequatur.
Hic putat eſſe Deos, & pejerat, atque ita ſecum:
Decernat quodcumque volet de corpore noſtro
Iſis, & irato feriat mea lumina ſiſtro,
Dummodo vel coecus teneam, quos abnego, nummos.
[20]
Ut ſit magna, tamen certè Ienta ira Deorum eſt.
—Sed & exorabile Numen
Fortaſſe experiar. Solet his ignoſcere. Multi
Committunt eadem diverſo crimina fato.
Ille crucem pretium ſceleris tulit, hic diadema.
[22]
Sic animum dirae trepidum formidine culpae
Confirmant. Tunc te ſacra ad delubra vocantem
Praecedit, trahere imo ultro ac vexare paratus.
Nam cùm magna malae ſupereſt audacia cauſae,
Creditur à multis fiducia.
Tu miſer exclamas, ut Stentora vincere poſſis,
Vel potiùs quantùm Gradivus Homericus.
Accipe quae contrà valeat ſolatia ferre
Et qui nec Cynicos, nec Stoïca dogmata legit
A Cynicis tunicâ diſtantia; non Epicurum
Suſpicit exigui laetum plantaribus horti.
[24]
Curentur dubii Medicis majoribus aegri:
Tu venam vel diſcipulo committe Philippi.
Si nullum in terris tam deteſtabile factum
Oſtendis, taceo, nec pugnis caedere pectus
Te veto, nec planâ faciem contundere palmâ;
Quandoquidem accepto claudenda eſt janua damno,
Et majore domûs gemitu, majore tumultu
Planguntur nummi, quàm funera.
[26]
—Nemo dolorem
Fingit in hoc caſu, veſtem diducere ſummam
Contentus, vexare oculos humore coacto.
Ploratur lacrymis amiſſa pecunia veris.
Sed ſi cuncta vides ſimili fora plena querelâ
Ten' O Delicias extra communia cenſes
Ponendum; quia tu gallinae filius albae.
Rem pateris modicam, & mediocri bile ferendam,
Si flectas oculos majora ad crimina.
Haec quota pars ſcelerum, quae cuſtos Gallicus urbis
Uſque à Lucifero, donec lux occidat, audit?
Humani generis mores tibi noſſe volenti
Sufficit una domus.
[...] [...] [...][34]
Nullane perjuri capitis, fraudiſque nefandae
Poena erit? Abreptum crede hunc graviore catenâ
Protinus, & noſtro (quid plus velit ira?) necari
[36]
Arbitrio. Manet illa tamen jactura, nec unquam
Depoſitum tibi ſoſpes erit. Sed corpore trunco
Invidioſa dabit minimus ſolatia ſanguis.
At vindicta bonum vitâ jucundius ipsâ.
—Quippe minuti
Semper & infirmi eſt animi exiguique voluptas,
Ultio.
[38]
—Cur tamen hos tu
Evaſiſſe putes, quos diri conſcia facti
Mens habet attonitos, et ſurdo verbere caedit,
Occultum quatiente animo tortore flagellum?
[40]
Poena autem vehemens ac multò ſaevior illis
Quas & Caeditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus,
Nocte dieque ſuum geſtare in pectore teſtem.
Perpetua anxietas nec menſae tempore ceſſat,
Faucibus ut morbo ſiccis, interque molares
Difficili creſcente cibo: ſed vina miſellus
Exſpuit.
[42]
Nocte brevem ſi fortè indulſit cura ſoporem,
Et toto verſata toro jam membra quieſcunt,
Continuò templum, & violati Numinus aras,
Et (quod praecipuis mentem ſudoribus urget)
Te videt in ſomnis. Tua ſacra & major imago
Humaná turbat pavidum, cogitque fateri.
[44]
Hi ſunt qui trepidant, & ad omnia fulgura pallent,
Cùm tonat, exanimes primo quoque murmure coeli;
Non quaſi fortuitus, nec ventorum rabie, ſed,
Iratus cadat in terras, & vindicet ignis.
Illa nihil nocuit, curâ graviore timetur
Proxima tempeſtas; velut hoc dilata ſereno.
Praetereà, lateris vigili cum febre dolorem
Si coepere pati, miſſum ad ſua corpora morbum
Infeſto credunt à Numine; ſaxa Deorum
[46]
Haec, & tela putant. Pecudem ſpondere ſacello
Balantem & Laribus criſtam promittere galli
Non audent. Quid enim ſperare nocentibus aegris
Conceſſum?
Cùm ſcelus admittunt, ſupereſt conſtantia: quid fas,
Atque nefas, tandem incipiunt ſentire peractis
[48]
Criminibus. Tamen ad mores natura recurrit
Damnatos, fixa & mutari neſcia. Nam quis
Peccandi finem poſuit ſibi! quando recepit
Ejectum ſemel attritâ de fronte ruborem?
Quiſnam hominum eſt, quem tu contentum videris uno
Flagitio? Dabit in laqueum veſtigia noſter
Perfidus, & nigri patietur carceris uncum.
—Tandemque fatebere laetus
Nec ſurdum, nec Tireſiam quenquam eſſe Deorum.
[...]THE LOVE OF GAIN.
[3]EMILIUS—THE AUTHOR.
THE AUTHOR.
THOUGH oft the heart, when raging paſſions ſtorm,
To Vice we kneel, and fain would veil her form,
Her native darkneſs ever mocks diſguiſe,
And crimes look foul, e'en in their author's eyes.
Here the firſt mark of heav'nly vengeance view;
Vice, falſe to others, to herſelf is true!
When the pack'd jury, and the quibbled flaw
Delude the eye, and lame the arm of law;
When Erſkine's wit the culprit-client ſaves,
And fraud unſcourged offended juſtice braves;
Still is the wretch in private doom'd to hear
From his own heart a verdict more ſevere.
[5] There dwells a judge, whoſe voice no bribe can pay,
No party ſilence, and no flattery ſway;
The ſinner ſhrinks, before himſelf arraign'd,
And almoſt ſorrows, that his cauſe is gain'd.
Nor does his guilt himſelf alone diſguſt;
The world condemns, for here the world is juſt:
Unpuniſh'd crimes ſtill ſhock the public ear,
And crimes unpuniſh'd doubly foul appear.
Then why, Emilius, thus in furious ſtrain
Of broken faith, and laws corrupt complain?
Leſs warmth, my teſty friend; more juſtly ſound
Your injury's depth, nor call your ſcratch a wound.
With plenteous ſtore by Fortune's bounty bleſt,
Of bonds, and ſtock, and fertile lands poſſeſt,
Your loſs is trifling, and ſo trite your caſe,
Scarce in the public prints 'twill find a place.
While, then, we mark your breaſt with paſſion riſe,
Your trembling lips, clench'd hands, and flaſhing eyes,
When aſk'd the cauſe, how poor the anſwer ſounds,
"A friend is falſe! I've loſt a thouſand pounds."—
[7] A friend is falſe? Does that amaze the eye
Which lately ſaw its ſixtieth year go by?
Has age then bleach'd your raven locks in vain,
Impair'd your limbs, and not matur'd your brain?
Oh! mourn your droſs no more: with tears lament
Your mind unfurniſh'd, and your time miſpent.
Bleſt is the man, whom philoſophic lore
Beyond proud Fortune's reach has taught to ſoar;
Who, when ſhe frowns, her falſhood not reviles,
Nor boaſts her favour when the harlot ſmiles.
Nor him leſs happy count, whoſe years have bought
Precious experience, and deep-ſearching thought,
Wiſdom to know all bliſs is inſecure,
Courage to hope, and patience to endure.
Say, loud complainant, does the rolling year
Preſent one day from fraud or knavery clear,
Whoſe ſpotleſs White no thefts, no murders ſtain,
Writing in blood man's damning luſt for gain?
In vain you ſearch:—yet ſtill the ſearch purſue,
Examine men, and find of good how few!
[9] So few, alas! that if that guilt to fly
Which daily, hourly, here diſguſts the eye,
The juſt reſolv'd to leave the Britiſh ſtrand,
And ſeek ſome diſtant leſs polluted land,
The whole fair troop away with eaſe might bear
My lord-mayor's barge, and ſtill have room to ſpare.
Now let the iron age no more be blam'd;
Bleſt ſhould its memory be, when ours is nam'd,
For which no bard can find in nature's page
So baſe a metal as would mark the age!
Yet though ourſelves ſtill ſin, not leſs we blame
Our neighbour's ſin, and, when he errs, exclaim
Louder than fiſhwives ſcold, or aſſes bray,
Or Vapid puffs his own dry dull damn'd play!
All-hail, mouth-virtue! at your altar bend
Each canting hypocrite, and perjur'd friend;
Spare Lovegold ſees his houſhold god in you,
Who coſt no ſixpence, and who ſeem Peru!
Boy-witted Elder! muſt thou ſtill be told,
No ſorcerer's ſpell can witch an heart like gold?
[11] That in each guinea conqu'ring Cupids ſwarm,
And Venus leſs than good King George can charm?
Hear you not, how the rude but wiſer crowd
Mock your ſimplicity with laughter loud,
When raving about faith, and virtuous dread,
And lightnings deſtin'd for each perjur'd head,
You hope the traitor (by your threats diſmay'd)
Will keep the promiſe, which he can evade?
If ſuch things were, 'twas ſure ere Adam fell,
Or Eve loſt Eden for a nonpareil!
But now a debt if ſome ſtrange man ſhould own,
When neither bond or witneſs prove the loan,
To mark an act ſo juſt, and truth ſo rare,
His marble form ſhould grace ſome public ſquare,
And his name blazon'd in the hiſtoric page,
Atteſt that one good man adorn'd our age.
For me, whene'er ſuch acts of faith I hear,
Loſt in amaze, and truſting ſcarce mine ear,
"Let all," I cry, "to view this wonder run,
"And Pidcock * own his rarities outdone.
[13] "Mourn, hapleſs Pidcock, mourn! your reign is o'er;
"In vain your eagles ſcream, and tigers roar;
"The crowds, who erſt to view your monſters ran,
"Now ſeek a rarer ſight, an honeſt man!
"What drinks, what eats he? for I ne'er can think,
"Like common mortals he can eat or drink.
"How ſpeaks, how walks he? ere I ſleep to-night,
"On this rare creature I muſt feaſt my ſight."
And when, at length, this wonder I behold,
Amaz'd to find him caſt in human mould,
I'm vex'd that like ourſelves on earth he treads,
And ſcarce believe he hasn't got two heads.
But ſay, Emilius, if a wrong thus ſlight
So wounds thy feelings and diſguſts thy ſight,
How wouldſt thou rave, if Fraud's glib tongue had found
The means to 'reave thee of thy laſt poor pound;
Or how ſupport a friend's more guilty ſtealth,
When loſs of freedom follows loſs of wealth?
Turn to yon priſon! liſt yon captive's tale,
Who raſhly ſtood his ſmooth-tongu'd brother's bail:
[15] Pent in thoſe walls, the wretch all hope reſigns,
Now wildly raves, and now dejected pines;
While his free life abroad the debtor ſpends,
Enjoys new pleaſure, and defrauds new friends.
EMILIUS.
Oh! but my wretch ſo wondrous well deceiv'd,
Suſpicion's ſelf had ſure his faith believ'd!
He ſwore ſuch oaths!.....
THE AUTHOR.
He ſwore! did that prevail,
And wert thou blinded by a trick ſo ſtale?
Oaths now are trifles few refuſe to take,
Eaſy to form, and eaſier ſtill to break;
Their perjur'd vows but few with horror ſcan;
But few fear heavenly wrath, if ſafe from man,
Or ſhuddering think, their guilt that angels know,
The ſecret ſin a ſecret ſtill below.
Mark'd you, when late your cauſe in court was tried,
And your falſe friend his lawful debt denied,
One ſlight convulſion, or one tranſient bluſh
Bid his lip quiver, or his forehead fluſh?
[17] Falter'd his tongue, when, loſt all ſacred fear,
On God he call'd to prove his words ſincere;
And wiſh'd, if juſt your charge, to curſe his ſin
Flames might conſume himſelf and all his kin?
No! ſuch his earneſt air, and changeleſs face,
Each word, each look ſuch candour ſeem'd to grace,
So firm his voice, ſo bold and clear his eye,
Yourſelf could ſcarce believe his tale a lye!
EMILIUS.
'Tis true! 'tis true! with horror ſtruck I heard
The unbluſhing villain ſpeak the damning word.
Gods! how can man thus brave celeſtial ire,
While heaven has juſtice, and while hell has fire!
THE AUTHOR.
Alas! my friend, an awful truth to tell,
There are, who ſcorn that heaven, and mock that hell.
In vain for theſe alternate ſeaſons reign,
Spring robes the fields, and Autumn ſwells the grain;
In vain the moon now gilds the brow of night,
And now the ſun pours floods of glorious light:
[19] "'Twas chance," they cry, "to thoſe fair orbs gave birth,
"And chance alone with produce bleſs'd the earth!"
Then boldly on the ſacred book they lay
Their lips to ſwear ſome good man's wealth away,
And while his ſpoils their raviſh'd eyes bewitch,
Laugh at poor rogues, leſs impious and leſs rich.
Others, whom timid guilt forbids to climb
Thoſe dreadful heights where Atheiſts ſoar ſublime,
Own that a Power Supreme exiſts on high,
But while they own a power, that power defy.
To theſe the prieſt inſpir'd deſcribes in vain
Each promis'd pleaſure, and each threaten'd pain:
Heaven's future joys their notice ſcarce ſeem worth,
Wealth in this world, their preſent heaven on earth,
Nor fear they to deſerve the Eternal's curſe,
Hell bad, 'tis true, but want of money worſe!
"Let wrath divine," thus Gripe in tranſport cries,
"Curſe every limb, and quench my blaſted eyes,
"If ſtill harmonious ſounds mine ears may drink,
"While in yon cheſt my counted guineas chink,
[21] "And ſtill my palſied hands have power to hold,
"Cloſe to my heart, this bag of darling gold!
"What! ſhall I fear, indignant Heaven to ſee
"Its magazine of plagues exhauſt on me?
"What! ſhall I mourn the bargain made, if wealth
"I buy with loſs of fame, and loſs of health?
"No, ſtill with glad content my heart ſhall beat,
"Though tortures rack my hands, my eyes, my feet,
"If hoards of gold my burſting coffers fill,
"Gold, which can ſoothe each pang, each fear can ſtill,
"Comfort for every care, and balm for every ill!
"Yet why theſe fears? Celeſtial wrath, we know,
"Though juſt, is merciful; though fierce, is ſlow:
"Perhaps too, when arrives the avenging hour,
"Repentant prayers may calm Heaven's angry power;
"Nor always in the world's vaſt book we find
"To equal ſin an equal doom aſſigned.
"Here ſee with honours crown'd, there'whelm'd with grief,
"The Indian ſpoiler, and the Engliſh thief;
"And mark, what varying fates their plunders ſtop
"Who robb'd a nation, and who robb'd a ſhop.
[23] "Raſcals alike, by Fortune's wayward ſport
"One goes to Tyburn, t'other goes to Court;
"And while this rogue is doom'd in air to ſwing,
"That for a peerage kneels to thank the King."
The ſophiſt's fears thus calm'd, the legal war
No more he dreads, but dauntleſs ſeeks the bar,
Arrives before you, wonders why you ſtay,
And cries—"Sure conſcience makes the wretch delay!"
Caught by his tranquil air and front of braſs,
(Oft does for innocence aſſurance paſs)
The judge declares your charge muſt groundleſs be,
Its malice blames, and ſets the priſoner free;
While you with fiercer rage aſſert your cauſe,
And term the judge corrupt, unjuſt the laws,
Than Sappho felt when Drury damn'd her work,
Or Gallia's ſtruggles rais'd in zealous Burke!
Yet now, Emilius, let my prayers aſſuage
Awhile this flood of grief, this ſtorm of rage,
Nor ſcorn my counſel, though from one it flows,
Whoſe life few years, whoſe brain ſmall judgment knows:
[25] Your lack of temper ſuits my lack of wit,
And boyiſh griefs with boyiſh counſels fit.
When amputation riſques a patient's life,
Some ſkilful hand ſhould guide the ſurgeon's knife;
But who to bleed him Farquhar need retain,
When the next barber's boy could breathe the vein?
Mark then!—If what you mourn, were ſome dire ill
No partner ſuffer'd, and no time could ſtill;
If ſome ſtrange curſe, ſome plague to nature new,
On you had fall'n, and fall'n on none but you,
No word of mine ſhould mock your publiſh'd pain,
Or ſtrive to bind your wrath in reaſon's chain.
Who knows the human heart, muſt alſo know
How keen the pangs which make your ſorrows flow:
Not with thoſe ſighs, which heave the nephew's heart,
Who ſees his hoarding uncle's life depart;
Not with thoſe tears, which cuſtom bids be ſhed
By youthful widows for old huſbands dead;
Grieve they, who dear departing wealth behold,
And mourn, not loſs of friends, but loſs of gold.
[27] No forc'd affliction bids their ſorrows riſe;
They need no onion to provoke their eyes;
No!—Loſt that idol moſt adored and dear,
Heart-felt deſpair, wild rage, and grief ſincere
Burſt in each bitter ſigh, guſh in each ſcalding tear.
Yet ſure, my friend, 'tis wrong, unuſual rage
To feel at crimes ſo uſual in this age,
Unleſs your lot by fate you hoped deſign'd
Free from all croſſes common to mankind.
Alas! ere beat your breaſt, ere rent your hair,
Weigh, what you bear yourſelf, what others bear.
No pangs are yours paſt man's, paſt Heaven's relief,
No mighty miſchiefs move this mighty grief;
Search but the world, then own your wrongs how ſmall
Placed near thoſe wrongs on other heads which fall.
Muſt I atteſt the fact? To prove how Vice
Reigns ſovereign here, one houſe can well ſuffice.
To Bow-ſtreet turn!*—
Ye giddy, gay, and proud,
Who ſwell great London's ever-buſtling crowd,
[29]London, where all extremes together meet,
Folly's chief throne, and Wiſdom's graveſt ſeat;
Where diſagreements in agreement lie,
Our cloſe-knit maſs of contrariety;
Where throng the rich and poor, the fool and knave,
Where ſtateſmen juggle, and where patriots rave;
Where balls for advocates prepare their work,
And embryo law-ſuits in a whiſper lurk;
Where Cupid pays in ſpecie for his wiles,
And judges frown whene'er a lady ſmiles;
Where equal farce continual ſport affords
At Covent-Garden, or the Houſe of Lords;
Where beggars with feigned tears and ready ſmiles,
Cringe to St. James, or blubber to St. Giles;
Ye who confuſedly ſail in motley trim
Down this full flood of pleaſure, buſineſs, whim,
Whether you frame ſmooth, glib, and ſpecious lies
To cheat a tradeſman, or to raiſe ſupplies,
With private or with public miſery ſport,
Cheats upon 'Change, or Paraſites at Court,
[31]Now pauſe awhile!—For one reflecting hour
Forego your hopes of gain, your dreams of power,
And hark, while tells the Muſe what monſtrous crimes,
What new-found ſins reſerv'd for our ſtrange times,
Their hideous forms to Addington betray,
From morn's firſt languiſh to the death of day.
Here mark the thankleſs child, the unnatural ſire,
The Pandar ſlave who lets his ſpouſe for hire,
The adulterous friend, the truſted wanton wife,
The brother aiming at the brother's life,
The rake who cools in beauty's arms his heat,
Then lets her ſtarve, or ply for bread the ſtreet,
And that dark train of foes to moral rules,
Thieves, Bawds, Aſſaſſins, Gamblers, Knaves, and Fools,
Fools, who would fain be knaves ...... No more I'll write,
Hence, odious forms, nor longer ſhock my ſight!
Elſe by diſguſt and ſcorn to madneſs driven,
Burſting thoſe chains which bind my ſoul to Heaven,
I ſhall diſdain to breathe ſuch tainted air,
Shall bluſh an human form like theſe to wear,
[33]For preſent eaſe ſhall barter future bliſs,
And ſure no world can be more black than this,
Deep in my ſwelling heart ſhall plunge the knife,
And cry, while flies my ſoul from mortal ſtrife,
"Heaven bleſs my father, though he gave me life!"
Ceaſe, wild enthuſiaſt! end thy angry tale,
O'er human frailties drop compaſſion's veil;
View them with grief, not rage, nor dare to ſcan
With cenſure too ſevere thy fellow-man!
Think, had no parent watch'd thy pliant youth,
Curb'd thy wild paſſions, turn'd thy ſteps to Truth,
And taught thee by her radiant light to know
That bliſs is virtue, and that guilt is woe,
Spurning reſtraint, and ſcorn'd each ſacred vow,
Haply thyſelf had been what theſe are now;
Theſe, who by headſtrong paſſions forc'd away,
Or preſſing want, or ſtrong example's ſway,
Strangers to love of man, or fear of God,
But trod perhaps thoſe paths their parents trod,
While ignorance led them to that whirlpool's brink,
Where long they ſtruggled, and where now they ſink!
[35]
Oh! view their lot, my ſoul, nor more repine
To bear thoſe evils Fate has fix'd on mine;
Content, though many a grief my boſom wrings,
If ſtill that boſom owns no conſcious ſtings,
If ſtill I know for others wounds to feel,
With pity view them, and with pleaſure heal,
And ſtill thoſe pangs which cauſe ſo keen a ſmart,
Nor ſour my temper, nor deprave my heart.
Yes! though by fate with heavieſt ſorrows curſt,
From my pale lips no murmuring breath ſhould burſt,
If ſtill my hand had power to raiſe the oppreſt,
And, though unbleſt myſelf, make others bleſt!
That power, Emilius, ſtill is yours!—Then why
Thus pants your boſom, and thus flames your eye?
Your gold, though loſt.....
EMILIUS.
......Nay, 'tis not gold which makes
This fury tear me; but my bile it ſhakes,
That ſtill my lawful ſuit in vain I urge,
And ſtill yon caitiff mocks the avenging ſcourge!
[37] Could I but once his well-earn'd ſufferings ſee!....
THE AUTHOR.
And would his ſufferings then bring wealth to thee?
Would with his blood gold to thy coffers run,
Or all his groans repay thee one pound one?
EMILIUS.
Not ſo; but vengeance.....
THE AUTHOR.
......Huſh!—To mention fear
What thou muſt ſhame to ſpeak, I ſhame to hear!
Baſe minds alone delight in vengeance find,
That low vile paſſion of a low vile mind!
Oh! think, when ſummoned to the throne of Heaven,
As thou forgav'ſt, ſo thou ſhalt be forgiven!
And think, what pangs would rack each throbbing nerve,
If God ſhould judge us, as our faults deſerve!
Say, at this moment ſhould the perjur'd wretch,
Stung with remorſe, his hands imploring ſtretch
Tow'rds thee for pardon, while with tears and groans
Thy foot he kiſſes, and his guilt he owns,
[39] Should that foot ſpurn him? Would'ſt thou frown, and cry
"Back, ſinner, to the flames thou fain would'ſt fly!"
'Twere nobler far, thy thirſt of vengeance o'er,
To bid the ſinner riſe, and ſin no more;
'Twere nobler far to play the Chriſtian's part,
Aid ſtruggling Conſcience to ſecure his heart,
Confirm his faith, with hope inſpire his breaſt,
And make him virtuous now, hereafter bleſt.
Then, when thou died'ſt, the tranſport thine would be
Proudly to boaſt—"God owes a ſoul to me!"
But if revenge alone can pleaſe you, know,
E'en now, though law was blind, though juſtice ſlow,
More pangs he feels, his heart by conſcience rent,
Than you could name, or mortal brain invent.
True, from his lips no 'plaints inform the crowd
What pains are his — deep are his groans, not loud*;
True, from his eyes no ſtreams of anguiſh roll,
His burning tears fall inwards on his ſoul:
There brood thy vipers, Conſcious Guilt, and dart
With ceaſeleſs ſpite their fangs into his heart;
[41] There prints with bloodleſs ſtroke thy ſilent ſteel
Wounds, that no balm can eaſe, no time can heal!
Not all the pangs which Dante's viſions ſwell,
No freezing limbo, and no fiery hell,
Surpaſs his torments, who ſtill bears unbleſt
A ſelf-accuſer in his own ſad breaſt.
Diſguſt, and ceaſeleſs Care, and anxious Fear
Still ſhare his bed, and at his board appear.
In vain his Cooks their various arts combine
Each diſh to ſeaſon, and each ſauce refine;
Champagne's rich grape in vain, to chear his ſoul,
With brilliant bubbles fills his chryſtal bowl:
The harpy Conſcience pounces on her prey*,
Tears from his hand the untaſted food away,
And, ere the wine his pallid lips can paſs,
Her gall-fraught tongue drops poiſon in his glaſs.
[43]
Next mark, my friend, his ſlumbers!—If Repoſe
Liſts to his ſuit, and bids his eye-lids cloſe,
Mark what convulſions heave his martyr'd breaſt,
And frequent ſtarts, and heart-drawn ſighs atteſt,
Though Nature grants him ſleep, that Guilt denies him reſt.
Now groans of tortur'd ghoſts his ear affright;
Now ghaſtly phantoms dance before his ſight;
And now he ſees (and ſcreams in frantic fear)
To ſize gigantic ſwell'd thy angry ſhade appear!
Swift at thy ſummons ruſh with hideous yell
Their prey to ſeize the Denizens of hell!
Headlong they hurl him on ſome ice-rock's point,
Mangle each limb, and diſlocate each joint;
Or plunge him deep in blue ſulphureous lakes;
Or laſh his quivering fleſh with twiſted ſnakes;
Or in his brain their burning talons dart;
Or from his boſom rend his panting heart
To bathe their fiery lips in guilty gore!—
Then ſtarts he from his couch, while dews of horror pour
Down his dank forehead—wrings his hands, and prays to ſleep no more.
[45]
Hark! the Storm-daemon ſhrieks!—It thunders!—Lo!
How pale his cheeks, how wild his eye-balls grow,
Heard the firſt murmur; while he waits the craſh,
And dreads to ſee the etherial meteors flaſh.
No ſhock of clouds, he thinks, no caſual hand
Rolls the red bolt, or darts th' avenging brand;
'Tis Heaven's own voice in thunder bids him die,
And 'tis to blaſt him yon blue lightnings fly!
His fears were vain; the ſtorm diſperſes;—true,
But who can anſwer what the next may do?
Though now ſweet nature ſleeps, and ſkies are fair,
Soon gathering clouds again may gloom the air;
Soon ſhafts divine, winged by celeſtial breath,
Again may glare, and the next ſhaft brings death!
With ceaſeleſs fears and conſcious pangs oppreſt
By day, by night unknown one hour of reſt,
Waſted his limbs, his ſtrength and ſpirits fled,
Diſeaſe now chains him on her thorny bed.
The couch in crowds though Galen's ſons ſurround,
His dire complaints deride their ſkill profound;
[47] No med'cine brings relief, no pang is eas'd,
For who can medicine to a mind diſeas'd*?
Heaven's Lord alone!—"And ſhall I dare invoke
"With prayers that Power, whoſe holieſt law I broke?
"In heaven ſtill freſh my violated vow,
"Will angels heed my forced repentance now?
"Hence, idle thought! no prayers can now obtain
"Aid from inſulted Heaven, and man's is vain!"
Thus cries the wretch, diſtraction in his eye,
Hopeleſs to live, yet unprepared to die;
By fear his ſoul, by pain his body vext,
By conſcience tortured, and by doubt perplext,
Loathing this world, and ſhuddering at the next.
Yet though his old offence thus brands with ſhame
His conſcious forehead, and unmans his frame,
[49] When ſome new ſin excites his impious zeal,
His heart is adamant, his nerves are ſteel:
Nor think, your perjur'd friend, reform'd by time,
Will bound his forfeits to this ſingle crime.
The roſe of innocence, once rent away,
No more ſhall grace his brow. And who can ſay,
"One ſtep, and then no further?"—This firſt ſin
Crown'd with ſucceſs, ere long his feet ſhall win
To loftier heights of vice, and urge his fate
From bad to worſe, from little crimes to great,
Till his broad guilt for public vengeance calls,
And to the laws his life a victim falls.
Then ſhalt thou own (and bluſh at thy miſtruſt),
Crimes ſtill are puniſh'd, and God ſtill is juſt!
Here break we off!—Speed thou to Lombard-ſtreet,
Or plod the gambling 'Change with buſy feet,
'Midſt Bulls and Bears ſome falſe report to ſpread,
Of Pruſſia armed, or Buonaparte dead,
From ſpecious lies an honeſt gain to draw,
And ſpoil ſome wretch in forms allowed by law;
[51] More dupes to find, more knaviſh tricks to learn,
And fooled thyſelf, fool others in thy turn:
While I, ſequeſtered in ſome favourite nook,
Or guide the pencil, or explore the book,
Bleſt, if ſtill free from mad Ambition's dreams,
Youth's vain raſh hopes, and Intereſt's fordid ſchemes,
I ſometimes hear, to chear my lonely hours,
The Muſe awake her lute's harmonious powers,
And ſtill can boaſt (when down life's vale I bend
My ſteps, nor grieved, nor glad my days to end),
A feeling heart, an open hand, content, and one true friend.
FINIS.
Notes
*
Keeper of the Exhibition at Exeter 'Change.
*
The lines from the 247th to the 270th are by the Hon. William Lambe.
*
"Curſes not loud, but deep." MACBETH.
*
At ſubitae horriſico lapſu de montibus adſunt
Harpyiae, & magnis quatiunt clangoribus alas,
Deripiuntque dapes, contactuque omnia foedant
Immundo.
AENEID, Book III.*
Can'ſt thou not miniſter to a mind diſeaſed,
Pluck from the memory a rooted ſorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with ſome ſweet oblivious antidote
Cleanſe the foul ſpirit of that perilous ſtuff
That weighs upon the heart?
MACBETH.- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 3366 The love of gain a poem Imitated from the thirteenth satire of Juvenal By M G Lewis. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D14F-7