Man should be suffer'd thus to play the fool, You should not rhyme in spite of nature !—True; Yet sure 'tis greater trouble, if you do : And if 'tis lab'ring only, men profess, Who writes the hardest, writes with most success. Thus for myself and friends, I do my part; YES: all, my Lord, usurp fair HONOR's fame, The soldier views her in the shining blade; Where fix we then?-Each boasting thus his own, Say, does true Honor dwell with all, or none? The truth, my Lord, is clear: though impious pride Be ever self-ador'd, self-deify'd; Though fools by passion or self-love betray'd, Fall down and worship what themselves have made; Array'd in lasting majesty, is known Through every clime and age, unchang'd, and one. But how explor'd?—Take Reason for your guide, Discard self-love; set passion's glass aside; Nor view her with the jaundic'd eye of pride. Yet judge not rashly from a partial view Of what is wrong or right, or false or true; Objects too near deceive th' observer's eye; Examine those which at a distance lie. Scarce is the structure's harmony descry'd 'Midst the tall column's, and gay order's pride; Detects false beauty, real grace calls forth; Come then, from past examples let us prove What raises hate, contempt, esteem, or love. Can greatness give true Honor? can expence ? Can luxury? or can magnificence ? Wild is the purpose, and the fruitless aim, Like a vile prostitute to bribe fair Fame; Persuasive splendor vainly tempts her ear, And e'en all-potent gold is baffled here. Ye pyramids, that once could threat the skies, Aspiring tow'rs, and cloud-wrapt wonders rise! To latest age your founder's pride proclaim; Record the tyrant's greatness; tell his name; No more:-The treacherous brick and mould'ring stone Are sunk in dust: the boasting title gone; Pride's trophies swept by Time's devouring flood; Th' inscription want, to tell where once they stood. But could they rival Nature, Time defy, Yet what record but Vice or Vanity? His the true glory, though his name unknown, No: spite of greatness, pride and vice are seen, Shameful in pomp, conspicuously mean. In vain, O Studley, thy proud forests spread; In vain each gilded turret rears its head; In vain thy lord commands the streams to fall, Extends the view, and spreads the smooth canal, While guilt's black train each conscious walk in vade, And cries of orphans haunt him in the shade. Thy imag'd glory leads to real shame: Succeeding times, and ages yet unborn, Next view the Hero in th' embattled field; True Honor's fruit can conquest's laurel yield? |