To busier scenes of life I fly,
Where many smile, where many sigh,
As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.
The Cit, relying on his trade,
Which, like all other things, may fade,
Longs for a curricle and villa:
This Hatchet splendidly supplies,
The other Cock’ril builds, or buys,
To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.
Then swift, O London! he retires,
To be, from all thy smoke and spires,
From Saturday till Sunday, merry:
On Sunday crowds of friends attend;
His house and garden some commend,
And all admire his port and sherry.
His mistress urg’d him now to play,
And cut to wealth a shorter way,
Now as a bride she heads his table;
But still our Cit observ’d his time.
Returning at St. Cripple’s chime,
At least as near as he was able.
But soon she could not bear the sight
Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite,
As well as smoke with country breezes;
Without the keenest grief and pride
He could not quit his mares, and bride:
We yield as soon as passion seizes.
The clock no more his herald prov’d;
Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d,
Ere trembling shopmen saw their master:
Observing neighbours whisper’d round,
That ease might do, with plenty crown’d;
If not, that ruin came the faster.
His cash grew scarce, his business still,
At variance were his books and till
(For wolves devour when shepherds slumber);
His creditors around him pour,
Seize all his horses, household store,
And only give him up the lumber!
Written at the Sea-Side in Devonshire,
IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER,
WHEN THE SHIPS FROM NEWFOUNDLAND RETURN.
Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores,
Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r;
Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores
Her beauties fading in each passing hour!
Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child,
Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre,
Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise,
Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire.
Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er;
These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign;
And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before,
Shall but retire to dress thyself again.
Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind,
With sweet economy, the source of joy,
From grief extracts some comfort for the mind,
And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy.
See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends,
To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow;
There many an hour she o’er the margin bends,
Her bosom trembling like the floods below.