The budget, prize for which ten thousand
bait
A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait
Catches a weed, and drags them to their
fate,
While gleamingly its golden scales still
spread—
Such were the meats by which these guests
were fed.
A hundred slaves for lazy master cared,
And served each one with what was e’er
prepared
By him, who in a sombre vault below,
Peppered the royal pig with peoples’
woe,
And grimly glad went laboring till late—
The morose alchemist we know as Fate!
That ev’ry guest might learn to
suit his taste,
Behind had Conscience, real or mock’ry,
placed;
Conscience a guide who every evil spies,
But royal nurses early pluck out both
his eyes!
Oh! at the table there be all the great,
Whose lives are bubbles that best joys
inflate!
Superb, magnificent of revels—doubt
That sagest lose their heads in such a
rout!
In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming
round,
Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelstroem’s
sound;
And the astonished gazer casts his care,
Where ev’ry eyeball glistens in
the flare.
But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour
Forgetfulness of those without the door—
At very hour when all are most in joy,
And the hid orchestra annuls annoy,
Woe—woe! with jollity a-top
the heights,
With further tapers adding to the lights,
And gleaming ’tween the curtains
on the street,
Where poor folks stare—hark
to the heavy feet!
Some one smites roundly on the gilded
grate,
Some one below will be admitted straight,
Some one, though not invited, who’ll
not wait!
Close not the door! Your orders are
vain breath—
That stranger enters to be known as Death—
Or merely Exile—clothed in
alien guise—
Death drags away—with his
prey Exile flies!
Death is that sight. He promenades
the hall,
And casts a gloomy shadow on them all,
’Neath which they bend like willows
soft,
Ere seizing one—the dumbest
monarch oft,
And bears him to eternal heat and drouth,
While still the toothsome morsel’s
in his mouth.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("Non, l’avenir n’est a personne!")
[V. ii., August, 1832.]
Sire, beware, the future’s range
Is of God alone the power,
Naught below but augurs change,
E’en with ev’ry passing hour.
Future! mighty mystery!
All the earthly goods that be,
Fortune, glory, war’s renown,
King or kaiser’s sparkling crown,
Victory! with her burning wings,
Proud ambition’s covetings,—
These may our grasp no more detain
Than the free bird who doth alight
Upon our roof, and takes its flight
High into air again.
Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord’s command,
Avails t’ unclasp the cold and closed hand.
Thy voice to disenthrall,
Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side!
Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride,
Whom men “To-morrow” call.
