A DIDACTIC POEM

If man be free he should himself restrain, If pressed by tyrants he should break the chain. His vices are the despots of his breast, Their fell dominion all too manifest. Direst of these in its capricious hate, The basest and the most inveterate, Dealing with poisoned blade a coward blow, Is Envy, of fair Fame the stealthy foe. Though born of Pride, it dreads the light of day, Admits nor mercy's touch nor reason's ray, Feels others' merit as a burthen vast, And sinks beneath: so lies, 'neath Etna cast, The giant, foe of gods, whom gods o'ercame, Hurling in vain the fires that round him flame. Blaspheming, writhing, in his earth-pent lair, He thinks to shake the world with his despair; Etna's vast load, by his huge heavings stirred, Again subsides, and holds him sepulchred, Courtiers I've seen, with pride of fools elate, On conquering Villars turn the eye of hate; They loathed the powerful arm, their surest stay; He fought for them, they sneered his fame away. Well might the hero, as the war drew near, Tell Louis, '’Tis Versailles alone I fear; Against your foes a dauntless front I bring; Guard me from mine, for they stand near my king,"

How grand, how sweet 'tis, to one's self to say, 'I have no enemies'! My rivals? Nay, Their good, their ill, their honour's mine in part, Their triumphs, too, for we are kin through Art. Thus folds the gracious earth to bosom wide These oaks, these pines, that flourish side by side; With equal sap impels the grove to rise, Rooting in Hades, branching to the skies, Their trunks unmoved, their heads, as in disdain, Bent back, defying all the tempest's strain; Whom brotherhood makes time-proof. And, the while, Under their spreading shade do serpents vile Hiss, venting each on each a poison-flood, And stain the roots with their detested blood."

Ye who in pleasure's quest your hours employ, Learn both to recognise it and enjoy! Pleasures are flowers, which our Master's care 'Mid the world's briers makes to blossom fair; Each has its season, and a later bloom May still survive to cheer our winter's gloom. In gathering them the touch should lightly rest, Their fleeting beauty fades too eager pressed. Do not, upon the palled sense, lavish cast All Flora's sweets in one voluptuous blast! Somewhat the wise still leave unfelt, unknown, And, by abstaining, hold the joy their own. Luckless the drone, with leisure's load oppressed, Who ne'er with labour freshens failing zest; Nature no favours will unbought bestow— Spontaneous harvests spring not here below."