THE LOVE OF GAIN.

THE LOVE OF GAIN . 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 . 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 . " — 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 ! 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 ? 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 Keeper of the Exhibition at Exeter 'Change . own his rarities outdone . " 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 : 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 ? 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 : " '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 , " 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 . " 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 : 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 . 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 ! The lines from the 247th to the 270th are by the Hon. William Lambe . — Ye giddy , gay , and proud , Who swell great London's ever-bustling crowd , 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 , 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 , 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 ! 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 ! 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 , 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 " Curses not loud , but deep . " MACBETH . ; 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 ; 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 At subitae horrisico lapsu de montibus adsunt Harpyiae , & magnis quatiunt clangoribus alas , Deripiuntque dapes , contactuque omnia foedant Immundo . AENEID , Book III . , 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 . 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 . 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 ; No med'cine brings relief , no pang is eas'd , For who can medicine to a mind diseas'd 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 . ? 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 , 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 ; 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 .