Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-One:
A POEM.
Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-One: A POEM, IN IMITATION OF THE THIRTEENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. BY
ARTHUR MURPHY,
ESQ
LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER-ROW. M.DCC.XCI.
TO THE MEMORY OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.
THE SUBLIME AND MORAL IMITATOR OF JUVENAL, THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, BY A FRIEND, WHO LOVED HIM LIVING, WHO HONOURED HIS VIRTUES NO LESS THAN HIS GENIUS, AND NOW ENDEAVOURS, WITH UNEQUAL STEPS, TO FOLLOW HIS BRIGHT EXAMPLE. NON ITA CERTANDI CUPIDUS, QUAM PROPTER AMOREM, QUOD TE IMITARI AVEO.
ARTHUR MURPHY.
MAY 5, 1791.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Thirteenth Satire of Juvenal has been always admired by the ablest judges, not merely for its elegance and poetical spirit, but as a sublime composition, containing the purest and most useful moral doctrine, such as goes home to the breast and business of every man in society. The Author launches out, with his usual indignation, against the reigning vices of the times, and particularly FRAUD and PERJURY. He introduces his subject with an apparent intention to console a friend, who had deposited a sum of money in the hands of a man base enough to deny the trust, and support his fraud by a daring Perjury.
He observes, in the outset, that the guilty are never at peace; they have no rest from their own relentless thoughts; and yet deceit, and treachery, and injustice prevail in the mass of human life. He paints forth the vices of mankind in glaring colours; and, having by way of contrast mentioned the times of innocence (commonly called the Golden Age), he takes occasion to place in a ridiculous light the whole system of the Heathen Mythology. The wit and pleasantry, with which this part of the poem is executed, are truly beautiful: but there is reason to fear that the whole passage would now be thought an unseasonable digression; and, for that reason, it was judged advisable, in the English Poem, to substitute ideas drawn from modern manners.
Juvenal proceeds to observe the intrepidity with which perjury is often committed. The fear of detection by human evidence, he says, is the only restraint: secure from that danger, the offender is ready, as Shakespeare has it,
to jump the life to come.
Of this depravity two causes are assigned: in the first place, Atheism; and secondly, even among believers, the delusive hope of escaping punishment, or of expiating the sin by repentance at a future day. The Poet, after this, exhibits a black list of crimes; and, in such a general corruption of manners, exhorts his friend to appease resentment in his own particular case. Revenge, he says, is a little passion. He recurs to his first proposition, namely, that the Perjurer, even though he may elude the hand of justice, is sure to suffer the self-condemning award of his own conscience. He describes in bold relief the horrors of a guilty mind. He traces the progress of vice, beginning with a petty fraud, and rushing on, with apparent success, till at length some foul enormity calls down the sentence of the law, and gives full proof to the world that a superintending Providence watches over the deeds of men, and finally overtakes the offender with slow, but certain vengeance.
Such is the moral that inspires and animates the whole of Juvenal's admirable performance. It may be called A POETICAL STATUTE OF FRAUDS AND PERJURIES. A composition so truly valuable ought not to remain in the hands of the scholar only, like a sword in the scabbard, as Tully has it,
tamquam in vaginâ reconditum.
The doctrine should be impressed on every mind. For this purpose, the mode of imitation was thought more eligible than a direct and close translation. Mr. Pope had led the way, and the late Doctor Johnson followed him with distinguished applause. The fine use which he made of the Third and Tenth Satires of Juvenal, in LONDON, a Poem, and THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES, is well known to every reader of taste. In fact, those two pieces are finished with such vigour of sentiment, and such strength and harmony of language, as may well preclude in the present writer all hope of competition. It is to be regretted that so fine a Moral Poet did not employ a portion of his time upon the Satire now before us. The author of the following lines endeavoured, at various times, to excite him to the undertaking; but the answer always was, "I WISH IT WAS DONE." The reader will, no doubt, wish the same, and by the pen of DOCTOR JOHNSON. To supply the deficiency is the design of the piece now offered to the public. It is, at least, a well intended attempt, and requires no apology.
Seventeen Hundred and Ninety One:
A POEM,
IN IMITATION OF THE THIRTEENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.
Exemplo quodcumque malo committitur, ipsi
Displicet auctori; prima haec est ultio, quod se
Judice nemo nocens absolvitur, improba quamvis
Gratia fallaci praetoris vicerit urnâ.
YES, it is true (so nature's laws ordain),
Guilt on its author still returns with pain.
Conscience, that awful judge of all mankind,
Erects a dread tribunal in the mind.
Nought there can warp the sense of wrong and right;
No glossing advocate turns black to white.
Though the pack'd jury set the culprit free,
He stands convicted by his own decree.
Bitter remembrance charges ev'ry sin;
The worm, that never dies, corrodes within.
Such the sad lot of guilt; and you, my friend,
Though wrong'd, have still this justice in the end.
What though a perjur'd knave retain your pelf?
His own tormentor, still he goads himself.
—Casus multis his cognitus, ac jam.
Tritus, et e medio fortunae ductus acervo.
Ponamus nimios gemitus; flagrantior aequo
Non debet dolor effe viri, nec vulnere major.
As fortune turns her giddy wheel around,
Oft in life's lottery such blanks are found.
Then rouse your strength, and act on reason's plan;
Feel your distress, but feel it like a man.
Of your misfortune fairly state th' account;
Sum up the whole, and what is the amount?
You serv'd a friend, and trusted him alone,
—Sacrum tibi quod non reddat amicus
Depositum.—
No witness near, and he denies the loan.
This chafes your spleen; yet by experience form'd,
Stupet haec, qui jam post terga reliquit
Sexaginta annos, Fonteio consule natus.
Born ere brave Vernon Porto Bello storm'd,
Can you, near sixty summers roll'd away,
Thus stand at gaze, in wonder and dismay?
Magna quidem, sacris quae dat praecepta libellis,
Victrix fortunae sapientia. Dicimus autem
Hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitae,
Nec jactare jugum vitâ didicere magistrâ
Go to the stoic, hear the ancient sage,
And draw pure wisdom from the moral page;
Wisdom, that conquers pain, and toil, and strife,
And tow'rs above the accidents of life.
Go, read mankind; he fairly claims the prize,
Who in that school finds leisure to be wise;
Who sees the various ills that round him press,
Smiles at the storm, and triumphs in distress.
Quae tam festa dies, ut cesset prodere furem,
Perfidiam, fraudes, atque omni ex crimine lucrum
Quaesitum, et partos gladio vel pyxide nummos.
What day so holy, but it brings to light
The foul misdeeds and horrors of the night?
The prowling highway-man no sabbath keeps;
Whole droves to jail each trading justice sweeps.
Read Newgate's Calendar—what lists you find
Of frauds and villanies to plague mankind!
The perjur'd caitiff, who no God believes;
Bawds, swindlers, murderers, receivers, thieves.
By ev'ry crime the ruffian's treasures grow,
By secret poison, and th' assassin's blow.
Life teems with ills; where now the upright man?
Go, with your lantern find him if you can.
Compute the muster of your valued file;
Rari quippe boni; numero vix sunt totidem, quot
Thebarum portae, vel divitis ostia Nili.
Say, does it equal the sev'n mouths of Nile?
With care this habitable globe survey,
And view the deeds done in the face of day.
Nona aetas agitur, pejoraque saecula ferri.
Temporibus, quorum sceleri non invenit ulla
Nomen, et a nullo posuit natura metallo.
Vice now surpasses, with resistless rage,
What poets fabled of their iron age.
To mark the times, within her inmost veins
No metal base enough the earth contains.
Yet you, at trifles struck with wild surprize,
To rage and tumult bid your passions rise;
And, if his plighted faith a traitor break,
You storm the world, and bid Olympus shake.
Nos hominum divumque fidem clamore ciemus,
Quanto Fessidium laudat vocalis agentem
Sportula.
Not with such noise, when some new play appears,
Bad poets and worse critics stun our ears.
Not half so loud pit, box, and gall'ry roar,
When the soft warbler prompts the dear ENCORE.
Not half so loud the rabble strain their throats,
When the chair'd member bows for venal votes.
And must you still pour forth the plaintive strain?
Reason will ask you, have you liv'd in vain?
Has time, whose hand has silver'd o'er your head,
Brought no experience? no reflection bred?
Dic senior, bullâ dignissime, nescis
Quas habeat veneres aliena pecunia? nescis
Quem tua simplicitas vulgo risum moveat, cum
Exigis a quoquam ne pejuret, et putet ullis
Esse aliquod numen templis, araeque rubenti.
Grey-headed novice! must you now be told,
How strong th' allurement of another's gold?
Go, preach at Jonathan's your musty rule;
Each broker there will hiss you for a fool;
A fool to think, when lucre is in view,
That sacred truth can avarice subdue.
Man now, my friend, man plays th' impostor's part,
And calls on heav'n, an atheist in his heart.
Ev'n in the temple, at the sacred shrine,
He feels no sanctions of the will divine;
Thinks there's no eye to pierce the perjur'd band;
No God to grasp the thunder in his hand.
Wouldst thou controul this epidemic rage?
Then bid old time roll back the golden age;
Or good King Alfred's reign once more renew,
And give those days of glory to our view.
Quondam hoc indigenae vivebant more.
All then was innocence, content, and ease,
While yet simplicity had pow'r to please.
Wit had not learn'd to gloss and varnish crimes,
Nor was vice call'd the fashion of the times.
Nulla super nubes convivia caelicolarum:
Prandebat sibi quisque Deus.
To clubs at Bootle's, Arthur's, none could roam;
Each hospitable baron liv'd at home.
Beneath his roof the welcome guest might stay,
Unplunder'd of his all at midnight play.
Leagu'd at a Faro bank no sharpers sat,
Nor for a wager could devour a cat.
Hoyle had not taught his rules of cards and dice,
Great legislator of a nation's vice!
On morning wings no news abroad could fly,
To blot out truth, and propagate the lie;
Nec rota, nec furiae, nec saxum, aut vulturis atri
Poena, sed infernis hilares sine regibus umbrae.
No pamphlet scatter'd, from a traitor's pen,
Raw metaphysics, and false rights of men.
From France no agent of a desp'rate band
Could spread his froth and venom through the land.
Atheists, Socinians, Puritans, unknown;
No fierce Republicans to shake the throne.
No wars envenom'd by religious hate;
Nor Whig, nor Tory, to convulse the state.
All were one party in their country's cause,
And the King reign'd a subject of the laws.
Love then in mutual bonds mankind could draw,
Nature their guide, simplicity their law.
Pure health and peace sincere contentment gave,
The women virtuous, and their husbands brave.
Lo! now an heiress weds: fair smiles the hour
That lights her onward to the nuptial bow'r.
The gentle loves attend each genial night,
Till the fell serpent poisons their delight.
Cards and the piquet-friend engross her cares;
His time her lord with grooms and jockeys shares;
And while her pin-money his lands produce,
She brings him nothing for his sep'rate: use.
To Doctors Commons soon they wing their way,
And publish mutual shame in open day:
To the adult'rer she resign her charms;
Her lord lives joyless in a strumpet's arms;
Till fame, health wasted, in the dregs of life
He advertises for a pregnant wife.
But where the bard to paint, in varied rhymes,
The many-colour'd guilt of modern times?
Nunc si depositum non inficietur amicus,
Si reddat veterem cum totâ aerugine follem,
Prodigiosa fides, et Tuscis digna libellis,
Quaeque coronatâ lustrari debeat agnâ
Egregium sanctumque virum si cerno, bimembri
Hoc monstrum puero, vel mirandis sub aratro
Piscibus inventis, et foetae comparo mulae.
Now if by chance you meet a man that's just,
True to his friend, and faithful to his trust,
All prodigies must yield to one so rare,
The Ouran Outang, and the Panther Mare.
To see the miracle what crowds will go!
Lever's Museum has no equal snow.
Who, while the truth no witness can attest,
Who hears the voice that whispers in the breast?
The book the perjurer takes without dismay,
False as the hypocrite in Gibber's play.
Secure from mortal ear and mortal eye,
Though Heaven behold him, Heaven he can defy.
Tam facile et pronum est superos contemnere testes,
Si mortalis idem nemo sciat. Aspice quantâ
Voce neget, quae sit ficti constantia vultûs!
Per solis radios Tarpeiaque fulmina jurat, &c.
With eyes upturn'd, as angels they would meet,
With features marshall'd, to disguise the cheat;
Of human laws if he escape the rod,
Safe from the pillory he braves his God.
What if he shine with modern doctrines fraught,
By Toland, Tindal, and Spinoza taught?
Sunt in Fortunae qui casibus omnia ponant,
Et nullo credunt mundum Rectore moveri,
Naturâ volvente vices et lucis et anni;
Atque ideo intrepidi quaecumque altaria tangunt.
Of the First Cause he shakes th' eternal throne,
And plastic nature rules the world alone.
Unbid the seasons in their turn advance,
And day and night are regular by chance.
A gay freethinker, all his doubts suppress'd,
And in rank fate his willing heart at rest,
He owns no ruling Mind in yonder sky,
Nor fears lest matter overhear his lie.
Yet some there are, form'd in a softer mould,
On whom religion still maintans her hold;
Hic putat esse Deos, et pejerat; atque ita secum:
Ut sit magna, tamen certè lenta, ira Deorum est.
Si curant igitur cunctos punire nocentes,
Quando ad me venient? Sed et exorabile Numen
Fortassè experiar; solet his ignoscere; multi
Committunt eadem diverso crimina fato.
Ille crucem sceleris pretium tulit, hic diadema.
Who think Eternal Wisdom guides the ball,
And that the crimes of men for vengeance call.
Before their eyes yet vain illusions play,
And by false reas'ning they themselves b
tray.
Hear Harpax speak: "Yes, punishment," he cries,
"Pursues the man of guilt, where'er he flies.
"But when, or where, will justice strike the blow?
"Severe though Heaven may be, its wrath is slow.
"Since pray'rs are wafted to the throne of grace,
"Well-tim'd repentance may each crime efface.
"That guilt has various lots, the fact is known;
"One cuts a Nabob's throat, and then his own.
"While the poor villain by the halter dies,
"Rich with ill-gotten spoils contractors rise.
Decernat quodcumque volet de corpore nostro
Isis, et irato feriat mea lumina sistro,
Dummodo vel caecus teneam quos abnego nummos.
"Better with loss of ears a plum to hold,
"And gain by perfidy a nation's gold,
"Than pass in dull morality my days,
"To gain the cold benevolence of praise,
"Through life unfriended starve for worthless fame,
"And leave in chizzled stone a beggar's name."
Thus thinks the man whom avarice inspires,
Whom guilt incites, and mad ambition fires.
—Tum te sacra ad delubra vocantem
Praecedit, trahere imo ultro et vexare paratus—
Creditur a multis fiducia—
Cite him to swear, he'll to the altar fly,
Attune his voice, and teach his looks the lie.
Intrepid falsehood gains upon the ear,
And bids ev'n fraud with dignity appear;
Tu miser exclamas, ut Stentora vincere possis.
While you astonish'd roar with lungs of brass;
Lungs, that e'en Homer's Stentor can surpass;
For you all nature must forget her laws,
And warring elements assert your cause.
To lance their thunder if the gods forbear,
With Epicurus you deny their care.
Aspice quae contra valeat solatia ferre,
Et qui nec Cynicos, nec Stoica dogmata legit.
Curentur dubii medicis majoribus aegri,
Tu veniam vel discipulo committe Philippi.
But still, to soothe your woes, hear reason's rules;
Rules, from no ancient, from no modern schools.
Through your parch'd veins when burning fevers fly,
To
Peirson, Turton, Brocklesby
apply.
Your trust in
Myersback
you now may place;
Send him your vial, and he'll know your case.
Si nullum in terris tam detestabile factum
Ostendis, taceo, nec pugnis caedere pectus
Te veto, nec planâ faciem contundere palmâ;
Quandoquidem accepto claudenda est janua damno,
Et majore domûs gemitu, majore tumultu,
Planguntur nummi quam funera. Nemo dolorem
Fingit in hoc casu, vestem diducere summam
Contentus, vexare oculos humore coacto.
Ploratur lacrymis amissa pecunia veris.
Of fraud can life no more examples shew?
If none, rave on, and aggravate your woe.
Yes, bar your door, and pierce with shrieks the air,
Your panting bosom beat, and rend your hair.
Such scenes are play'd, when a rich father dies;
Such scenes are play'd, when husbands close their eyes:
At fun'ral rites such sorrows oft appear;
For gold, none shed the counterfeited tear;
For gold, men ransack earth, and sea, and air;
For gold they forge, vote, lie, defraud, forswear.
Go, seek the courts, to Westminster retire,
Where Jews give bail and evidence for hire.
Sed si cuncta vides simili fora plena querelâ,
Si decies lectis diversâ ex parte tabellis,
Vana supervacui dicunt chirographa ligni,
Arguit ipsorum quos litera, gemmaque princeps,
Sardonychum, loculis quae custoditur eburnis.
There, in the place where Justice holds her scale,
Against all truth see villany prevail.
One gives his bond: th' attorney, if you sue,
Proves it discharg'd, and finds the witness too.
Is the debt obsolete, and out of date?
A tale suborn'd th' attorney can create.
With glav'ring smile he talks with you apart,
Professing candour with a treach'rous heart;
And then for hire his promise can deny,
Licens'd to practise, to betray, or lie,
For hire th' attorney goes, where wild despair
And moon-struck phrenzy rend the howling air;
With pious leer there draws his venal quill,
And in the name of God begins a will;
Sets for the moment the strait waistcoat free,
Earning by dark iniquity his fee;
Calls to his aid the keeper of the den,
And for a lunatic conducts the pen;
Observes all forms; and, in the hour of need,
Swears THE INTESTATE understood the deed.
Such crimes abound; yet, delicately nice,
Tene, O delicias! extra communia censes
Ponendum, quia tu Gallinae filius albae?
You claim a shelter from the gen'ral vice.
Vain man! the ills of life hop'st thou to cure,
And in a massacre to live secure?
Collect the annals of these happy times,
Your page will be a register of crimes.
—Confer
Conductum latronem, incendia sulphure coepta
Atque dolo, primos cum janua colligit ignes.
The ruffian here, by hope of plunder led,
With silent pace at midnight seeks your bed;
There the old servant, who should guard your life,
The murd'rer brings, and arms him with the knife.
This binds th' insurer for his stock to pay;
His stock the following night conveys away:
He steals unseen to wake the ambush'd fire,
Till through the dome the curling flames aspire.
From house to house the conflagration spreads,
And the roofs topple on the sleepers heads.
The infant wakes, amidst surrounding woes,
And clinging to its mother closer grows.
But, ah! no help; the elements conspire,
And wretches doom'd by villany expire.
What place is safe? no check the plund'rer feels;
Confer et hos, veteris tollunt qui grandia templi
Pocula, adorandae rubiginis, et populorum
Dona.—
—Minor extat sacrilegus, qui
Radit inaurati femur Herculis, et faciem ipsam
Neptuni, qui bracteolam de Castore ducat.
This night, he robs the Chanc'llor of the Seals;
Next, in the mansion of the Pow'r Divine,
Pilfers the chalice from the sacred shrine;
Or the thin gilding from the altar breaks,
And the poor curate's tatter'd surplice takes.
See where the murd'rer meditates his plan,
In secret practice on the life of man.
His deadly aconite, infus'd with art,
Invites the lip, and rushes to the heart.
In gilt buffets oft hovers instant fate,
And LAUREL-WATER aims at your estate.
The gay-fac'd gambler burnishes in vice,
And loads at once his pistols and his dice.
Haec quota pars scelerum quae custos Gallicus urbis,
Usque a Lucifero donec lux occidat, audit?
More felons swarm in each revolving year
Than BOND can seize, or Sir John Hawkins clear
Hawkins has enumerated fourteen or fifteen ways by which felons may escape.
.
At mercy's call if justice spare a few,
What Bay of Botany can hold the crew?
In the wide waste, ye mariners, explore
Some hidden islands, some untrodden shore,
Where, rear'd and foster'd by Britannia's care,
Their rebel issue may for war prepare;
In time forgetting, spite of ev'ry tie,
Their fathers did not on a gibbet die.
Nullane perjuri captis, fraudisque nefandae,
Poena erit?
But still shall guilt know neither shame nor awe?
Shall fraud, shall perjury, escape the law?
Law, without morals, nothing can avail;
Blunt is her sword, and useless hangs her scale.
Your penal code, ye legislators, pen;
You may make hypocrites, not honest men.
But let the pillory exalt, you cry,
The perjur'd knave:—your rage he'll there defy.
The culprit there for favour never begs,
But, worth a plum, enjoys his rotten eggs.
At vindicta bonum vitâ jucundius ipsâ.
Chrysippus non dicet idem, nec mite Thaletis
Ingenium, dulcique fenex vicinus Hymetto,
Qui partem acceptae faeva inter vincla cicutae
Accusatori nollet dare.
But still 'tis just revenge:—can inward peace
From malice spring, and bid your passions cease?
Go talk with Socrates, great moral sage,
Pure light of wisdom in a darkling age!
Would he who reason'd on th'immortal soul,
To his accuser give the poison'd bowl?
Your pangs, my friend, revenge can ne'er requite;
—Quippe minuti
Semper et infirmi est animi, exiguique voluptas
Ultio.
Revenge, of little minds the low delight.
—Cur tamen hos tu
Evasisse putas, quos diri conscia facti
Mens habet attonitos, et saevo vulnere pulsat,
Occultum quatiente animo tortore flagellum?
Yet think not that the wretch who finds a flaw,
To baffle justice, and elude the law,
Unpunish'd lives: he pays atonement due;
Each hour his malefactions rise to view.
Vengeance, more fierce than engines, racks, and wheels,
Unseen, unheard, his mangled bosom feels.
Poena autem vehemens, ac multo saevior illis,
Quas et caeditius gravis invenit, et Rhadamanthus,
Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem.
What greater curse can earth or heaven devise,
Than his, who self-condemn'd in torture lies?
From agony of mind who knows no rest,
But bears his own accuser in his breast?
What charm shall bid these horrors rage no more?
Heal the hurt mind, and gentle peace restore?
That charm is virtue: virtue can supply
Comfort in life, and courage when we die.
Virtue the purest blessing can impart,
The conscience clear, and self-applauding heart.
Spartano cuidam respondit Pythia Vates,
Haud impunitum quondam fore, quod dubitaret
Depositum retinere, et fraudem jure tueri
Jurando; quaerebat enim quae Numinis esset
Mens, et an hoc illi facinus suaderet Apollo.
At Delphos when a Spartan youth applied,
What think you then the Pythian Maid replied?
The treach'rous knave his friend's best treasure stole,
And meant by perjury to keep the whole:
Unpractis'd yet in fraud, he ask'd advice:
The priestess answer'd, "The bare thought is VICE;
"VICE, that strikes deep infection to the mind;
"Vice, that in time will retribution find."
And if the slave no deeper plung'd in ill,
Reddidit ergo metu, non moribus.
Twas FEAR, not VIRTUE, that controul'd his will.
Nam scelus intra se tacitum qui cogitet ullum,
Facti crimen habet.
Who but conceives a crime, with malice fraught,
Warps into vice, and kindles at the thought.
What though the embryo sin, conceal'd with art,
In thinking die? Guilt rankles in his heart.
—Si conata peregit,
Perpetua anxietas, nec mensae tempore cessat.
Faucibus ut morbo siccis, interque molares
Difficili crescente cibo. Sed vina misellus
Exspuit; Albani veteris pretiosa senectus
Displicet.
If the strong mofive urge him to the deed,
Horror, remorse, and misery succeed.
See him at table, listless, wan with care,
In thick-eyed musing lost, and plae despair.
Within his mouth, now unelastic, slow,
The viands loiter, and insipid grow.
In vain for him the banquet spreads its store,
The rarest banquet now can please no more.
In vain for him the mellowing years refine
The precious age of the pure racy wine.
In vain gay wit calls forth her magic train;
He flies the scene, to think, and dwell with pain.
No respite from himself, with cares oppress'd,
Nocte brevem si fortè indulsit cura soporem,
Et toto versata toro jam membra quiescunt,
Continuò templum, et violati Numinis aras, &c.
If weary nature sink at length to rest,
In the dead waste of night pale phantoms rise,
Stalk round his couch, and glare before his eyes.
The temple bends its arches o'er his head,
And the long isles their umber'd twilight shed.
He sees the altar perjur'd where he trod,
The violated altar of his God!
He groans, he rises, but the conscious mind
Wakes to worse horrors than he left behind.
Of his fix'd doom each object is a sign,
A visitation from the Pow'r Divine!
Hi sunt qui trepidant, et ad omnia fulgura pallent;
Cum tonat, exanimes primo quoque murmure coeli,
Non quasi fortuitus, nec ventorum rabie, sed
Iratus cadat in terras, et judicet ignis.
Kindled in air if sudden meteors fly,
And hollow murmurs shake the vaulted sky,
No more the tempest springs from gen'ral laws;
The winds have now a preternatural cause.
'Tis God in wrath, that spreads his terrors round;
'Tis God, who now his enemies has found;
'Tis God's right arm, that shakes the distant poles,
Wings the red lightning, and the thunder rolls.
Soon as the warring elements subside,
And nature smiles with renovated pride,
Remorse and horror now no more appal;
'Tis Chance, not Providence, that rules the ball.
Praeterea lateris miseri cum febre dolorem
Si coepere pati, missum ad sua corpora morbum
Infesto credunt a Numine; saxa Deorum
Haec et tela putant.
A fever comes: 'tis heaven's avenging rod!
Again he owns the attributes of God.
He dies, and leaves the church his children's share,
And hopes in heaven to make his soul his heir.
Such the deep pangs obdurate villains find;
Such the dire furies of the guilty mind.
Temptation saps its way by slow degrees,
First a mere thought, by habit taught to please.
While yet our actions in their motives lie,
Their dang'rous sophistry the passions ply.
Cum scelus admittunt, superest constantia: quid fas
Atque nefas tandem incipiunt sentire, peractis
Criminibus.
The deed perform'd assumes its genuine hue;
He starts, turns pale, and trembles at the view.
Grief, and remorse, and madness, and despair,
In sad vicissitudes his bosom tear.
New fears, new hopes, now rise, and now subside,
And the will drives with the alternate tide.
The bound once pass'd, farewel the peaceful shore,
Where dwells fair virtue! he wades back no more.
Quisnam hominum est, quem tu contentum videris uno Flagitio?
In the wide annals of recorded time,
Where find the knave who dar'd one only crime?
His life a climax of flagitious deeds;
Fraud grows on fraud, and guilt to guilt succeeds.
—Dabit in laqueum vestigia noster
Persidus, et nigri patietur carceris uncum,
Aut Maris Aegaei rupem, scopulosque frequentes
Exulibus magnis—
The laws at length demand their victim due;
He joins at Boulogne the self-exil'd crew;
Or to some cottage, where conceal'd he lies,
Trac'd, and detected in his mean disguise,
He's dragg'd in fetters to the dungeon's gloom,
Condemn'd in anguish there to wait his doom;
—Tandemque fatebere laetus
Nec surdum, nec Tiresiam quemquam esse Deorum.
And leave, at length, this lesson to mankind:
"Eternal Justice is nor lame nor blind."
FINIS.
This Day was published,
In Four Volumes, Price 12s. sewed, (The Second Edition corrected)
A SIMPLE STORY.
By Mrs. INCHBALD.
Printed for G. G. J. and J. Robinson, Paternoster-Row.
Of whom may be had, by the same Author,
I'll Tell You What; a Comedy in five Acts. 1s. 6d.
Such Things Are; a Play in five Acts. 1s. 6d.
The Married Man; a Comedy.
The Child of Nature.
Midnight Hour; a Comedy in three Acts.
Appearance is against Them; a Farce.
The Widow's Vow; a Farce.