Virtue.
See Man Upright. Pleasure.
‘Tis Virtue, Friend, to be averse to Vice,
And the first Step towards being really wise,
Is to be free from Folly.–
Just in the midst fair Virtue does abide,
Between Extreams, and shrinks from either Side.–
Silver’s less worth than Gold, and Gold than Virtue.–
–Virtue, without Reward
And destitute of every worldly Good,
Is, for itself alone, to be desir’d.–
Virtue itself is Virtues best Reward.–
–Virtue, now–a–days,
Is sought by few, but all are mad for Praise:
For who would Virtue, for herself, regard,
Or wed, without the Portion of Reward.–
All cow’rdly Baseness Virtue does disdain,
And bright it’s Honours shine without a Stain:
Nor does it mount or abdicate the Throne,
As the wild Rabble chance to smile or frown.–
Virtue to those unbars the Sky,
Who merit Immortality,
Scorning the clam’rous busy Crowd,
She pants to try the arduous Road;
Nor longer deigns on Earth to stay,
But spreads her Wings, and soars away.–
The only Road to Happiness is Virtue.
Virtue is really in itself Reward:
Alone secure, and out of Fortune’s Pow’r,
It shines triumphant, let her smile, or frown.
Nor, in high Station, is it puff’d with Pride,
Nor meanly sues for popular Applause,
Nor covetous of Wealth, nor wanting Praise:
Rich in itself, and confident it stands,
Immoveable, superior to Events,
And with Contempt looks down on mortal Things.-
Virtue speaks.
With me the foremost Place let Honour gain,
Fame and the Praises mingling in her Train:
Gay Glory next, and Victory on high,
White like myself, on snowy Wings shall fly.–
Virtue conceal’d is but of little worth:
For what of Good, in dark Obscurity
Can it produce? A Boat without a Rower,
A Lyre unplay’d on, or a Bow unstrung,
It then resembles.–None, unless the Man
That knows himself, and does his Passions quell,
Can ever Virtue find: whose arduous Way
Thro’ tedious and perplexed Windings lies.–
Vision.
See Ghost.
Lo! in a Dream, before my slumb’ring Eyes
The much afflicted Hector seem’d to stand,
Profuse of Tears: dragg’d with the Chariot’s Wheels
As heretofore: besmear’d with bloody Dust:
And thro’ his swelling Feet transfix’d with Thongs.
Ah me! how was he from that Hector chang’d,
Who once return’d triumphant in the Spoils
Of great Achilles: or who flung his Fire
Among the Grecian Vessels! foul his Beard:
His Hair all clung, and clotted with his Blood:
And in his Body all the Wounds receiv’d
Before his native Walls.–
Fetching a dismal Groan;–Ah! fly, he cry’d;
Fly, Goddess–born, and save Thee from these Flames:
The Enemy has gain’d our Walls; and Troy
Is tumbling from it’s Height.–
‘Twas Night: and Sleep possess’d the weary World.
Th’ Effigies of our Trojan Country–Gods,
Whom from amidst the Fire of ruin’d Troy
I rescu’d, in my Sleep appear’d to stand
Before my Eyes: discover’d by the Light,
Where the full Moon profusely pour’d her Beams
Thro’ the inserted Windows.–
Nor was it common Sleep: for plain I saw
Their Looks, their Forms, and Fillets of their Hair.–
(Henry Baker)
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