Ambition and Content
A Fable
‘Optat quietem.’-HOR.
While yet the world was young, and men were few,
Nor lurking fraud, nor tyrant rapine knew,
In virtue rude, the gaudy arts they scorn’d,
Which, virtue lost, degenerate times adorn’d:
No sumptuous fabrics yet were seen to rise,
Nor gushing fountains taught to invade the skies;
With nature, art had not begun the strife,
Nor swelling marble rose to mimic life;
No pencil yet had learn’d to express the fair;
The bounteous earth was all their homely care.
Then did Content exert her genial sway,
And taught the peaceful world her power to obey—
Content, a female of celestial race,
Bright and complete in each celestial grace.
Serenely fair she was, as rising day,
And brighter than the sun’s meridian ray;
Joy of all hearts, delight of every eye,
Nor grief nor pain appear’d when she was by;
Her presence from the wretched banish’d care,
Dispersed the swelling sigh, and stopp’d the falling tear. 20
Long did the nymph her regal state maintain,
As long mankind were bless’d beneath her reign;
Till dire Ambition, hellish fiend, arose
To plague the world, and banish man’s repose,
A monster sprung from that rebellious crew
Which mighty Jove’s Phlegraean thunder slew.
Resolved to dispossess the royal fair,
On all her friends he threaten’d open war;
Fond of the novelty, vain, fickle man
In crowds to his infernal standard ran;
And the weak maid, defenceless left alone,
To avoid his rage, was forced to quit the throne.
It chanced, as wandering through the fields she stray’d,
Forsook of all, and destitute of aid,
Upon a rising mountain’s flowery side,
A pleasant cottage, roof’d with turf, she spied:
Fast by a gloomy, venerable wood
Of shady planes and ancient oaks it stood.
Around, a various prospect charm’d the sight;
Here waving harvests clad the field with white,
Here a rough shaggy rock the clouds did pierce,
From which a torrent rush’d with rapid force;
Here mountain-woods diffused a dusky shade;
Here flocks and herds in flowery valleys play’d,
While o’er the matted grass the liquid crystal stray’d.
In this sweet place there dwelt a cheerful pair,
Though bent beneath the weight of many a year;
Who, wisely flying public noise and strife,
In this obscure retreat had pass’d their life;
The husband Industry was call’d, Frugality the wife.
With tenderest friendship mutually bless’d,
No household jars had e’er disturbed their rest.
A numerous offspring graced their homely board,
That still with nature’s simple gifts was stored.
The father rural business only knew;
The sons the same delightful art pursue.
An only daughter, as a goddess fair,
Above the rest was the fond mother’s care,
Plenty; the brightest nymph of all the plain,
Each heart’s delight, adored by every swain.
Soon as Content this charming scene espied,
Joyful within herself the goddess cried:—
‘This happy sight my drooping heart doth raise;
The gods, I hope, will grant me gentler days.
When with prosperity my life was bless’d,
In yonder house I’ve been a welcome guest:
There now, perhaps, I may protection find;
For royalty is banish’d from my mind;
I’ll thither haste: how happy should I be,
If such a refuge were reserved for me!’
Thus spoke the fair; and straight she bent her way
To the tall mountain, where the cottage lay:
Arrived, she makes her changed condition known;
Tells how the rebels drove her from the throne;
What painful, dreary wilds she’d wander’d o’er;
And shelter from the tyrant doth implore.
The faithful, aged pair at once were seized
With joy and grief, at once were pain’d and pleased;
Grief for their banish’d queen their hearts’ possess’d,
And joy succeeded for their future guest:
‘And if you’ll deign, bright goddess, here to dwell,
And with your presence grace our humble cell,
Whate’er the gods have given with bounteous hand,
Our harvest, fields, and flocks, our all command.’
Meantime, Ambition, on his rival’s flight,
Sole lord of man, attain’d his wish’s height;
Of all dependence on his subjects eased,
He raged without a curb, and did whate’er he pleased;
As some wild flame, driven on by furious winds,
Wide spreads destruction, nor resistance finds;
So rush’d the fiend destructive o’er the plain,
Defaced the labours of th’ industrious swain;
Polluted every stream with human gore,
And scatter’d plagues and death from shore to shore.
Great Jove beheld it from the Olympian towers,
Where sate assembled all the heavenly powers;
Then with a nod that shook the empyrean throne,
Thus the Saturnian thunderer begun:—
‘You see, immortal inmates of the skies,
How this vile wretch almighty power defies;
His daring crimes, the blood which he has spilt,
Demand a torment equal to his guilt.
Then, Cyprian goddess, let thy mighty boy
Swift to the tyrant’s guilty palace fly;
There let him choose his sharpest, hottest dart,
And with his former rival wound his heart.
And thou, my son (the god to Hermes said),
Snatch up thy wand, and plume thy heels and head;
Dart through the yielding air with all thy force,
And down to Pluto’s realms direct thy course;
There rouse Oblivion from her sable cave,
Where dull she sits by Lethe’s sluggish wave;
Command her to secure the sacred bound.
Where lives Content retired, and all around
Diffuse the deepest glooms of Stygian night,
And screen the virgin from the tyrant’s sight;
That the vain purpose of his life may try
Still to explore, what still eludes his eye.’
He spoke; loud praises shake the bright abode,
And all applaud the justice of the god.
The Poet. A Rhapsody
Of all the various lots around the ball,
Which fate to man distributes, absolute,
Avert, ye gods! that of the Muse’s son,
Cursed with dire poverty! poor hungry wretch!
What shall he do for life? He cannot work
With manual labour; shall those sacred hands,
That brought the counsels of the gods to light;
Shall that inspirèd tongue, which every Muse
Has touch’d divine, to charm the sons of men;
These hallow’d organs! these! be prostitute
To the vile service of some fool in power,
All his behests submissive to perform,
Howe’er to him ungrateful? Oh! he scorns
The ignoble thought; with generous disdain,
More eligible deeming it to starve,
Like his famed ancestors renown’d in verse,
Than poorly bend to be another’s slave,—
Than feed and fatten in obscurity.—
These are his firm resolves, which fate, nor time,
Nor poverty can shake. Exalted high
In garret vile he lives; with remnants hung
Of tapestry. But oh! precarious state
Of this vain transient world! all-powerful Time,
What dost thou not subdue? See what a chasm
Gapes wide, tremendous! see where Saul, enraged,
High on his throne, encompass’d by his guards,
With levell’d spear, and arm extended, sits,
Ready to pierce old Jesse’s valiant son,
Spoil’d of his nose!—around in tottering ranks,
On shelves pulverulent, majestic stands
His library; in ragged plight, and old;
Replete with many a load of criticism,
Elaborate products of the midnight toil
Of Belgian brains; snatch’d from the deadly hands
Of murderous grocer, or the careful wight,
Who vends the plant, that clads the happy shore
Of Indian Patomac; which citizens
In balmy fumes exhale, when, o’er a pot
Of sage-inspiring coffee, they dispose
Of kings and crowns, and settle Europe’s fate.
Elsewhere the dome is fill’d with various heaps
Of old domestic lumber; that huge chair
Has seen six monarchs fill the British throne:
Here a broad massy table stands, o’erspread
With ink and pens, and scrolls replete with rhyme:
Chests, stools, old razors, fractured jars, half-full
Of muddy Zythum, sour and spiritless:
Fragments of verse, hose, sandals, utensils
Of various fashion, and of various use,
With friendly influence hide the sable floor.
This is the bard’s museum, this the fane
To Phoebus sacred, and the Aonian maids:
But, oh! it stabs his heart, that niggard fate
To him in such small measure should dispense
Her better gifts: to him! whose generous soul
Could relish, with as fine an elegance,
The golden joys of grandeur, and of wealth;
He who could tyrannise o’er menial slaves,
Or swell beneath a coronet of state,
Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien,
Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all.
But ’tis in vain to rave at destiny:
Here he must rest and brook the best he can,
To live remote from grandeur, learning, wit;
Immured amongst th’ ignoble, vulgar herd,
Of lowest intellect; whose stupid souls
But half inform their bodies; brains of lead
And tongues of thunder; whose insensate breasts
Ne’er felt the rapturous, soul-entrancing fire
Of the celestial Muse; whose savage ears
Ne’er heard the sacred rules, nor even the names
Of the Venusian bard, or critic sage
Full-famed of Stagyra: whose clamorous tongues
Stun the tormented ear with colloquy,
Vociferate, trivial, or impertinent;
Replete with boorish scandal; yet, alas!
This, this! he must endure, or muse alone,
Pensive and moping o’er the stubborn rhyme,
Or line imperfect—No! the door is free,
And calls him to evade their deafening clang,
By private ambulation;—’tis resolved:
Off from his waist he throws the tatter’d gown,
Beheld with indignation; and unloads
His pericranium of the weighty cap,
With sweat and grease discolour’d: then explores
The spacious chest, and from its hollow womb
Draws his best robe, yet not from tincture free
Of age’s reverend russet, scant and bare;
Then down his meagre visage waving flows
The shadowy peruke; crown’d with gummy hat
Clean brush’d; a cane supports him. Thus equipp’d
He sallies forth; swift traverses the streets,
And seeks the lonely walk.—‘Hail, sylvan scenes,
Ye groves, ye valleys, ye meandering brooks,
Admit me to your joys!’ in rapturous phrase,
Loud he exclaims; while with the inspiring Muse
His bosom labours; and all other thoughts,
Pleasure and wealth, and poverty itself,
Before her influence vanish. Rapt in thought,
Fancy presents before his ravish’d eyes
Distant posterity, upon his page
With transport dwelling; while bright learning’s sons
That ages hence must tread this earthly ball,
Indignant, seem to curse the thankless age,
That starved such merit. Meantime swallow’d up,
In meditation deep, he wanders on,
Unweeting of his way.—But, ah! he starts
With sudden fright! his glaring eyeballs roll,
Pale turn his cheeks, and shake his loosen’d joints;
His cogitations vanish into air,
Like painted bubbles, or a morning dream.
Behold the cause! see! through the opening glade,
With rosy visage, and abdomen grand,
A cit, a dun!—As in Apulia’s wilds,
Or where the Thracian Hebrus rolls his wave,
A heedless kid, disportive, roves around,
Unheeding, till upon the hideous cave
On the dire wolf she treads; half-dead she views
His bloodshot eyeballs, and his dreadful fangs,
And swift as Eurus from the monster flies.
So fares the trembling bard; amazed he turns,
Scarce by his legs upborne; yet fear supplies
The place of strength; straight home he bends his course,
Nor looks behind him till he safe regain
His faithful citadel; there, spent, fatigued,
He lays him down to ease his heaving lungs,
Quaking, and of his safety scarce convinced.
Soon as the panic leaves his panting breast,
Down to the Muse’s sacred rites he sits,
Volumes piled round him; see! upon his brow
Perplex’d anxiety, and struggling thought,
Painful as female throes: whether the bard
Display the deeds of heroes; or the fall
Of vice, in lay dramatic; or expand
The lyric wing; or in elegiac strains
Lament the fair; or lash the stubborn age,
With laughing satire; or in rural scenes
With shepherds sport; or rack his hard-bound brains
For the unexpected turn. Arachne so,
In dusty kitchen corner, from her bowels
Spins the fine web, but spins with better fate,
Than the poor bard: she! caitiff! spreads her snares,
And with their aid enjoys luxurious life,
Bloated with fat of insects, flesh’d in blood:
He! hard, hard lot! for all his toil and care,
And painful watchings, scarce protracts a while
His meagre, hungry days! ungrateful world!
If with his drama he adorn the stage,
No worth-discerning concourse pays the charge.
Or of the orchestra, or the enlightening torch.
He who supports the luxury and pride
Of craving Lais; he! whose carnage fills
Dogs, eagles, lions; has not yet enough,
Wherewith to satisfy the greedier maw
Of that most ravenous, that devouring beast,
Ycleped a poet. What new Halifax,
What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find,
Thou hungry mortal? Break, wretch, break thy quill,
Blot out the studied image; to the flames
Commit the Stagyrite; leave this thankless trade;
Erect some pedling stall, with trinkets stock’d,
There earn thy daily halfpence, nor again
Trust the false Muse; so shall the cleanly meal
Repel intruding hunger.—Oh! ’tis vain,
The friendly admonition’s all in vain;
The scribbling itch has seized him, he is lost
To all advice, and starves for starving’s sake.
Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood,
Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth;
But, oh! ye gods, avert th’ impending stroke
This luckless omen threatens! Hark! methinks
I hear my better angel cry, ‘Retreat,
Rash youth! in time retreat; let those poor bards,
Who slighted all, all! for the flattering Muse,
Yet cursed with pining want, as landmarks stand,
To warn thee from the service of the ingrate.’