Contempt and want the wretch await
  Who slumbers in an abject state—­
  ’Midst rushing crowds, by toil and pain
  The meed of Honor we must gain;
  At Honor’s call, the camel hastes
  Thro’ trackless wilds and dreary wastes,
  Till in the glorious race she find
  The fleetest coursers left behind: 
  By toils like these alone, he cries,
  Th’ adventurous youths to greatness rise;
  If bloated indolence were fame,
  And pompous ease our noblest aim,
  The orb that regulates the day
  Would ne’er from Aries’ mansion stray.

  I’ve bent at Fortune’s shrine too long—­
  Too oft she heard my suppliant tongue—­
  Too oft has mock’d my idle prayers,
  While fools and knaves engross’d her cares,
  Awake for them, asleep to me,
  Heedless of worth she scorn’d each plea. 
  Ah! had her eyes, more just survey’d
  The diff’rent claims which each display’d,
  Those eyes from partial fondness free
  Had slept to them, and wak’d for me.

  But, ’midst my sorrows and my toils,
  Hope ever sooth’d my breast with smiles;
  Her hand remov’d each gathering ill,
  And oped life’s closing prospects still. 
  Yet spite of all her friendly art
  The specious scene ne’er gain’d my heart;
  I lov’d it not altho’ the day
  Met my approach, and cheer’d my way;
  I loath it now the hours retreat,
  And fly me with reverted feet.

  My soul from every tarnish free
  May boldly vaunt her purity,
  But ah, how keen, however bright,
  The sabre glitter to the sight,
  Its splendor’s lost, its polish vain,
  Till some bold hand the steel sustain.

  Why have my days been stretch’d by fate,
  To see the vile and vicious great—­
  While I, who led the race so long,
  Am last and meanest of the throng? 
  Ah, why has death so long delay’d
  To wrap me in his friendly shade,
  Left me to wander thus alone,
  When all my heart held dear is gone!

  But let me check these fretful sighs—­
  Well may the base above me rise,
  When yonder planets as they run
  Mount in the sky above the sun. 
  Resigned I bow to Fate’s decree,
  Nor hope his laws will change for me;
  Each shifting scene, each varying hour,
  But proves the ruthless tyrants’ power.

  But tho’ with ills unnumber’d curst,
  We owe to faithless man the worst;
  For man can smile with specious art,
  And plant a dagger in the heart. 
  He only’s fitted for the strife
  Which fills the boist’rous paths of life,
  Who, as he treads the crowded scenes,
  Upon no kindred bosom leans. 
  Too long my foolish heart had deem’d
  Mankind as virtuous as they seem’d;
  The spell is broke, their faults are bare,
  And now I see them as they are;
  Truth from each tainted breast has flown,
  And falsehood marks them all her own.