See! yonder badgeman with that glowing face,
A meteor shining in this sober place! 
Vast sums were paid, and many years were past,
Ere gems so rich around their radiance cast! 
Such was the fiery front that Bardolph wore,
Guiding his master to the tavern door;
There first that meteor rose, and there alone,
In its due place, the rich effulgence shone: 
But this strange fire the seat of peace invades
And shines portentous in these solemn shades. 
   Benbow, a boon companion, long approved
By jovial sets, and (as he thought) beloved,
Was judged as one to joy and friendship prone,
And deem’d injurious to himself alone: 
Gen’rous and free, he paid but small regard
To trade, and fail’d; and some declared “’twas hard:” 
These were his friends—­his foes conceived the case
Of common kind; he sought and found disgrace: 
The reasoning few, who neither scorn’d nor loved,
His feelings pitied and his faults reproved. 
   Benbow, the father, left possessions fair,
A worthy name and business to his heir;
Benbow, the son, those fair possessions sold,
And lost his credit, while he spent the gold: 
He was a jovial trader:  men enjoy’d
The night with him; his day was unemployed;
So when his credit and his cash were spent,
Here, by mistaken pity, he was sent;
Of late he came, with passions unsubdued,
And shared and cursed the hated solitude,
Where gloomy thoughts arise, where grievous cares intrude. 
   Known but in drink,—­he found an easy friend,
Well pleased his worth and honour to commend: 
And thus inform’d, the guardian of the trust
Heard the applause, and said the claim was just,
A worthy soul! unfitted for the strife,
Care, and contention of a busy life; —
Worthy, and why?—­that o’er the midnight bowl
He made his friend the partner of his soul,
And any man his friend:  —­then thus in glee,
“I speak my mind, I love the truth,” quoth he;
Till ’twas his fate that useful truth to find,
’Tis sometimes prudent not to speak the mind. 
   With wine inflated, man is all upblown,
And feels a power which he believes his own;
With fancy soaring to the skies, he thinks
His all the virtues all the while he drinks;
But when the gas from the balloon is gone,
When sober thoughts and serious cares come on,
Where then the worth that in himself he found? 
Vanish’d—­and he sank grov’lling on the ground. 
   Still some conceit will Benbow’s mind inflate,
Poor as he is,—­’tis pleasant to relate
The joys he once possess’d—­it soothes his present state. 
   Seated with some gray beadsman, he regrets
His former feasting, though it swell’d his debts;
Topers once famed, his friends in earlier days,
Well he describes, and thinks description praise: 
Each hero’s worth with much delight he paints;
Martyrs they were, and he would make them saints.