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SEARCH thou the ruling passion; there, alone, | |
| The wild are constant, and the cunning known; | |
| The fool consistent and the false sincere; | |
| Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. * * * * * | |
| In this the lust, in that the avarice, | 5 |
| Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice. * * * * * | |
| In this one passion man can strength enjoy, | |
| As fits give vigor just when they destroy. | |
| Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, | |
| Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. | 10 |
| Consistent in our follies and our sins, | |
| Here honest Nature ends as she begins. | |
| Old politicians chew on wisdom past, | |
| And totter on in business to the last; | |
| As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out, | 15 |
| As sober Lanesborough dancing in the gout. | |
| Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace | |
| Has made the father of a nameless race, | |
| Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed | |
| By his own son, that passes by unblessed: | 20 |
| Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, | |
| And envies every sparrow that he sees. | |
| A salmon’s belly, Helluo, was thy fate. | |
| The doctor, called, declares all help too late. | |
| “Mercy!” cries Helluo, “mercy on my soul! | 25 |
| Is there no hope?—Alas!—then bring the jowl.” | |
| The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, | |
| Still tries to save the hallowed taper’s end, | |
| Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, | |
| For one puff more, and in that puff expires. | 30 |
| “Odious! in woollen! ’t would a saint provoke,” | |
| Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke; | |
| “No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace | |
| Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: | |
| One would not, sure, be frightful when one ’s dead,— | 35 |
| And—Betty—give this cheek a little red.” | |
| The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined | |
| An humble servant to all human-kind, | |
| Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, | |
| “If—where I ’m going—I could serve you, sir?” | 40 |
| “I give and I devise” (old Euclio said, | |
| And sighed) “my lands and tenements to Ned.” | |
| Your money, sir? “My money, sir! what, all? | |
| Why—if I must” (then wept)—“I give it Paul.” | |
| The manor, sir? “The manor, hold!” he cried, | 45 |
| “Not that,—I cannot part with that,”—and died. | |
| And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath | |
| Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death; | |
| Such in those moments as in all the past, | |
| “O, save my country, Heaven!” shall be your last. | 50 |
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