Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/149

The world around solicits his desire,
 And kindles in his soul a treacherous fire,
 While all his purposes and steps to guard,
 Peace follows virtue as its sure reward,
 And pleasure brings as surely in her train,
 Remorse and sorrow and vindictive pain.
Man thus endued with an elective voice,
 Must be supplied with objects of his choice.
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
 Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight;
 These open on the spot their honeyed store,
 Those call him loudly to pursuit of more.
His unexhausted mine, the sordid vice
 Avarice shows, and virtue is the price.
Here, various motives his ambition raise,
 Power, pomp, and Splendour, and the thirst of praise;
 There beauty woes him with expanded arms,
 Ev'n Bacchanalian madness has its charms,
 Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined,
 Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
 Seek to supplant his unexperienced youth,
 Or lead him devious from the path of truth,
 Hourly allurements on his passions press,
 Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air,
 O what a dying, dying close was there!
'Tis harmony from yon sequestered bow'r,
 Sweet harmony that sooths the midnight hour;
 Long e'er the charioteer of day had run
 His morning course, the enchantment was begun,
 And he shall gild yon mountains height again,
 E'er yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.
Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent
 That virtue points to? Can a life thus spent
 Lead to the bliss she promises the wise,
 Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies?
Ye devotees to your adored employ,
 Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,
 Love makes the music of the blest above,
 Heaven's harmony is universal love;
 And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combined,
 And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,
 Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind.
Grey dawn appears, the sportsman and his train
 Speckle the bosom of the distant plain,
 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbouring lairs,
 Save that his scent is less acute than theirs,
 For persevering chase, and headlong leaps,
 True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps.
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene,
 He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;
 The joy, the danger and the toil o'erpays—