On
DISCONTENT
.
To
STELLA
.
SAY
,
dearest
Stella
,
why
this
pensive
Air
?
Tell
me
,
O
tell
thy
Sorrows
and
thy
Care
;
Why
thy
Lips
tremble
,
and
thy
Cheeks
are
pale
?
Why
heaves
thy
Bosom
with
a
mournful
Gale
?
Let
not
thy
Eyes
for
distant
Evils
flow
,
Nor
rack
thy
Bosom
with
prophetick
Woe
:
Imagin'd
Ills
deceive
our
aking
Eyes
,
As
lengthen'd
Shades
appear
of
monstrous
Size
,
When
setting
Phoebus
gilds
the
Ev'ning
Skies
.
Tho'
pictur'd
Joy
deludes
our
panting
Souls
,
When
round
the
Heart
its
smiling
Phantom
rolls
;
The
gay
Impostor
mocks
our
reaching
Arms
;
Yet
while
it
lasts
,
the
pleasing
Vision
charms
:
Not
so
Distrust
,
her
gloomy
Forehead
rears
;
She
brings
cold
Anguish
and
a
crowd
of
Fears
:
Ah
lovely
Stella
!
as
you
prize
your
Rest
,
Expel
this
Fury
from
your
guiltless
Breast
.
The
wise
and
mighty
Guardian
of
Mankind
,
To
each
Dividual
has
their
Draught
assign'd
;
And
tho'
no
Pearls
shou'd
in
our
Potion
fall
,
Let
us
be
chearful
while
he
spares
the
Gall
:
Unmeaning
Transports
for
a
Moment
please
,
Yet
Peace
alone
can
bless
your
equal
Days
.
But
coldly
view'd
or
quickly
thrown
aside
,
See
cringing
Merit
at
the
Gates
of
Pride
;
See
Wit
and
Wisdom
(
that
our
Fathers
priz'd
)
In
Youth
neglected
as
in
Age
despis'd
:
Behold
(
the
Scorn
,
as
late
the
Dread
of
all
)
The
Politician
from
his
Glory
fall
:
He
whose
sly
Genius
cou'd
a
Kingdom
rule
,
Shall
have
his
Exit
hiss'd
by
ev'ry
Fool
:
With
aking
Bosom
and
a
streaming
Eye
The
hoary
Soldier
sees
his
Honour
fly
;
Who
in
his
Age
must
to
Oppression
bow
,
And
yield
his
Laurels
to
a
younger
Brow
:
Those
Laurels
shall
the
proud
Successor
wear
A
while
;
then
strip
and
leave
'em
to
his
Heir
.
If
these
are
wretched
let
not
us
repine
,
Whose
meaner
Talents
ne'er
were
made
to
shine
:
Our
Good
and
Ill
,
our
Vice
and
Virtue
falls
Within
the
compass
of
domestick
Walls
:
To
those
small
Limits
be
thy
Views
confin'd
,
And
bless
thy
Cottage
with
an
humble
Mind
.
Look
not
at
Joys
that
dazzle
from
afar
,
Nor
envy
Glaro
on
his
gilded
Car
;
For
all
Degrees
their
Days
of
Anguish
know
,
And
the
most
happy
have
a
taste
of
Woe
:
Then
calmly
take
what
Providence
ordains
,
He
swells
the
Load
who
murmurs
and
complains
:
For
all
things
vary
:
And
who
sits
to
day
Half-drown'd
in
Tears
;
to-morrow
may
be
gay
.