Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/51

 Or if some matchless Conduct shou'd appear, They call the Valour, Heat; the Caution, Fear. So false their Censure, fickle their Esteem, This Hour they Worship; and the next Blaspheme. Tho' honour'd as some God a Heroe shines, And Valour executes what Skill designs; Tho' rescu'd Nations their Deliv'rance own, And Monarchs sit unshaken on a Throne, Whilst proud Oppressors their vain Hopes give o'er, And tremble at the Chains They forg'd before; Yet if th' amazing Issue we survey, We find that Fame has Wings, and flies away.

Shall I then, who with penetrating Sight Inspect the Springs that guide each Appetite: Who with unfathom'd Searches hourly pierce The dark Recesses of the Universe, Be aw'd, if puny Emmets wou'd oppress; Or fear their Fury, or their Name caress? If all the Fiends that in low Darkness reign, Be not the Fictions of a sickly Brain, That Project, the Dispensary they call, Before the Moon can blunt her Horns, shall fall.

With that, a Glance from mild Aurora's Eyes Shoots thro' the Chrystal Kingdoms of the Skies; The Savage Kind in Forests cease to roam, And Sots o'ercharg'd with nauseous Loads reel home. Drums, Trumpets, Haut-boys wake the slumbring Pair; Whilst Bridegroom sighs, and thinks the Bride less fair. Light's chearful Smiles o'er th'Azure Waste are spread, And Miss from Inns o'Court bolts out unpaid. The