Of hopes how long, how confidently fed!

Now wither'd, wasted, and for ever dead.

What wonder, then, if desperate thoughts assail!

What wonder, then, if resolution fail!

90

Ye modern Sybarites, that, in the shade
On freshly gathered leaves of roses laid,
Bewail your hapless fate with piteous cry,
If but a single leaf be laid awry,

Pause ere with hard indifference you throw
Your censures on each erring child of woe,
That, tortured past endurance by his grief,
Not always seeks the holiest relief.

You see his errors: those indeed appear

Beyond contention, palpable and clear.

But you, who to your pamper'd thoughts propose

No pain but what satiety bestóws,

100

How can you know what torture was endured,
What baits to short forgetfulness allured?

The hard of heart may sentence, the mere fool

May quote the censure of a written rule.
But little skill is requisite to aim

The common shafts of obloquy and shame

Ere the vituperative word be sped,

Uttered so soon, so hard to be unsaid,

Think if you should not know how well, how long,

Temptation was resisted-that, how strong!

110

SKETCHES

FROM

ST. GEORGE'S FIELDS.

ᏢᎪᎡᎢ 1.

}