His kindred died, and Blaney now became An heir to one who never heard his name. What could he now?--The man had tried before The joys of youth, and they were joys no more; To vicious pleasure he was still inclined, But vice must now be season'd and refined; Then as a swine he would on pleasure seize, Now common pleasures had no power to please: Beauty alone has for the vulgar charms, He wanted beauty trembling with alarms: His was no more a youthful dream of joy, The wretch desired to ruin and destroy; He bought indulgence with a boundless price, Most pleased when decency bow'd down to vice, When a fair dame her husband's honour sold, And a frail countess play'd for Blaney's gold. "But did not conscience in her anger rise?" Yes! and he learn'd her terrors to despise; When stung by thought, to soothing books he fled, And grew composed and harden'd as he read; Tales of Voltaire, and essays gay and slight. Pleased him, and shone with their phosphoric light; Which, though it rose from objects vile and base, Where'er it came threw splendour on the place, And was that light which the deluded youth, And this gray sinner, deem'd the light of truth. He different works for different cause admired, Some fix'd his judgment, some his passions fired; To cheer the mind and raise a dormant flame, He had the books, decreed to lasting shame, Which those who read are careful not to name: These won to vicious act the yielding heart, And then the cooler reasoners soothed the smart. He heard of Blount, and Mandeville, and Chubb, How they the doctors of their day would drub; How Hume had dwelt on Miracles so well, That none would now believe a miracle; And though he cared not works so grave to read, He caught their faith, and sign'd the sinner's creed. Thus was he pleased to join the laughing side, Nor ceased the laughter when his lady died; Yet was he kind and careful of her fame, And on her tomb inscribed a virtuous name; "A tender wife, respected, and so forth," The marble still bears witness to the worth. He has some children, but he knows not where; Something they cost, but neither love nor care; A father's feelings he has never known, His joys, his sorrows, have been all his own. He now would build, and lofty seat he built, And sought, in various ways, relief from guilt. Restless, for ever anxious to obtain Ease for the heart by ramblings of the brain, He would have pictures, and of course a Taste, And found a thousand means his wealth to waste. Newmarket steeds he bought at mighty cost; They sometimes won, but Blaney always lost. Quick came his ruin, came when he had still For life a relish, and in pleasure skill: By his own idle reckoning he supposed His wealth would last him till his life was closed; But no! he found this final hoard was spent, While he had years to suffer and repent. Yet, at the last, his noble mind to show, And in his misery how he bore the blow, He view'd his only guinea, then suppress'd,