Deep in the vale from which those towers arose, A life more shatter'd, sought more late repose; In Seaton long had men and marts obey'd The unerring hierarch in thy temple, Trade. Trade, the last earth-god; whom the Olympian Power Begot on Danae, as the Golden Shower, To whose young hands the weary Jove resign'd. Some ages since, the scales that weigh mankind. But that dire Fate, who Jove himself controll'd, Still shakes the urn, although the lots are gold: Reverses came, the whirlwind of a day Swept the strong labours of a life away; Rased out of sight whate'er is sold or bought, And left but name and honour--men said "nought." True, knavery whisper'd, "Only still disguise: Credit is generous, if you blind its eyes; The borrow'd prop arrests the house's fall, And one rich chance may yet reconquer all." There on his priest the earth-god lost control, And from the wreck the merchant saved his soul "Alone, I rose," he said; "I fall alone-- Nor one man's ruin shall accuse mine own." And so, life passing from the gorgeous stage, The curtain fell on Poverty and Age. III. Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth, And one sweet voice gave music still to earth; On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled; "Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child. Beautiful Constance!--As the icy air Congeals the earth, to make more clear the star, So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes, Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies. Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd, And griefs that wept not on a father's breast. In brighter days, such love as fancy knows (That youngest love whose couch is in the rose) Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste, Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced; But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart, And deepening from the surface, gains the heart; In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,-- Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease; The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul, And that self-love which brings such self-control. High-born, but poor, no Corydon was he To dream of love and cots in Arcady; His tastes were like the Argonauts of old, And only pastoral if the fleece was gold. The less men feel, the better they can feign-- To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain? No, the calm master of the Histrio's art Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart; Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept, Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept.