I've bent at Fortune's shrine too long— Too oft she heard my suppliant tongue— Too oft has mocked my idle prayers, While fools and knaves engrossed her cares, Awake for them, asleep to me, Heedless of worth she scorned each plea. Ah! had her eyes more just surveyed The diff'rent claims which each displayed, Those eyes from partial fondness free Had slept to them, and waked for me. But, 'midst my sorrows and my toils, Hope ever soothed my breast with smiles; The hand removed each gathering ill, And oped life's closing prospects still. Yet spite of all her friendly art The specious scene ne'er gained my heart; I loved it not although the day Met my approach, and cheered my way; I loath it now the hours retreat, And fly me with reverted feet. My soul from every tarnish free May boldly vaunt her purity, But ah, how keen, however bright, The saber glitter to the sight, Its splendor's lost, its polish vain, Till some bold hand the steel sustain. Why have my days been stretched by fate, To see the vile and vicious great— While I, who led the race so long, Am last and meanest of the throng? Ah, why has death so long delayed To wrap me in his friendly shade, Left me to wander thus alone, When all my heart held dear is gone! But let me check these fretful sighs— Well may the base above me rise, When yonder planets as they run Mount in the sky above the sun. Resigned I bow to Fate's decree, Nor hope his laws will change for me; Each shifting scene, each varying hour, But proves the ruthless tyrant's power. But though with ills unnumbered curst, We owe to faithless man the worst; For man can smile with specious art, And plant a dagger in the heart. He only's fitted for the strife Which fills the boist'rous paths of life, Who, as he treads the crowded scenes, Upon no kindred bosom leans. Too long my foolish heart had deemed Mankind as virtuous as they seemed; The spell is broke, their faults are bare, And now I see them as they are; Truth from each tainted breast has flown, And falsehood marks them all her own. Incredulous I listen now To every tongue, and every vow, For still there yawns a gulf between Those honeyed words, and what they mean; With honest pride elate, I see The sons of falsehood shrink from me, As from the right line's even way The biassed curves deflecting stray— But what avails it to complain? With souls like theirs reproof is vain; If honor e'er such bosoms share The saber's point must fix it there.