When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay, We cut our cable, launch into the world, And fondly dream each wind and star our friend; All, in some darling enterprise embark'd: But where is he can fathom its extent? Amid a multitude of artless hands, Ruin's sure perquisite! her lawful prize! Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard, And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof, Full against wind and tide, some win their way; 190 And when strong effort has deserved the port, And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis lost! Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate: They strike; and, while they triumph, they expire. In stress of weather, most; some sink outright; O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close; To-morrow knows not they were ever born. Others a short memorial leave behind, Like a flag floating,[44] when the bark's engulf'd; It floats a moment, and is seen no more: 200 One Caesar lives; a thousand are forgot. How few, beneath auspicious planets born (Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect!), With swelling sails make good the promised port, With all their wishes freighted! Yet even these, Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain; Free from misfortune, not from nature free, They still are men; and when is man secure? As fatal time, as storm! the rush of years Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes 210 In ruin end: and, now, their proud success But plants new terrors on the victor's brow: What pain to quit the world, just made their own, Their nest so deeply down'd, and built so high! Too low they build, who build beneath the stars. Woe then apart (if woe apart can be From mortal man), and fortune at our nod, The gay, rich, great, triumphant, and august! What are they?--The most happy (strange to say!) Convince me most of human misery; 220 What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow! 221 More wretched, then, than e'er their slave can be; Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need, Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting: Then, what provoking indigence in wealth! What aggravated impotence in power! High titles, then, what insult of their pain! If that sole anchor, equal to the waves, Immortal Hope! defies not the rude storm, Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage, 230 And makes a welcome harbour of the tomb. Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires? "But here (thou say'st) the miseries of life Are huddled in a group. A more distinct Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better news." Look on life's stages: they speak plainer still; The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh. Look on thy lovely boy; in him behold The best that can befall the best on earth;