A Short Song of Congratulation

LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty

Ling'ring year at last has flown,

Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty

Great Sir John, are all your own.

Loosen'd from the minor's tether,

Free to mortgage or to sell,

Wild as wind, and light as feather

Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.

Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jenneys

Ev'ry name that laughs at care,

Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas,

Show the spirit of an heir.

All that prey on vice and folly

Joy to see their quarry fly,

Here the gamester light and jolly

There the lender grave and sly.

Wealth, Sir John, was made to wander,

Let it wander as it will;

See the jocky, see the pander,

Bid them come, and take their fill.

When the bonny blade carouses,

Pockets full, and spirits high,

What are acres? What are houses?

Only dirt, or wet or dry.

If the Guardian or the Mother

Tell the woes of willful waste,

Scorn their counsel and their pother,

You can hang or drown at last.

Samuel Johnson

On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet

CONDEMN'D to hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,

By sudden blasts, or slow decline,

Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,

See Levet to the grave descend;

Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;

Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.

When fainting nature call'd for aid,

And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow,

His vig'rous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest caverns known,

His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,

And lonely want retir'd to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,

No petty gain disdain'd by pride,

The modest wants of ev'ry day

The toil of ev'ry day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

And sure th' Eternal Master found

The single talent well-employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,

Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no throbbing fiery pain,

No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,

And free'd his soul the nearest way.

Samuel Johnson