To a Young Man of Fortune

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear!To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hearMoan haply in a dying Mother's ear:Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps broodO'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strew'd,Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer partWas slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbsThe flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heartGroans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind)What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd,All effortless thou leave life's common-wealA prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.