Scorn'd be the bard, and wither'd all his fame,
Who wounds a brother weeping o'er his shame!
But if an impious wretch, with frantic pride,
Throws honour, truth, and decency aside;
If not by reason awed, nor check'd by fears,
He counts his glories from the stains he bears,
The indignant Muse to Virtue's aid shall rise,
And fix the brand of infamy on vice. 130
What if, aroused at his imperious call,
An hundred footsteps echo through his hall,
And, on high columns rear'd, his lofty dome
Proclaims the united art of Greece and Rome.
What though whole hecatombs his crew regale,
And each dependant slumbers o'er his ale,
While the remains, through mouths unnumber'd pass'd,
Indulge the beggar and the dogs at last:
Say, friend, is it benevolence of soul,
Or pompous vanity, that prompts the whole? 140
These sons of sloth, who by profusion thrive,
His pride inveigled from the public hive:
And numbers pine in solitary woe,
Who furnish'd out this phantasy of show.
When silent misery assail'd his eyes,
Did e'er his throbbing bosom sympathise?
Or his extensive charity pervade
To those who languish in the barren shade,
Where oft, by want and modesty suppress'd,
The bootless talent warms the lonely breast? 150
No! petrified by dulness and disdain,
Beyond the feeling of another's pain,
The tear of pity ne'er bedew d his eye,
Nor his lewd bosom felt the social sigh!