And, Pug! your golden dreams have pass'd--
Well may you mourn the luckless hour
You plac'd yourself in Mentor's power--
The knowing practices he taught you;
To a bad winding-up have brought you,
Stripp'd of your gains, you now, too late,
Distracted, curse your bitter fate,
And gnash your teeth, and grasp your hair,
In all the raving of despair.
How shall such anguish be appeas'd?
How can we heal a mind diseas'd?
Is there no source of comfort? None.
No friend to soothe your mind? Not one.
Mentor, of course, has little claim
To be distinguished by the name;
Who with unruffled phyz is viewing
His pupil's rage and utter ruin;
Eyes him with self-complacent shrug,
And thus addresses hapless Pug:--
"This is a devilish fine cigar--
Why, what a shocking judge you are!
I never knew you play so bad--
I thought you were not TO BE HAD;
'Tis strange, indeed, it never struck ye,
When you play high, you're never lucky.
Besides, you play'd too long on Red;
Didn't you see me shake my head?
The money was your own, no doubt,
And handsomely they've cleaned you out."
[Illustration]
THE GAMBLER'S PROGRESS--STEP THE NINTH.
"Last scene of all,
"That ends this strange eventful story."
The Gaming Race at length is run
And darkness shrouds the evening sun;
Reproach, Remorse, are now in vain--
That sun may never rise again!
Now poverty, distress, disgrace,
Stare ghastly in the victim's face:
The heartless shrug, the cut direct,
And bitter scorn and cold neglect?--
Those glittering hopes so fondly cherished,
In one ill-omen'd night have perish'd.
And Fate, in midnight's deepest gloom,
Have veil'd our wretched Hero's doom--
While Suicide is hovering near,
To put her seal on Pug's career.--
Stay thy rash hand! ere to that hour
From which no Traveller can return.
All stain'd with sin, unfit to die,
Unsummon'd you presume to fly!--
The tube is rais'd, the die is cast--
Another moment is the last.
But, ere the awful scene is clos'd,
A guardian hand hath interpos'd;
And in this time of utmost need,
See Mentor rush to stay the deed,
And eagerly his arm extend
To snatch from death his wretched friend,
Mentor, this act shall well atone
For many an error of thine own.
[Illustration:
LONDON:--
E. A. BECKETT,
PRINTER,
111 & 113,
KINGSLAND ROAD.]
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+----------------------------------------------------------------- +
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. |
| |
| Original spelling and its variations were not standardized. |
| |
| Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters, |
| _like this_. Words in bold characters are surrounded by equal |
| signs, =like this=. |
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