'The inexpressive semblance', etc.—P. 53.
This similitude is the foundation of almost all the ornaments of poetic diction.
'Two faithful needles', etc.—P. 55.
See the elegant poem recited by Cardinal Bembo in the character ofLucretius.-Strada Prolus. vi.Academ. 2. c. v.
'By these mysterious ties', etc.—P. 55.
The act of remembering seems almost wholly to depend on the association of ideas.
'Into its proper vehicle', etc.—P. 57.
This relates to the different sorts of corporeal mediums, by which the ideas of the artists are rendered palpable to the senses: as by sounds, in music; by lines and shadows, in painting; by diction, in poetry, etc.
'One pursues The vast alone', etc.—P. 61.
See the note to ver. 18 of this book.
'Waller longs', etc.—P. 61.
Oh! how I long my careless limbs to layUnder the plantane shade; and all the dayWith amorous airs my fancy entertain, etc.WALLER, Battle of the Summer-Islands, Canto I.
And again,While in the park I sing, the list'ning deerAttend my passion, and forget to fear, etc.At Pens-hurst.
'Not a breeze', etc.—P. 63.
That this account may not appear rather poetically extravagant than just in philosophy, it may be proper to produce the sentiment of one of the greatest, wisest, and best of men on this head; one so little to be suspected of partiality in the case, that he reckons it among those favours for which he was especially thankful to the gods, that they had not suffered him to make any great proficiency in the arts of eloquence and poetry, lest by that means he should have been diverted from pursuits of more importance to his high station. Speaking of the beauty of universal nature, he observes, that there 'is a pleasing and graceful aspect in every object we perceive,' when once we consider its connexion with that general order. He instances in many things which at first sight would be thought rather deformities; and then adds, 'that a man who enjoys a sensibility of temper with a just comprehension of the universal order—will discern many amiable things, not credible to every mind, but to those alone who have entered into an honourable familiarity with nature and her works.' —M. Antonin. iii. 2.
The pleasures of the imagination proceed either from natural objects, as from a flourishing grove, a clear and murmuring fountain, a calm sea by moonlight; or from works of art, such as a noble edifice, a musical tune, a statue, a picture, a poem. In treating of these pleasures, we must begin with the former class; they being original to the other; and nothing more being necessary, in order to explain them, than a view of our natural inclination toward greatness and beauty, and of those appearances, in the world around us, to which that inclination is adapted. This is the subject of the first book of the following poem.
But the pleasures which we receive from the elegant arts, from music, sculpture, painting, and poetry, are much more various and complicated. In them (besides greatness and beauty, or forms proper to the imagination) we find interwoven frequent representations of truth, of virtue and vice, of circumstances proper to move us with laughter, or to excite in us pity, fear, and the other passions. These moral and intellectual objects are described in the second book; to which the third properly belongs as an episode, though too large to have been included in it.
With the above-mentioned causes of pleasure, which are universal in the course of human life, and appertain to our higher faculties, many others do generally occur, more limited in their operation, or of an inferior origin: such are the novelty of objects, the association of ideas, affections of the bodily senses, influences of education, national habits, and the like. To illustrate these, and from the whole to determine the character of a perfect taste, is the argument of the fourth book.
Hitherto the pleasures of the imagination belong to the human species in general. But there are certain particular men whose imagination is endowed with powers, and susceptible of pleasures, which the generality of mankind never participate. These are the men of genius, destined by nature to excel in one or other of the arts already mentioned. It is proposed, therefore, in the last place, to delineate that genius which in some degree appears common to them all; yet with a more peculiar consideration of poetry: inasmuch as poetry is the most extensive of those arts, the most philosophical, and the most useful.
The subject proposed. Dedication. The ideas of the Supreme Being, the exemplars of all things. The variety of constitution in the minds of men; with its final cause. The general character of a fine imagination. All the immediate pleasures of the human imagination proceed either from Greatness or Beauty in external objects. The pleasure from Greatness; with its final cause. The natural connexion of Beauty with truth [2] and good. The different orders of Beauty in different objects. The infinite and all-comprehending form of Beauty, which belongs to the Divine Mind. The partial and artificial forms of Beauty, which belong to inferior intellectual beings. The origin and general conduct of beauty in man. The subordination of local beauties to the beauty of the Universe. Conclusion.
With what enchantment Nature's goodly sceneAttracts the sense of mortals; how the mindFor its own eye doth objects nobler stillPrepare; how men by various lessons learnTo judge of Beauty's praise; what raptures fillThe breast with fancy's native arts endow'd,And what true culture guides it to renown,My verse unfolds. Ye gods, or godlike powers,Ye guardians of the sacred task, attendPropitious. Hand in hand around your bard 10Move in majestic measures, leading onHis doubtful step through many a solemn path,Conscious of secrets which to human sightYe only can reveal. Be great in him:And let your favour make him wise to speakOf all your wondrous empire; with a voiceSo temper'd to his theme, that those who hearMay yield perpetual homage to yourselves.Thou chief, O daughter of eternal Love,Whate'er thy name; or Muse, or Grace, adored 20By Grecian prophets; to the sons of HeavenKnown, while with deep amazement thou dost thereThe perfect counsels read, the ideas old,Of thine omniscient Father; known on earthBy the still horror and the blissful tearWith which thou seizest on the soul of man;Thou chief, Poetic Spirit, from the banksOf Avon, whence thy holy fingers cullFresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turfWhere Shakspeare lies, be present. And with thee 30Let Fiction come, on her aërial wingsWafting ten thousand colours, which in sport,By the light glances of her magic eye,She blends and shifts at will through countless forms,Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre,Whose awful tones control the moving sphere,Wilt thou, eternal Harmony, descend,And join this happy train? for with thee comesThe guide, the guardian of their mystic rites,Wise Order: and, where Order deigns to come, 40Her sister, Liberty, will not be far.Be present all ye Genii, who conductOf youthful bards the lonely wandering stepNew to your springs and shades; who touch their earWith finer sounds, and heighten to their eyeThe pomp of nature, and before them placeThe fairest, loftiest countenance of things.
Nor thou, my Dyson, [3] to the lay refuseThy wonted partial audience. What though first,In years unseason'd, haply ere the sports 50Of childhood yet were o'er, the adventurous layWith many splendid prospects, many charms,Allured my heart, nor conscious whence they sprung,Nor heedful of their end? yet serious TruthHer empire o'er the calm, sequester'd themeAsserted soon; while Falsehood's evil brood,Vice and deceitful Pleasure, she at onceExcluded, and my fancy's careless toilDrew to the better cause. Maturer aidThy friendship added, in the paths of life, 60The busy paths, my unaccustom'd feetPreserving: nor to Truth's recess divine,Through this wide argument's unbeaten space,Withholding surer guidance; while by turnsWe traced the sages old, or while the queenOf sciences (whom manners and the mindAcknowledge) to my true companion's voiceNot unattentive, o'er the wintry lampInclined her sceptre, favouring. Now the fatesHave other tasks imposed;—to thee, my friend, 70The ministry of freedom and the faithOf popular decrees, in early youth,Not vainly they committed; me they sentTo wait on pain, and silent arts to urge,Inglorious; not ignoble, if my cares,To such as languish on a grievous bed,Ease and the sweet forgetfulness of illConciliate; nor delightless, if the Muse,Her shades to visit and to taste her springs,If some distinguish'd hours the bounteous Muse 80Impart, and grant (what she, and she alone,Can grant to mortals) that my hand those wreathsOf fame and honest favour, which the bless'dWear in Elysium, and which never feltThe breath of envy or malignant tongues,That these my hand for thee and for myselfMay gather. Meanwhile, O my faithful friend,O early chosen, ever found the same,And trusted and beloved, once more the verseLong destined, always obvious to thine ear, 90Attend, indulgent: so in latest years,When time thy head with honours shall have clothedSacred to even virtue, may thy mind,Amid the calm review of seasons past,Fair offices of friendship, or kind peace,Or public zeal, may then thy mind well pleasedRecall these happy studies of our prime.From Heaven my strains begin: from Heaven descendsThe flame of genius to the chosen breast,And beauty with poetic wonder join'd, 100And inspiration. Ere the rising sunShone o'er the deep, or 'mid the vault of nightThe moon her silver lamp suspended; ereThe vales with springs were water'd, or with grovesOf oak or pine the ancient hills were crown'd;Then the Great Spirit, whom his works adore,Within his own deep essence view'd the forms,The forms eternal of created things:The radiant sun; the moon's nocturnal lamp;The mountains and the streams; the ample stores 110Of earth, of heaven, of nature. From the first,On that full scene his love divine he fix'd,His admiration: till, in time complete,What he admired and loved his vital powerUnfolded into being. Hence the breathOf life informing each organic frame:Hence the green earth, and wild-resounding waves:Hence light and shade, alternate; warmth and cold;And bright autumnal skies, and vernal showers,And all the fair variety of things. 120But not alike to every mortal eyeIs this great scene unveil'd. For while the claimsOf social life to different labours urgeThe active powers of man, with wisest careHath Nature on the multitude of mindsImpress'd a various bias, and to eachDecreed its province in the common toil.To some she taught the fabric of the sphere,The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars,The golden zones of heaven; to some she gave 130To search the story of eternal thought;Of space, and time; of fate's unbroken chain,And will's quick movement; others by the handShe led o'er vales and mountains, to exploreWhat healing virtue dwells in every veinOf herbs or trees. But some to nobler hopesWere destined; some within a finer mouldShe wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame.To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds,In fuller aspects and with fairer lights, 140This picture of the world. Through every partThey trace the lofty sketches of his hand;In earth, or air, the meadow's flowery store,The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's mienDress'd in attractive smiles, they see portray'd(As far as mortal eyes the portrait scan)Those lineaments of beauty which delightThe Mind Supreme. They also feel their force,Enamour'd; they partake the eternal joy.
For as old Memnon's image, long renown'd 150Through fabling Egypt, at the genial touchOf morning, from its inmost frame sent forthSpontaneous music, so doth Nature's hand,To certain attributes which matter claims,Adapt the finer organs of the mind;So the glad impulse of those kindred powers(Of form, of colour's cheerful pomp, of soundMelodious, or of motion aptly sped),Detains the enliven'd sense; till soon the soulFeels the deep concord, and assents through all 160Her functions. Then the charm by fate preparedDiffuseth its enchantment Fancy dreams,Rapt into high discourse with prophets old,And wandering through Elysium, Fancy dreamsOf sacred fountains, of o'ershadowing groves,Whose walks with godlike harmony resound:Fountains, which Homer visits; happy groves,Where Milton dwells; the intellectual power,On the mind's throne, suspends his graver cares,And smiles; the passions, to divine repose 170Persuaded yield, and love and joy aloneAre waking: love and joy, such as awaitAn angel's meditation. Oh! attend,Whoe'er thou art whom these delights can touch;Whom Nature's aspect, Nature's simple garbCan thus command; oh! listen to my song;And I will guide thee to her blissful walks,And teach thy solitude her voice to hear,And point her gracious features to thy view.
Know then, whate'er of the world's ancient store, 180Whate'er of mimic Art's reflected scenes,With love and admiration thus inspireAttentive Fancy, her delighted sonsIn two illustrious orders comprehend,Self-taught: from him whose rustic toil the larkCheers warbling, to the bard whose daring thoughtsRange the full orb of being, still the form,Which Fancy worships, or sublime or fair,Her votaries proclaim. I see them dawn:I see the radiant visions where they rise, 190More lovely than when Lucifer displaysHis glittering forehead through the gates of morn,To lead the train of Phoebus and the Spring.
Say, why was man so eminently raisedAmid the vast creation; why empower'dThrough life and death to dart his watchful eye,With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame;But that the Omnipotent might send him forth,In sight of angels and immortal minds,As on an ample theatre to join 200In contest with his equals, who shall bestThe task achieve, the course of noble toils,By wisdom and by mercy preordain'd?Might send him forth the sovereign good to learn;To chase each meaner purpose from his breast;And through the mists of passion and of sense,And through the pelting storms of chance and pain,To hold straight on, with constant heart and eyeStill fix'd upon his everlasting palm,The approving smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burns 210In mortal bosoms this unquenchèd hope,That seeks from day to day sublimer ends,Happy, though restless? Why departs the soulWide from the track and journey of her times,To grasp the good she knows not? In the fieldOf things which may be, in the spacious fieldOf science, potent arts, or dreadful arms,To raise up scenes in which her own desiresContented may repose; when things, which are,Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale: 220Her temper, still demanding to be free;Spurning the rude control of wilful might;Proud of her dangers braved, her griefs endured,Her strength severely proved? To these high aims,Which reason and affection prompt in man,Not adverse nor unapt hath Nature framedHis bold imagination. For, amidThe various forms which this full world presentsLike rivals to his choice, what human breastE'er doubts, before the transient and minute, 230To prize the vast, the stable, the sublime?Who, that from heights aërial sends his eyeAround a wild horizon, and surveysIndus or Ganges rolling his broad waveThrough mountains, plains, through spacious cities old,And regions dark with woods, will turn awayTo mark the path of some penurious rillWhich murmureth at his feet? Where does the soulConsent her soaring fancy to restrain,Which bears her up, as on an eagle's wings, 240Destined for highest heaven; or which of fate'sTremendous barriers shall confine her flightTo any humbler quarry? The rich earthCannot detain her; nor the ambient airWith all its changes. For a while with joyShe hovers o'er the sun, and views the smallAttendant orbs, beneath his sacred beam,Emerging from the deep, like cluster'd islesWhose rocky shores to the glad sailor's eyeReflect the gleams of morning; for a while 250With pride she sees his firm, paternal swayBend the reluctant planets to move eachRound its perpetual year. But soon she quitsThat prospect; meditating loftier views,She darts adventurous up the long careerOf comets; through the constellations holdsHer course, and now looks back on all the starsWhose blended flames as with a milky streamPart the blue region. Empyréan tracts,Where happy souls beyond this concave heaven 260Abide, she then explores, whence purer lightFor countless ages travels through the abyss,Nor hath in sight of mortals yet arrived.Upon the wide creation's utmost shoreAt length she stands, and the dread space beyondContemplates, half-recoiling: nathless, downThe gloomy void, astonish'd, yet unquell'd,She plungeth; down the unfathomable gulfWhere God alone hath being. There her hopesRest at the fated goal. For, from the birth 270Of human kind, the Sovereign Maker saidThat not in humble, nor in brief delight,Not in the fleeting echoes of renown,Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap,The soul should find contentment; but, from theseTurning disdainful to an equal good,Through Nature's opening walks enlarge her aim,Till every bound at length should disappear,And infinite perfection fill the scene.
But lo, where Beauty, dress'd in gentler pomp, 280With comely steps advancing, claims the verseHer charms inspire. O Beauty, source of praise,Of honour, even to mute and lifeless things;O thou that kindlest in each human heartLove, and the wish of poets, when their tongueWould teach to other bosoms what so charmsTheir own; O child of Nature and the soul,In happiest hour brought forth; the doubtful garbOf words, of earthly language, all too mean,Too lowly I account, in which to clothe 290Thy form divine; for thee the mind aloneBeholds, nor half thy brightness can revealThrough those dim organs, whose corporeal touchO'ershadoweth thy pure essence. Yet, my Muse,If Fortune call thee to the task, wait thouThy favourable seasons; then, while fearAnd doubt are absent, through wide nature's boundsExpatiate with glad step, and choose at willWhate'er bright spoils the florid earth contains,Whate'er the waters, or the liquid air, 300To manifest unblemish'd Beauty's praise,And o'er the breasts of mortals to extendHer gracious empire. Wilt thou to the islesAtlantic, to the rich Hesperian clime,Fly in the train of Autumn, and look on,And learn from him; while, as he roves around,Where'er his fingers touch the fruitful grove,The branches bloom with gold; where'er his footImprints the soil, the ripening clusters swell,Turning aside their foliage, and come forth 310In purple lights, till every hillock glowsAs with the blushes of an evening sky?Or wilt thou that Thessalian landscape trace,Where slow Penéus his clear glassy tideDraws smooth along, between the winding cliffsOf Ossa and the pathless woods unshornThat wave o'er huge Olympus? Down the stream,Look how the mountains with their double rangeEmbrace the vale of Tempé: from each sideAscending steep to heaven, a rocky mound 320Cover'd with ivy and the laurel boughsThat crown'd young Phoebus for the Python slain.Fair Tempé! on whose primrose banks the mornAwoke most fragrant, and the noon reposedIn pomp of lights and shadows most sublime:Whose lawns, whose glades, ere human footsteps yetHad traced an entrance, were the hallow'd hauntOf sylvan powers immortal: where they sateOft in the golden age, the Nymphs and Fauns,Beneath some arbour branching o'er the flood, 330And leaning round hung on the instructive lipsOf hoary Pan, or o'er some open daleDanced in light measures to his sevenfold pipe,While Zephyr's wanton hand along their pathFlung showers of painted blossoms, fertile dews,And one perpetual spring. But if our taskMore lofty rites demand, with all good vowsThen let us hasten to the rural hauntWhere young Melissa dwells. Nor thou refuseThe voice which calls thee from thy loved retreat, 340But hither, gentle maid, thy footsteps turn:Here, to thy own unquestionable theme,O fair, O graceful, bend thy polish'd brow,Assenting; and the gladness of thy eyesImpart to me, like morning's wishèd lightSeen through the vernal air. By yonder stream,Where beech and elm along the bordering meadSend forth wild melody from every bough,Together let us wander; where the hillsCover'd with fleeces to the lowing vale 350Reply; where tidings of content and peaceEach echo brings. Lo, how the western sunO'er fields and floods, o'er every living soul,Diffuseth glad repose! There,—while I speakOf Beauty's honours, thou, Melissa, thouShalt hearken, not unconscious, while I tellHow first from Heaven she came: how, after allThe works of life, the elemental scenes,The hours, the seasons, she had oft explored,At length her favourite mansion and her throne 360She fix'd in woman's form; what pleasing tiesTo virtue bind her; what effectual aidThey lend each other's power; and how divineTheir union, should some unambitious maid,To all the enchantment of the Idalian queen,Add sanctity and wisdom; while my tongueProlongs the tale, Melissa, thou may'st feignTo wonder whence my rapture is inspired;But soon the smile which dawns upon thy lipShall tell it, and the tenderer bloom o'er all 370That soft cheek springing to the marble neck,Which bends aside in vain, revealing moreWhat it would thus keep silent, and in vainThe sense of praise dissembling. Then my songGreat Nature's winning arts, which thus informWith joy and love the rugged breast of man,Should sound in numbers worthy such a theme:While all whose souls have ever felt the forceOf those enchanting passions, to my lyreShould throng attentive, and receive once more 380Their influence, unobscured by any cloudOf vulgar care, and purer than the handOf Fortune can bestow; nor, to confirmTheir sway, should awful Contemplation scornTo join his dictates to the genuine strainOf Pleasure's tongue; nor yet should Pleasure's earBe much averse. Ye chiefly, gentle bandOf youths and virgins, who through many a wishAnd many a fond pursuit, as in some sceneOf magic bright and fleeting, are allured 390By various Beauty, if the pleasing toilCan yield a moment's respite, hither turnYour favourable ear, and trust my words.I do not mean on bless'd Religion's seat,Presenting Superstition's gloomy form,To dash your soothing hopes; I do not meanTo bid the jealous thunderer fire the heavens,Or shapes infernal rend the groaning earth,And scare you from your joys. My cheerful songWith happier omens calls you to the field, 400Pleased with your generous ardour in the chase,And warm like you. Then tell me (for ye know),Doth Beauty ever deign to dwell where useAnd aptitude are strangers? is her praiseConfess'd in aught whose most peculiar endsAre lame and fruitless? or did Nature meanThis pleasing call the herald of a lie,To hide the shame of discord and disease,And win each fond admirer into snares,Foil'd, baffled? No; with better providence 410The general mother, conscious how infirmHer offspring tread the paths of good and ill,Thus, to the choice of credulous desire,Doth objects the completest of their tribeDistinguish and commend. Yon flowery bankClothed in the soft magnificence of Spring,Will not the flocks approve it? will they askThe reedy fen for pasture? That clear rillWhich trickleth murmuring from the mossy rock,Yields it less wholesome beverage to the worn 420And thirsty traveller, than the standing poolWith muddy weeds o'ergrown? Yon ragged vineWhose lean and sullen clusters mourn the rageOf Eurus, will the wine-press or the bowlReport of her, as of the swelling grapeWhich glitters through the tendrils, like a gemWhen first it meets the sun. Or what are allThe various charms to life and sense adjoin'd?Are they not pledges of a state entire,Where native order reigns, with every part 430In health, and every function well perform'd?
Thus, then, at first was Beauty sent from Heaven,The lovely ministress of Truth and GoodIn this dark world: for Truth and Good are one;And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her,With like participation. Wherefore then,O sons of earth, would ye dissolve the tie?Oh! wherefore with a rash and greedy aimSeek ye to rove through every flattering sceneWhich Beauty seems to deck, nor once inquire 440Where is the suffrage of eternal Truth,Or where the seal of undeceitful Good,To save your search from folly? Wanting these,Lo, Beauty withers in your void embrace;And with the glittering of an idiot's toyDid Fancy mock your vows. Nor yet let hope,That kindliest inmate of the youthful breast,Be hence appall'd, be turn'd to coward slothSitting in silence, with dejected eyesIncurious and with folded hands; far less 450Let scorn of wild fantastic folly's dreams,Or hatred of the bigot's savage pridePersuade you e'er that Beauty, or the loveWhich waits on Beauty, may not brook to hearThe sacred lore of undeceitful GoodAnd Truth eternal. From the vulgar crowdThough Superstition, tyranness abhorr'd,The reverence due to this majestic pairWith threats and execration still demands;Though the tame wretch, who asks of her the way 460To their celestial dwelling, she constrainsTo quench or set at nought the lamp of GodWithin his frame; through many a cheerless wildThough forth she leads him credulous and darkAnd awed with dubious notion; though at lengthHaply she plunge him into cloister'd cellsAnd mansions unrelenting as the grave,But void of quiet, there to watch the hoursOf midnight; there, amid the screaming owl'sDire song, with spectres or with guilty shades 470To talk of pangs and everlasting woe;Yet be not ye dismay'd. A gentler starPresides o'er your adventure. From the bowerWhere Wisdom sat with her Athenian sons,Could but my happy hand entwine a wreathOf Plato's olive with the Mantuan bay,Then (for what need of cruel fear to you,To you whom godlike love can well command?),Then should my powerful voice at once dispelThose monkish horrors; should in words divine 480Relate how favour'd minds like you inspired,And taught their inspiration to conductBy ruling Heaven's decree, through various walksAnd prospects various, but delightful all,Move onward; while now myrtle groves appear,Now arms and radiant trophies, now the rodsOf empire with the curule throne, or nowThe domes of contemplation and the Muse.
Led by that hope sublime, whose cloudless eyeThrough the fair toils and ornaments of earth 490Discerns the nobler life reserved for heaven,Favour'd alike they worship round the shrineWhere Truth conspicuous with her sister-twins,The undivided partners of her sway,With Good and Beauty reigns. Oh! let not usBy Pleasure's lying blandishments detain'd,Or crouching to the frowns of bigot rage,Oh! let not us one moment pause to joinThat chosen band. And if the gracious Power,Who first awaken'd my untutor'd song, 500Will to my invocation grant anewThe tuneful spirit, then through all our pathsNe'er shall the sound of this devoted lyreBe wanting; whether on the rosy meadWhen Summer smiles, to warn the melting heartOf Luxury's allurement; whether firmAgainst the torrent and the stubborn hillTo urge free Virtue's steps, and to her sideSummon that strong divinity of soulWhich conquers Chance and Fate: or on the height, 510The goal assign'd her, haply to proclaimHer triumph; on her brow to place the crownOf uncorrupted praise; through future worldsTo follow her interminated way,And bless Heaven's image in the heart of man.
Such is the worth of Beauty; such her power,So blameless, so revered. It now remains,In just gradation through the various ranksOf being, to contemplate how her giftsRise in due measure, watchful to attend 520The steps of rising Nature. Last and least,In colours mingling with a random blaze,Doth Beauty dwell. Then higher in the formsOf simplest, easiest measure; in the boundsOf circle, cube, or sphere. The third ascentTo symmetry adds colour: thus the pearlShines in the concave of its purple bed,And painted shells along some winding shoreCatch with indented folds the glancing sun.Next, as we rise, appear the blooming tribes 530Which clothe the fragrant earth; which draw from herTheir own nutrition; which are born and die,Yet, in their seed, immortal; such the flowersWith which young Maia pays the village maidsThat hail her natal morn; and such the grovesWhich blithe Pomona rears on Vaga's bank,To feed the bowl of Ariconian swainsWho quaff beneath her branches. Nobler stillIs Beauty's name where, to the full consentOf members and of features, to the pride 540Of colour, and the vital change of growth,Life's holy flame with piercing sense is given,While active motion speaks the temper'd soul:So moves the bird of Juno: so the steedWith rival swiftness beats the dusty plain,And faithful dogs with eager airs of joySalute their fellows. What sublimer pompAdorns the seat where Virtue dwells on earth,And Truth's eternal day-light shines around,What palm belongs to man's imperial front, 550And woman powerful with becoming smiles,Chief of terrestrial natures, need we nowStrive to inculcate? Thus hath Beauty thereHer most conspicuous praise to matter lent,Where most conspicuous through that shadowy veilBreaks forth the bright expression of a mind,By steps directing our enraptured searchTo Him, the first of minds; the chief; the sole;From whom, through this wide, complicated world,Did all her various lineaments begin; 560To whom alone, consenting and entire,At once their mutual influence all display.He, God most high (bear witness, Earth and Heaven),The living fountains in himself containsOf beauteous and sublime; with him enthronedEre days or years trod their ethereal way,In his supreme intelligence enthroned,The queen of love holds her unclouded state,Urania. Thee, O Father! this extentOf matter; thee the sluggish earth and tract 570Of seas, the heavens and heavenly splendours feelPervading, quickening, moving. From the depthOf thy great essence, forth didst thou conductEternal Form: and there, where Chaos reign'd,Gav'st her dominion to erect her seat,And sanctify the mansion. All her worksWell pleased thou didst behold: the gloomy firesOf storm or earthquake, and the purest lightOf summer; soft Campania's new-born rose,And the slow weed which pines on Russian hills 580Comely alike to thy full vision stand:To thy surrounding vision, which unitesAll essences and powers of the great worldIn one sole order, fair alike they stand,As features well consenting, and alikeRequired by Nature ere she could attainHer just resemblance to the perfect shapeOf universal Beauty, which with theeDwelt from the first. Thou also, ancient Mind,Whom love and free beneficence await 590In all thy doings; to inferior minds,Thy offspring, and to man, thy youngest son,Refusing no convenient gift nor good;Their eyes didst open, in this earth, yon heaven,Those starry worlds, the countenance divineOf Beauty to behold. But not to themDidst thou her awful magnitude revealSuch as before thine own unbounded sightShe stands (for never shall created soulConceive that object), nor, to all their kinds, 600The same in shape or features didst thou frameHer image. Measuring well their different spheresOf sense and action, thy paternal handHath for each race prepared a different testOf Beauty, own'd and reverenced as their guideMost apt, most faithful. Thence inform'd, they scanThe objects that surround them; and select,Since the great whole disclaims their scanty view,Each for himself selects peculiar partsOf Nature; what the standard fix'd by Heaven 610Within his breast approves, acquiring thusA partial Beauty, which becomes his lot;A Beauty which his eye may comprehend,His hand may copy, leaving, O Supreme,O thou whom none hath utter'd, leaving allTo thee that infinite, consummate form,Which the great powers, the gods around thy throneAnd nearest to thy counsels, know with theeFor ever to have been; but who she is,Or what her likeness, know not. Man surveys 620A narrower scene, where, by the mix'd effectOf things corporeal on his passive mind,He judgeth what is fair. Corporeal thingsThe mind of man impel with various powers,And various features to his eye disclose.The powers which move his sense with instant joy,The features which attract his heart to love,He marks, combines, reposits. Other powersAnd features of the self-same thing (unlessThe beauteous form, the creature of his mind, 630Request their close alliance) he o'erlooksForgotten; or with self-beguiling zeal,Whene'er his passions mingle in the work,Half alters, half disowns. The tribes of menThus from their different functions and the shapesFamiliar to their eye, with art obtain,Unconscious of their purpose, yet with artObtain the Beauty fitting man to love;Whose proud desires from Nature's homely toilOft turn away, fastidious, asking still 640His mind's high aid, to purify the formFrom matter's gross communion; to secureFor ever, from the meddling hand of ChangeOr rude Decay, her features; and to addWhatever ornaments may suit her mien,Where'er he finds them scatter'd through the pathsOf Nature or of Fortune. Then he seatsThe accomplish'd image deep within his breast,Reviews it, and accounts it good and fair.
Thus the one Beauty of the world entire, 650The universal Venus, far beyondThe keenest effort of created eyes,And their most wide horizon, dwells enthronedIn ancient silence. At her footstool standsAn altar burning with eternal fireUnsullied, unconsumed. Here every hour,Here every moment, in their turns arriveHer offspring; an innumerable bandOf sisters, comely all! but differing farIn age, in stature, and expressive mien, 660More than bright Helen from her new-born babe.To this maternal shrine in turns they come,Each with her sacred lamp; that from the sourceOf living flame, which here immortal flows,Their portions of its lustre they may drawFor days, or months, or years; for ages, some;As their great parent's discipline requires.Then to their several mansions they depart,In stars, in planets, through the unknown shoresOf yon ethereal ocean. Who can tell, 670Even on the surface of this rolling earth,How many make abode? The fields, the groves,The winding rivers and the azure main,Are render'd solemn by their frequent feet,Their rites sublime. There each her destined homeInforms with that pure radiance from the skiesBrought down, and shines throughout her little sphere,Exulting. Straight, as travellers by nightTurn toward a distant flame, so some fit eye,Among the various tenants of the scene, 680Discerns the heaven-born phantom seated there,And owns her charms. Hence the wide universe,Through all the seasons of revolving worlds,Bears witness with its people, gods and men,To Beauty's blissful power, and with the voiceOf grateful admiration still resounds:That voice, to which is Beauty's frame divineAs is the cunning of the master's handTo the sweet accent of the well-tuned lyre.
Genius of ancient Greece, whose faithful steps 690Have led us to these awful solitudesOf Nature and of Science; nurse reveredOf generous counsels and heroic deeds;Oh! let some portion of thy matchless praiseDwell in my breast, and teach me to adornThis unattempted theme. Nor be my thoughtsPresumptuous counted, if, amid the calmWhich Hesper sheds along the vernal heaven,If I, from vulgar Superstition's walk,Impatient steal, and from the unseemly rites 700Of splendid Adulation, to attendWith hymns thy presence in the sylvan shade,By their malignant footsteps unprofaned.Come, O renownèd power; thy glowing mienSuch, and so elevated all thy form,As when the great barbaric lord, againAnd yet again diminish'd, hid his faceAmong the herd of satraps and of kings;And, at the lightning of thy lifted spear,Crouch'd like a slave. Bring all thy martial spoils, 710Thy palms, thy laurels, thy triumphal songs,Thy smiling band of Arts, thy godlike siresOf civil wisdom, thy unconquer'd youth,After some glorious day rejoicing roundTheir new-erected trophy. Guide my feetThrough fair Lycéum's walk, the olive shadesOf Academus, and the sacred valeHaunted by steps divine, where once, beneathThat ever living platane's ample boughs,Ilissus, by Socratic sounds detain'd, 720On his neglected urn attentive lay;While Boreas, lingering on the neighbouring steepWith beauteous Orithyía, his love taleIn silent awe suspended. There let meWith blameless hand, from thy unenvious fields,Transplant some living blossoms, to adornMy native clime; while, far beyond the meedOf Fancy's toil aspiring, I unlockThe springs of ancient wisdom; while I add(What cannot be disjoin'd from Beauty's praise) 730Thy name and native dress, thy works belovedAnd honour'd; while to my compatriot youthI point the great example of thy sons,And tune to Attic themes the British lyre.
[Footnote 2: Truth is here taken, not in a logical, but in a mixed and popular sense, or for what has been called the truth of things; denoting as well their natural and regular condition, as a proper estimate or judgment concerning them.]
[Footnote 3: 'Dyson:' seeLife.]
Introduction to this more difficult part of the subject. Of Truth and its three classes, matter of fact, experimental or scientifical truth (contra-distinguished from opinion), and universal truth; which last is either metaphysical or geometrical, either purely intellectual or perfectly abstracted. On the power of discerning truth depends that of acting with the view of an end; a circumstance essential to virtue. Of Virtue, considered in the divine mind as a perpetual and universal beneficence. Of human virtue, considered as a system of particular sentiments and actions, suitable to the design of Providence and the condition of man; to whom it constitutes the chief good and the first beauty. Of Vice, and its origin. Of Ridicule: its general nature and final cause. Of the Passions; particularly of those which relate to evil natural or moral, and which are generally accounted painful, though not always unattended with pleasure.
Thus far of Beauty and the pleasing formsWhich man's untutor'd fancy, from the scenesImperfect of this ever changing world,Creates; and views, enarnour'd. Now my songSeverer themes demand: mysterious Truth;And Virtue, sovereign good: the spells, the trains,The progeny of Error; the dread swayOf Passion; and whatever hidden storesFrom her own lofty deeds and from herselfThe mind acquires. Severer argument: 10Not less attractive; nor deserving lessA constant ear. For what are all the formsEduced by fancy from corporeal things,Greatness, or pomp, or symmetry of parts?Not tending to the heart, soon feeble grows,As the blunt arrow 'gainst the knotty trunk,Their impulse on the sense: while the pall'd eyeExpects in vain its tribute; asks in vain,Where are the ornaments it once admired?Not so the moral species, nor the powers 20Of Passion and of Thought. The ambitious mindWith objects boundless as her own desiresCan there converse: by these unfading formsTouch'd and awaken'd still, with eager actShe bends each nerve, and meditates well pleasedHer gifts, her godlike fortune. Such the scenesNow opening round us. May the destined verseMaintain its equal tenor, though in tractsObscure and arduous! May the source of light,All-present, all-sufficient, guide our steps 30Through every maze! and whom, in childish years,From the loud throng, the beaten paths of wealthAnd power, thou didst apart send forth to speakIn tuneful words concerning highest things,Him still do thou, O Father, at those hoursOf pensive freedom, when the human soulShuts out the rumour of the world, him stillTouch thou with secret lessons; call thou backEach erring thought; and let the yielding strainsFrom his full bosom, like a welcome rill 40Spontaneous from its healthy fountain, flow!
But from what name, what favourable sign,What heavenly auspice, rather shall I dateMy perilous excursion, than from Truth,That nearest inmate of the human soul;Estranged from whom, the countenance divineOf man, disfigured and dishonour'd, sinksAmong inferior things? For to the brutesPerception and the transient boons of senseHath Fate imparted; but to man alone 50Of sublunary beings was it given.Each fleeting impulse on the sensual powersAt leisure to review; with equal eyeTo scan the passion of the stricken nerve,Or the vague object striking; to conductFrom sense, the portal turbulent and loud,Into the mind's wide palace one by oneThe frequent, pressing, fluctuating forms,And question and compare them. Thus he learnsTheir birth and fortunes; how allied they haunt 60The avenues of sense; what laws directTheir union; and what various discords rise,Or fixed, or casual; which when his clear thoughtRetains and when his faithful words express,That living image of the external scene,As in a polish'd mirror held to view,Is Truth; where'er it varies from the shapeAnd hue of its exemplar, in that partDim Error lurks. Moreover, from withoutWhen oft the same society of forms 70In the same order have approach'd his mind,He deigns no more their steps with curious heedTo trace; no more their features or their garbHe now examines; but of them and theirCondition, as with some diviner's tongue,Affirms what Heaven in every distant place,Through every future season, will decree.This too is Truth; where'er his prudent lipsWait till experience diligent and slowHas authorised their sentence, this is Truth; 80A second, higher kind: the parent thisOf Science; or the lofty power herself,Science herself, on whom the wants and caresOf social life depend; the substituteOf God's own wisdom in this toilsome world;The providence of man. Yet oft in vain,To earn her aid, with fix'd and anxious eyeHe looks on Nature's and on Fortune's course:Too much in vain. His duller visual rayThe stillness and the persevering acts 90Of Nature oft elude; and Fortune oftWith step fantastic from her wonted walkTurns into mazes dim; his sight is foil'd;And the crude sentence of his faltering tongueIs but opinion's verdict, half believed,And prone to change. Here thou, who feel'st thine earCongenial to my lyre's profounder tone,Pause, and be watchful. Hitherto the stores,Which feed thy mind and exercise her powers,Partake the relish of their native soil, 100Their parent earth. But know, a nobler dowerHer Sire at birth decreed her; purer giftsFrom his own treasure; forms which never deign'dIn eyes or ears to dwell, within the senseOf earthly organs; but sublime were placedIn his essential reason, leading thereThat vast ideal host which all his worksThrough endless ages never will reveal.Thus then endow'd, the feeble creature man,The slave of hunger and the prey of death, 110Even now, even here, in earth's dim prison bound,The language of intelligence divineAttains; repeating oft concerning oneAnd many, past and present, parts and whole,Those sovereign dictates which in furthest heaven,Where no orb rolls, Eternity's fix'd earHears from coeval Truth, when Chance nor Change,Nature's loud progeny, nor Nature's selfDares intermeddle or approach her throne.Ere long, o'er this corporeal world he learns 120To extend her sway; while calling from the deep,From earth and air, their multitudes untoldOf figures and of motions round his walk,For each wide family some single birthHe sets in view, the impartial type of allIts brethren; suffering it to claim, beyondTheir common heritage, no private gift,No proper fortune. Then whate'er his eyeIn this discerns, his bold unerring tonguePronounceth of the kindred, without bound, 130Without condition. Such the rise of formsSequester'd far from sense and every spotPeculiar in the realms of space or time;Such is the throne which man for Truth amidThe paths of mutability hath builtSecure, unshaken, still; and whence he views,In matter's mouldering structures, the pure formsOf triangle or circle, cube or cone,Impassive all; whose attributes nor forceNor fate can alter. There he first conceives 140True being, and an intellectual worldThe same this hour and ever. Thence he deemsOf his own lot; above the painted shapesThat fleeting move o'er this terrestrial sceneLooks up; beyond the adamantine gatesOf death expatiates; as his birthright claimsInheritance in all the works of God;Prepares for endless time his plan of life,And counts the universe itself his home.
Whence also but from Truth, the light of minds, 150Is human fortune gladden'd with the raysOf Virtue? with the moral colours thrownOn every walk of this our social scene,Adorning for the eye of gods and menThe passions, actions, habitudes of life,And rendering earth like heaven, a sacred placeWhere Love and Praise may take delight to dwell?Let none with heedless tongue from Truth disjoinThe reign of Virtue. Ere the dayspring flow'd,Like sisters link'd in Concord's golden chain, 160They stood before the great Eternal Mind,Their common parent, and by him were bothSent forth among his creatures, hand in hand,Inseparably join'd; nor e'er did TruthFind an apt ear to listen to her lore,Which knew not Virtue's voice; nor, save where Truth'sMajestic words are heard and understood,Doth Virtue deign to inhabit. Go, inquireOf Nature; not among Tartarian rocks,Whither the hungry vulture with its prey 170Returns; not where the lion's sullen roarAt noon resounds along the lonely banksOf ancient Tigris; but her gentler scenes,The dovecote and the shepherd's fold at morn,Consult; or by the meadow's fragrant hedge,In spring-time when the woodlands first are green,Attend the linnet singing to his mateCouch'd o'er their tender young. To this fond careThou dost not Virtue's honourable nameAttribute; wherefore, save that not one gleam 180Of Truth did e'er discover to themselvesTheir little hearts, or teach them, by the effectsOf that parental love, the love itselfTo judge, and measure its officious deeds?But man, whose eyelids Truth has fill'd with day,Discerns how skilfully to bounteous endsHis wise affections move; with free accordAdopts their guidance; yields himself secureTo Nature's prudent impulse; and convertsInstinct to duty and to sacred law. 190Hence Right and Fit on earth; while thus to manThe Almighty Legislator hath explain'dThe springs of action fix'd within his breast;Hath given him power to slacken or restrainTheir effort; and hath shewn him how they joinTheir partial movements with the master-wheelOf the great world, and serve that sacred endWhich he, the unerring reason, keeps in view.
For (if a mortal tongue may speak of himAnd his dread ways) even as his boundless eye, 200Connecting every form and every change,Beholds the perfect Beauty; so his will,Through every hour producing good to allThe family of creatures, is itselfThe perfect Virtue. Let the grateful swainRemember this, as oft with joy and praiseHe looks upon the falling dews which clotheHis lawns with verdure, and the tender seedNourish within his furrows; when betweenDead seas and burning skies, where long unmoved 210The bark had languish'd, now a rustling galeLifts o'er the fickle waves her dancing prow,Let the glad pilot, bursting out in thanks,Remember this; lest blind o'erweening pridePollute their offerings; lest their selfish heartSay to the heavenly ruler, 'At our callRelents thy power; by us thy arm is moved.'Fools! who of God as of each other deem;Who his invariable acts deduceFrom sudden counsels transient as their own; 220Nor further of his bounty, than the eventWhich haply meets their loud and eager prayer,Acknowledge; nor, beyond the drop minuteWhich haply they have tasted, heed the sourceThat flows for all; the fountain of his loveWhich, from the summit where he sits enthroned,Pours health and joy, unfailing streams, throughoutThe spacious region flourishing in view,The goodly work of his eternal day,His own fair universe; on which alone 230His counsels fix, and whence alone his willAssumes her strong direction. Such is nowHis sovereign purpose; such it was beforeAll multitude of years. For his right armWas never idle; his bestowing loveKnew no beginning; was not as a changeOf mood that woke at last and started upAfter a deep and solitary slothOf boundless ages. No; he now is good,He ever was. The feet of hoary Time 240Through their eternal course have travell'd o'erNo speechless, lifeless desert; but through scenesCheerful with bounty still; among a pompOf worlds, for gladness round the Maker's throneLoud-shouting, or, in many dialectsOf hope and filial trust, imploring thenceThe fortunes of their people: where so fix'dWere all the dates of being, so disposedTo every living soul of every kindThe field of motion and the hour of rest, 250That each the general happiness might serve;And, by the discipline of laws divineConvinced of folly or chastised from guilt,Each might at length be happy. What remainsShall be like what is past; but fairer still,And still increasing in the godlike giftsOf Life and Truth. The same paternal hand,From the mute shell-fish gasping on the shore,To men, to angels, to celestial minds,Will ever lead the generations on 260Through higher scenes of being; while, suppliedFrom day to day by his enlivening breath,Inferior orders in succession riseTo fill the void below. As flame ascends,As vapours to the earth in showers return,As the poised ocean towards the attracting moonSwells, and the ever-listening planets, charm'dBy the sun's call, their onward pace incline,So all things which have life aspire to God,Exhaustless fount of intellectual day! 270Centre of souls! Nor doth the mastering voiceOf Nature cease within to prompt arightTheir steps; nor is the care of Heaven withheldFrom sending to the toil external aid;That in their stations all may persevereTo climb the ascent of being, and approachFor ever nearer to the life divine.
But this eternal fabric was not raisedFor man's inspection. Though to some be givenTo catch a transient visionary glimpse 280Of that majestic scene which boundless powerPrepares for perfect goodness, yet in vainWould human life her faculties expandTo embosom such an object. Nor could e'erVirtue or praise have touch'd the hearts of men,Had not the Sovereign Guide, through every stageOf this their various journey, pointed outNew hopes, new toils, which, to their humble sphereOf sight and strength, might such importance holdAs doth the wide creation to his own. 290Hence all the little charities of life,With all their duties; hence that favourite palmOf human will, when duty is sufficed,And still the liberal soul in ampler deedsWould manifest herself; that sacred signOf her revered affinity to HimWhose bounties are his own; to whom none said,'Create the wisest, fullest, fairest world,And make its offspring happy;' who, intentSome likeness of Himself among his works 300To view, hath pour'd into the human breastA ray of knowledge and of love, which guidesEarth's feeble race to act their Maker's part,Self-judging, self-obliged; while, from beforeThat godlike function, the gigantic powerNecessity, though wont to curb the forceOf Chaos and the savage elements,Retires abash'd, as from a scene too highFor her brute tyranny, and with her bearsHer scornèd followers, Terror, and base Awe 310Who blinds herself, and that ill-suited pair,Obedience link'd with Hatred. Then the soulArises in her strength; and, looking roundHer busy sphere, whatever work she views,Whatever counsel bearing any traceOf her Creator's likeness, whether aptTo aid her fellows or preserve herselfIn her superior functions unimpair'd,Thither she turns exulting: that she claimsAs her peculiar good: on that, through all 320The fickle seasons of the day, she looksWith reverence still: to that, as to a fenceAgainst affliction and the darts of pain,Her drooping hopes repair—and, once opposedTo that, all other pleasure, other wealth,Vile, as the dross upon the molten gold,Appears, and loathsome as the briny seaTo him who languishes with thirst, and sighsFor some known fountain pure. For what can striveWith Virtue? Which of Nature's regions vast 330Can in so many forms produce to sightSuch powerful Beauty? Beauty, which the eyeOf Hatred cannot look upon secure:Which Envy's self contemplates, and is turn'dEre long to tenderness, to infant smiles,Or tears of humblest love. Is aught so fairIn all the dewy landscapes of the Spring,The Summer's noontide groves, the purple eveAt harvest-home, or in the frosty moonGlittering on some smooth sea; is aught so fair 340As virtuous friendship? as the honour'd roofWhither, from highest heaven, immortal LoveHis torch ethereal and his golden bowPropitious brings, and there a temple holdsTo whose unspotted service gladly vow'dThe social band of parent, brother, child,With smiles and sweet discourse and gentle deedsAdore his power? What gift of richest climeE'er drew such eager eyes, or prompted suchDeep wishes, as the zeal that snatcheth back 350From Slander's poisonous tooth a foe's renown;Or crosseth Danger in his lion walk,A rival's life to rescue? as the youngAthenian warrior sitting down in bonds,That his great father's body might not wantA peaceful, humble tomb? the Roman wifeTeaching her lord how harmless was the woundOf death, how impotent the tyrant's rage,Who nothing more could threaten to afflictTheir faithful love? Or is there in the abyss, 360Is there, among the adamantine spheresWheeling unshaken through the boundless void,Aught that with half such majesty can fillThe human bosom, as when Brutus roseRefulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fateAmid the crowd of patriots; and his armAloft extending like eternal JoveWhen guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloudOn Tully's name, and shook the crimson swordOf justice in his rapt astonish'd eye, 370And bade the father of his country hail,For lo, the tyrant prostrate on the dust,And Rome again is free? Thus, through the pathsOf human life, in various pomp array'dWalks the wise daughter of the judge of heaven,Fair Virtue; from her father's throne supremeSent down to utter laws, such as on earthMost apt he knew, most powerful to promoteThe weal of all his works, the gracious endOf his dread empire. And, though haply man's 380Obscurer sight, so far beyond himselfAnd the brief labours of his little home,Extends not; yet, by the bright presence wonOf this divine instructress, to her swayPleased he assents, nor heeds the distant goal.To which her voice conducts him. Thus hath God,Still looking toward his own high purpose, fix'dThe virtues of his creatures; thus he rulesThe parent's fondness and the patriot's zeal;Thus the warm sense of honour and of shame; 390The vows of gratitude, the faith of love;And all the comely intercourse of praise,The joy of human life, the earthly heaven!
How far unlike them must the lot of guiltBe found! Or what terrestrial woe can matchThe self-convicted bosom, which hath wroughtThe bane of others, or enslaved itselfWith shackles vile? Not poison, nor sharp fire,Nor the worst pangs that ever monkish hateSuggested, or despotic rage imposed, 400Were at that season an unwish'd exchange,When the soul loathes herself; when, flying thenceTo crowds, on every brow she sees portray'dPell demons, Hate or Scorn, which drive her backTo solitude, her judge's voice divineTo hear in secret, haply sounding throughThe troubled dreams of midnight, and still, stillDemanding for his violated lawsFit recompense, or charging her own tongueTo speak the award of justice on herself. 410For well she knows what faithful hints withinWere whisper'd, to beware the lying formsWhich turn'd her footsteps from the safer way,What cautions to suspect their painted dress,And look with steady eyelid on their smiles,Their frowns, their tears. In vain; the dazzling huesOf Fancy, and Opinion's eager voice,Too much prevail'd. For mortals tread the pathIn which Opinion says they follow goodOr fly from evil; and Opinion gives 420Report of good or evil, as the sceneWas drawn by Fancy, pleasing or deform'd;Thus her report can never there be trueWhere Fancy cheats the intellectual eyeWith glaring colours and distorted lines.Is there a man to whom the name of deathBrings terror's ghastly pageants conjured upBefore him, death-bed groans, and dismal vows,And the frail soul plunged headlong from the brinkOf life and daylight down the gloomy air, 430An unknown depth, to gulfs of torturing fireUnvisited by mercy? Then what handCan snatch this dreamer from the fatal toilsWhich Fancy and Opinion thus conspireTo twine around his heart? Or who shall hushTheir clamour, when they tell him that to die,To risk those horrors, is a direr curseThan basest life can bring? Though Love with prayersMost tender, with affliction's sacred tears,Beseech his aid; though Gratitude and Faith 440Condemn each step which loiters; yet let noneMake answer for him that if any frownOf Danger thwart his path, he will not stayContent, and be a wretch to be secure.Here Vice begins then: at the gate of life,Ere the young multitude to diverse roadsPart, like fond pilgrims on a journey unknown,Sits Fancy, deep enchantress; and to eachWith kind maternal looks presents her bowl,A potent beverage. Heedless they comply, 450Till the whole soul from that mysterious draughtIs tinged, and every transient thought imbibesOf gladness or disgust, desire or fear,One homebred colour, which not all the lightsOf Science e'er shall change; not all the stormsOf adverse Fortune wash away, nor yetThe robe of purest Virtue quite conceal.Thence on they pass, where, meeting frequent shapesOf good and evil, cunning phantoms aptTo fire or freeze the breast, with them they join 460In dangerous parley; listening oft, and oftGazing with reckless passion, while its garbThe spectre heightens, and its pompous taleRepeats, with some new circumstance to suitThat early tincture of the hearer's soul.And should the guardian, Reason, but for oneShort moment yield to this illusive sceneHis ear and eye, the intoxicating charmInvolves him, till no longer he discerns,Or only guides to err. Then revel forth 470A furious band that spurn him from the throne,And all is uproar. Hence Ambition climbsWith sliding feet and hands impure, to graspThose solemn toys which glitter in his viewOn Fortune's rugged steep; hence pale RevengeUnsheaths her murderous dagger; Rapine henceAnd envious Lust, by venal fraud upborne,Surmount the reverend barrier of the lawsWhich kept them from their prey; hence all the crimesThat e'er defiled the earth, and all the plagues 480That follow them for vengeance, in the guiseOf Honour, Safety, Pleasure, Ease, or Pomp,Stole first into the fond believing mind.
Yet not by Fancy's witchcraft on the brainAre always the tumultuous passions drivenTo guilty deeds, nor Reason bound in chainsThat Vice alone may lord it. Oft, adorn'dWith motley pageants, Folly mounts his throne,And plays her idiot antics, like a queen.A thousand garbs she wears: a thousand ways 490She whirls her giddy empire. Lo, thus farWith bold adventure to the Mantuan lyreI sing for contemplation link'd with love,A pensive theme. Now haply should my songUnbend that serious countenance, and learnThalia's tripping gait, her shrill-toned voice,Her wiles familiar: whether scorn she dartsIn wanton ambush from her lip or eye,Or whether, with a sad disguise of careO'ermantling her gay brow, she acts in sport 500The deeds of Folly, and from all sides roundCalls forth impetuous Laughter's gay rebuke;Her province. But through every comic sceneTo lead my Muse with her light pencil arm'd;Through every swift occasion which the handOf Laughter points at, when the mirthful stingDistends her labouring sides and chokes her tongue,Were endless as to sound each grating noteWith which the rooks, and chattering daws, and graveUnwieldy inmates of the village pond, 510The changing seasons of the sky proclaim;Sun, cloud, or shower. Suffice it to have said,Where'er the power of Ridicule displaysHer quaint-eyed visage, some incongruous form,Some stubborn dissonance of things combined,Strikes on her quick perception: whether Pomp,Or Praise, or Beauty be dragg'd in and shewnWhere sordid fashions, where ignoble deeds,Where foul Deformity is wont to dwell;Or whether these with shrewd and wayward spite 520Invade resplendent Pomp's imperious mien,The charms of Beauty, or the boast of Praise.Ask we for what fair end the Almighty SireIn mortal bosoms stirs this gay contempt,These grateful pangs of laughter; from disgustEducing pleasure? Wherefore, but to aidThe tardy steps of Reason, and at onceBy this prompt impulse urge us to depressWild Folly's aims? For, though the sober lightOf Truth slow dawning on the watchful mind 530At length unfolds, through many a subtle tie,How these uncouth disorders end at lastIn public evil; yet benignant Heaven,Conscious how dim the dawn of Truth appearsTo thousands, conscious what a scanty pauseFrom labour and from care the wider lotOf humble life affords for studious thoughtTo scan the maze of Nature, therefore stamp'dThese glaring scenes with characters of scorn,As broad, as obvious to the passing clown 540As to the letter'd sage's curious eye.But other evils o'er the steps of manThrough all his walks impend; against whose mightThe slender darts of Laughter nought avail:A trivial warfare. Some, like cruel guards,On Nature's ever-moving throne attend;With mischief arm'd for him whoe'er shall thwartThe path of her inexorable wheels,While she pursues the work that must be doneThrough ocean, earth, and air. Hence, frequent forms 550Of woe; the merchant, with his wealthy bark,Buried by dashing waves; the traveller,Pierced by the pointed lightning in his haste;And the poor husbandman, with folded arms,Surveying his lost labours, and a heapOf blasted chaff the product of the fieldWhence he expected bread. But worse than these,I deem far worse, that other race of illsWhich human kind rear up among themselves;That horrid offspring which misgovern'd Will 560Bears to fantastic Error; vices, crimes,Furies that curse the earth, and make the blows,The heaviest blows, of Nature's innocent handSeem sport: which are indeed but as the careOf a wise parent, who solicits goodTo all her house, though haply at the priceOf tears and froward wailing and reproachFrom some unthinking child, whom not the lessIts mother destines to be happy still.