Chapter 8

And has all nature, then, espoused my part?Have I bribed heaven, and earth, to plead against thee?And is thy soul immortal?—What remains?All, all, Lorenzo!—Make immortal blest.Unblest immortals!—What can shock us more?And yet Lorenzo still affects the world;There stows his treasure; thence his title draws,Man of the world (for such would’st thou be call’d),And art thou proud of that inglorious style?Proud of reproach? for a reproach it was,10In ancient days; and Christian,—in an age,When men were men, and not ashamed of heaven,Fired their ambition, as it crown’d their joy.Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font,Fain would I re-baptize thee, and conferA purer spirit, and a nobler name.Thy fond attachments, fatal, and inflamed,Point out my path, and dictate to my song:To thee, the world how fair! how strongly strikesAmbition! and gay pleasure stronger still!20Thy triple bane! the triple bolt that lays21Thy virtue dead! Be these my triple theme;Nor shall thy wit, or wisdom, be forgot.Common the theme; not so the song; if sheMy song invokes, Urania deigns to smile.The charm that chains us to the world, her foe,If she dissolves, the man of earth, at once,Starts from his trance, and sighs for other scenes;Scenes, where these sparks of night, these stars shall shineUnnumber’d suns (for all things, as they are,30The blest behold); and, in one glory, pourTheir blended blaze on man’s astonish’d sight;A blaze—the least illustrious object there.Lorenzo! since eternal is at hand,To swallow Time’s ambitions; as the vastLeviathan, the bubbles vain, that rideHigh on the foaming billow; what availHigh titles, high descent, attainments high,If unattain’d our highest? O Lorenzo!What lofty thoughts, these elements above,40What towering hopes, what sallies from the sun,What grand surveys of destiny divine,And pompous presage of unfathom’d fate,Should roll in bosoms, where a spirit burns,Bound for eternity! in bosoms readBy Him, who foibles in archangels sees!On human hearts He bends a jealous eye,And marks, and in heaven’s register enrols,The rise, and progress, of each option there;Sacred to doomsday! That the page unfolds,50And spreads us to the gaze of gods and men.And what an option, O Lorenzo, thine!This world! and this, unrivall’d by the skies!A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold,Three demons that divide its realms between them,55With strokes alternate buffet to and froMan’s restless heart, their sport, their flying ball;Till, with the giddy circle sick, and tired,It pants for peace, and drops into despair.Such is the world Lorenzo sets aboveThat glorious promise angels were esteem’dToo mean to bring; a promise, their Adored62Descended to communicate, and press,By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man.Such is the world Lorenzo’s wisdom woos,And on its thorny pillow seeks repose;A pillow, which, like opiates ill prepared,Intoxicates, but not composes; fillsThe visionary mind with gay chimeras,All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest;70What unfeign’d travel, and what dreams of joy!How frail, men, things! how momentary, both!Fantastic chase of shadows hunting shades!The gay, the busy, equal though unlike;Equal in wisdom, differently wise!Through flowery meadows, and through dreary wastes,One bustling, and one dancing, into death.There’s not a day, but, to the man of thought,Betrays some secret, that throws new reproachOn life, and makes him sick of seeing more.80The scenes of business tell us—“What are men;"The scenes of pleasure—“What is all beside;”There, others we despise; and here, ourselves:Amid disgust eternal, dwells delight?’Tis approbation strikes the string of joy.What wondrous prize has kindled this career,Stuns with the din, and chokes us with the dust,On life’s gay stage, one inch above the grave?The proud run up and down in quest of eyes;89The sensual, in pursuit of something worse;The grave, of gold; the politic, of power;And all, of other butterflies, as vain!As eddies draw things frivolous, and light,How is man’s heart by vanity drawn in;On the swift circle of returning toys,Whirl’d, straw-like, round and round, and then engulf’d,Where gay delusion darkens to despair!“This is a beaten track.”—Is this a trackShould not be beaten? Never beat enough,Till enough learn’d the truths it would inspire.100Shall Truth be silent, because Folly frowns?Turn the world’s history; what find we there,But Fortune’s sports, or Nature’s cruel claims,Or Woman’s artifice, or Man’s revenge,And endless inhumanities on man?Fame’s trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell,It brings bad tidings: how it hourly blowsMan’s misadventures round the listening world!Man is the tale of narrative old time;Sad tale; which high as Paradise begins;110As if, the toil of travel to delude,From stage to stage, in his eternal round,The Days, his daughters, as they spin our hoursOn Fortune’s wheel, where accident unthoughtOft, in a moment, snaps life’s strongest thread,Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells,With, now and then, a wretched farce between;And fills his chronicle with human woes.Time’s daughters, true as those of men, deceive us;Not one, but puts some cheat on all mankind:120While in their father’s bosom, not yet ours,They flatter our fond hopes, and promise muchOf amiable; but hold him not o’er-wise,123Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the yearAt still-confiding, still-confounded, man,Confiding, though confounded; hoping on,Untaught by trial, unconvinced by proof,And ever looking for the never seen.Life to the last, like harden’d felons, lies;Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires.130Its little joys go out by one and one,And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night;Night darker, than what, now, involves the pole.O Thou, who dost permit these ills to fall,For gracious ends, and would’st that man should mourn!O Thou, whose hands this goodly fabric framed,Who know’st it best, and would’st that man should know!What is this sublunary world? A vapour;A vapour all it holds; itself, a vapour;From the damp bed of chaos, by Thy beam140Exhaled, ordain’d to swim its destined hourIn ambient air, then melt, and disappear.Earth’s days are number’d, nor remote her doom;As mortal, though less transient, than her sons;Yet they doat on her, as the world and theyWere both eternal, solid; Thou, a dream.They doat!—on what? Immortal views apart,A region of outsides! a land of shadows!A fruitful field of flowery promises!A wilderness of joys! perplex’d with doubts,150And sharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, spreadWith bold adventurers, their all on board!No second hope, if here their fortune frowns;Frown soon it must. Of various rates they sail,Of ensigns various; all alike in this,All restless, anxious; toss’d with hopes, and fears,In calmest skies; obnoxious all to storm;157And stormy the most general blast of life:All bound for happiness; yet few provideThe chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies;Or Virtue’s helm, to shape the course design’d:All, more or less, capricious fate lament,Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb’d,163And farther from their wishes than before:All, more or less, against each other dash.To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven,And suffering more from folly, than from fate.Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous homeOf dangers, at eternal war with man!Death’s capital, where most he domineers,170With all his chosen terrors frowning round,(Though lately feasted high at Albion’s cost,)[43]Wide-opening, and loud roaring still for more!Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflectThe melancholy face of human life!The strong resemblance tempts me farther still:And, haply, Britain may be deeper struckBy moral truth, in such a mirror seen,Which Nature holds for ever at her eye.Self-flatter’d, unexperienced, high in hope,180When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay,We cut our cable, launch into the world,And fondly dream each wind and star our friend;All, in some darling enterprise embark’d:But where is he can fathom its extent?Amid a multitude of artless hands,Ruin’s sure perquisite! her lawful prize!Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard,And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof,Full against wind and tide, some win their way;190And when strong effort has deserved the port,And tugg’d it into view, ’tis won! ’tis lost!Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate:They strike; and, while they triumph, they expire.In stress of weather, most; some sink outright;O’er them, and o’er their names, the billows close;To-morrow knows not they were ever born.Others a short memorial leave behind,Like a flag floating,[44]when the bark’s engulf’d;It floats a moment, and is seen no more:200One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot.How few, beneath auspicious planets born(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate’s elect!),With swelling sails make good the promised port,With all their wishes freighted! Yet even these,Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain;Free from misfortune, not from nature free,They still are men; and when is man secure?As fatal time, as storm! the rush of yearsBeats down their strength; their numberless escapes210In ruin end: and, now, their proud successBut plants new terrors on the victor’s brow:What pain to quit the world, just made their own,Their nest so deeply down’d, and built so high!Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.Woe then apart (if woe apart can beFrom mortal man), and fortune at our nod,The gay, rich, great, triumphant, and august!What are they?—The most happy (strange to say!)Convince me most of human misery;220What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow!221More wretched, then, than e’er their slave can be;Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need,Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting:Then, what provoking indigence in wealth!What aggravated impotence in power!High titles, then, what insult of their pain!If that sole anchor, equal to the waves,Immortal Hope! defies not the rude storm,Takes comfort from the foaming billow’s rage,230And makes a welcome harbour of the tomb.Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires?“But here (thou say’st) the miseries of lifeAre huddled in a group. A more distinctSurvey, perhaps, might bring thee better news.”Look on life’s stages: they speak plainer still;The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh.Look on thy lovely boy; in him beholdThe best that can befall the best on earth;The boy has virtue by his mother’s side:240Yes, on Florello look: a father’s heartIs tender, though the man’s is made of stone;The truth, through such a medium seen, may makeImpression deep, and fondness prove thy friend.Florello lately cast on this rude coastA helpless infant; now a heedless child;To poor Clarissa’s throes, thy care succeeds;Care full of love, and yet severe as hate!O’er thy soul’s joy how oft thy fondness frowns!Needful austerities his will restrain;250As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm.As yet, his reason cannot go alone;But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on.His little heart is often terrified;The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale;255Its pearly dewdrop trembles in his eye;His harmless eye! and drowns an angel there.Ah! what avails his innocence? The taskEnjoin’d must discipline his early powers;He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin;Guiltless, and sad! a wretch before the fall!How cruel this! more cruel to forbear.262Our nature such, with necessary pains,We purchase prospects of precarious peace:Though not a father, this might steal a sigh.Suppose him disciplined aright (if not,’Twill sink our poor account to poorer still);Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty,He leaps enclosure, bounds into the world!The world is taken, after ten years’ toil,270Like ancient Troy; and all its joys his own.Alas! the world’s a tutor more severe;Its lessons hard, and ill deserve his pains;Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught,Or books (fair Virtue’s advocates!) inspired.For who receives him into public life?Men of the world, the terræ-filial breed,Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere(Which glitter’d long, at distance, in his sight),And, in their hospitable arms, enclose:280Men, who think nought so strong of the romance,So rank knight-errant, as a real friend:Men, that act up to Reason’s golden rule,All weakness of affection quite subdued:Men, that would blush at being thought sincere,And feign, for glory, the few faults they want;That love a lie, where truth would pay as well;As if to them, Vice shone her own reward.Lorenzo! canst thou bear a shocking sight?289Such, for Florello’s sake, ’twill now appear:See, the steel’d files of season’d veterans,Train’d to the world, in burnish’d falsehood bright;Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace;All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb’d off;All their keen purpose, in politeness, sheath’d;His friends eternal—during interest;His foes implacable—when worth their while;At war with every welfare, but their own;As wise as Lucifer; and half as good;And by whom none, but Lucifer, can gain—300Naked, through these (so common fate ordains),Naked of heart, his cruel course he runs,Stung out of all, most amiable in life,Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles unfeign’d;Affection, as his species, wide diffused;Noble presumptions to mankind’s renown;Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love.These claims to joy (if mortals joy might claim)Will cost him many a sigh; till time, and pains,From the slow mistress of this school, Experience,310And her assistant, pausing, pale, Distrust,Purchase a dear-bought clue to lead his youthThrough serpentine obliquities of life,And the dark labyrinth of human hearts.And happy! if the clue shall come so cheap:For, while we learn to fence with public guilt,Full oft we feel its foul contagion too,If less than heavenly virtue is our guard.Thus, a strange kind of cursed necessityBrings down the sterling temper of his soul,320By base alloy, to bear the current stamp,Below call’d wisdom; sinks him into safety;And brands him into credit with the world;323Where specious titles dignify disgrace,And nature’s injuries are arts of life;Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes;And heavenly talents make infernal hearts;That unsurmountable extreme of guilt!Poor Machiavel! who labour’d hard his plan,Forgot, that genius need not go to school;Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise,His plan had practised, long before ’twas writ.332The world’s all title-page; there’s no contents;The world’s all face; the man who shows his heart,Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn’d.A man I knew, who lived upon a smile;And well it fed him; he look’d plump and fair;While rankest venom foam’d through every vein.Lorenzo! what I tell thee, take not ill!Living, he fawn’d on every fool alive;340And, dying, cursed the friend on whom he lived.To such proficients thou art half a saint.In foreign realms (for thou hast travell’d far)How curious to contemplate two state-rooks,Studious their nests to feather in a trice,With all the necromantics of their art,Playing the game of faces on each other,Making court sweetmeats of their latent gall,In foolish hope, to steal each other’s trust;Both cheating, both exulting, both deceived;350And, sometimes, both (let earth rejoice) undone!Their parts we doubt not; but be that their shame;Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind,Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool;And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve?For who can thank the man, he cannot see?Why so much cover? It defeats itself.357Ye, that know all things! know ye not, men’s heartsAre therefore known, because they are conceal’d?For why conceal’d?—The cause they need not tell.I give him joy, that’s awkward at a lie;Whose feeble nature Truth keeps still in awe;His incapacity is his renown.363’Tis great, ’tis manly, to disdain disguise;It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength.Thou say’st, ’tis needful: is it therefore right?Howe’er, I grant it some small sign of grace,To strain at an excuse: And would’st thou thenEscape that cruel need? Thou may’st, with ease;Think no post needful that demands a knave.370When late our civil helm was shifting hands,So Pulteney thought: think better, if you can.But this, how rare! the public path of lifeIs dirty;—yet, allow that dirt its due,It makes the noble mind more noble still:The world’s no neuter; it will wound, or save;Or virtue quench, or indignation fire.You say, the world, well known, will make a man:The world, well known, will give our hearts to Heaven,Or make us demons, long before we die.380To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines,Take either part, sure ills attend the choice;Sure, though not equal, detriment ensues.Not Virtue’s self is deified on earth;Virtue has her relapses, conflicts, foes;Foes, that ne’er fail to make her feel their hate.Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.True friends to virtue, last, and least, complain;But if they sigh, can others hope to smile?If Wisdom has her miseries to mourn,390How can poor Folly lead a happy life?391And if both suffer, what has earth to boast,Where he most happy, who the least laments?Where much, much patience, the most envied state,And some forgiveness, needs, the best of friends?For friend, or happy life, who looks not higher,Of neither shall he find the shadow here.The world’s sworn advocate, without a fee,Lorenzo smartly, with a smile, replies:“Thus far thy song is right; and all must own,400Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.—And joys peculiar who to Vice denies?If vice it is, with nature to comply:If Pride, and Sense, are so predominant,To check, not overcome, them, makes a saint.Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaimPleasure, and glory, the chief good of man?”Can Pride, and Sensuality, rejoice?From purity of thought, all pleasure springs;And, from an humble spirit, all our peace.410Ambition, pleasure! let us talk of these:Of these, the Porch, and Academy, talk’d;Of these, each following age had much to say:Yet, unexhausted, still, the needful theme.Who talks of these, to mankind all at onceHe talks; for where the saint from either free?Are these thy refuge?—No: these rush upon thee;Thy vitals seize, and, vulture-like, devour;I’ll try, if I can pluck thee from thy rock,Prometheus! from this barren ball of earth;420If Reason can unchain thee, thou art free.And, first, thy Caucasus, Ambition, calls;Mountain of torments! eminence of woes!Of courted woes! and courted through mistake!’Tis not ambition charms thee; ’tis a cheat425Will make thee start, as H—— at his moor.Dost grasp at greatness? First, know what it is:Think’st thou thy greatness in distinction lies?Not in the feather, wave it e’er so high,By Fortune stuck, to mark us from the throng,Is glory lodged: ’tis lodged in the reverse;In that which joins, in that which equals, all,432The monarch and his slave;—“A deathless soul,Unbounded prospect, and immortal kin,A Father God, and brothers in the skies;”Elder, indeed, in time; but less remoteIn excellence, perhaps, than thought by man;Why greater what can fall, than what can rise?If still delirious, now, Lorenzo! go;And with thy full-blown brothers of the world,440Throw scorn around thee; cast it on thy slaves;Thy slaves, and equals: how scorn cast on themRebounds on thee! If man is mean, as man,Art thou a god? If Fortune makes him so,Beware the consequence: a maxim that,Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind,Where, in the drapery, the man is lost;Externals fluttering, and the soul forgot.Thy greatest glory, when disposed to boast,Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share.450We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy:Judge we, in their caparisons, of men?It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art;All the distinctions of this little lifeAre quite cutaneous, foreign to the man,When, through death’s straits, earth’s subtle serpents creep,Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown.As crooked Satan the forbidden tree,458They leave their party-colour’d robe behind,All that now glitters, while they rear aloftTheir brazen crests, and hiss at us below.Of fortune’s fucus[45]strip them, yet alive;Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still,Away with all, but moral, in their minds;And let what then remains, impose their name,Pronounce them weak, or worthy; great, or mean.How mean that snuff[46]of glory Fortune lights,And Death puts out! Dost thou demand a test,A test, at once, infallible, and short,Of real greatness? That man greatly lives,470Whate’er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies;High-flush’d with hope, where heroes shall despair.If this a true criterion, many courts,Illustrious, might afford but few grandees.Th’ Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveysNought greater, than an honest, humble heart;An humble heart, His residence! pronouncedHis second seat; and rival to the skies.The private path, the secret acts of men,If noble, far the noblest of our lives!480How far above Lorenzo’s glory sitsTh’ illustrious master of a name unknown;Whose worth unrivall’d, and unwitness’d, lovesLife’s sacred shades, where gods converse with men;And Peace, beyond the world’s conceptions, smiles!As thou (now dark), before we part, shalt see.But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns.Lorenzo’s sick, but when Lorenzo’s seen;And, when he shrugs at public business, lies.Denied the public eye, the public voice,490As if he lived on others’ breath, he dies.Fain would he make the world his pedestal;492Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he.Knows he, that mankind praise against their will,And mix as much detraction as they can?Knows he, that faithless Fame her whisper has,As well as trumpet? that his vanityIs so much tickled from not hearing all?Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise,Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines,500Taking his country by five hundred ears,Senates at once admire him, and despise,With modest laughter lining loud applause,Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame?His fame, which (like the mighty Cæsar), crown’dWith laurels, in full senate, greatly falls,By seeming friends, that honour, and destroy.We rise in glory, as we sink in pride:Where boasting ends, there dignity begins:And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake,510The blind Lorenzo’s proud—of being proud;And dreams himself ascending in his fall.An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain:All vice wants hellebore; but of all vice,Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl;Because, unlike all other vice, it flies,In fact, the point, in fancy most pursued.Who court applause, oblige the world in this;They gratify man’s passion to refuse.Superior honour, when assumed, is lost;520Even good men turn banditti, and rejoice,Like Kouli-Kan, in plunder of the proud.Though somewhat disconcerted, steady stillTo the world’s cause, with half a face of joy,Lorenzo cries—“Be, then, Ambition cast;Ambition’s dearer far stands unimpeach’d,526Gay Pleasure! proud Ambition is her slave;For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill;For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes;And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile:Who can resist her charms?—or, should? Lorenzo!What mortal shall resist, where angels yield?Pleasure’s the mistress of ethereal powers;533For her contend the rival gods above;Pleasure’s the mistress of the world below;And well it was for man, that Pleasure charms:How would all stagnate, but for Pleasure’s ray!How would the frozen stream of action cease!What is the pulse of this so busy world?The love of pleasure: that, through every vein,540Throws motion, warmth; and shuts out death from life.Though various are the tempers of mankind,Pleasure’s gay family hold all in chains:Some most affect the black; and some, the fair;Some honest pleasure court; and some, obscene.Pleasures obscene are various, as the throngOf passions, that can err in human hearts;Mistake their objects, or transgress their bounds.Think you there’s but one whoredom? Whoredom, all,But when our reason licenses delight.550Dost doubt, Lorenzo? thou shalt doubt no more.Thy father chides thy gallantries; yet hugsAn ugly, common harlot, in the dark;A rank adulterer with others’ gold!And that hag, Vengeance, in a corner, charms.Hatred her brothel has, as well as Love,Where horrid epicures debauch in blood.Whate’er the motive, pleasure is the mark:For her, the black assassin draws his sword;For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp,560To which no single sacrifice may fall;For her, the saint abstains; the miser starves;The Stoic proud, for Pleasure, pleasure scorn’d;For her, Affliction’s daughters grief indulge,And find, or hope, a luxury in tears;For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy;And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death.Thus universal her despotic power!And as her empire wide, her praise is just.Patron of pleasure! doater on delight!570I am thy rival; pleasure I profess;Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song.Pleasure is nought but virtue’s gayer name;I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low;Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower;And honest Epicurus’ foes were fools.But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence;If o’erstrain’d wisdom still retains the name.How knits Austerity her cloudy brow,And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praise580Of Pleasure, to mankind, unpraised, too dear!Ye modern Stoics! hear my soft reply;Their senses men will trust: we can’t impose;Or, if we could, is imposition right?Own honey sweet; but, owning, add this sting;“When mix’d with poison, it is deadly too.”Truth never was indebted to a lie.Is nought but virtue to be praised, as good?Why then is health preferr’d before disease?What nature loves is good, without our leave.590And where no future drawback cries, “Beware!”Pleasure, though not from virtue, should prevail.’Tis balm to life, and gratitude to Heaven;How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy’d!594The love of pleasure is man’s eldest-born,Born in his cradle, living to his tomb;Wisdom, her younger sister, though more grave,Was meant to minister, and not to mar,Imperial Pleasure, queen of human hearts.Lorenzo! thou, her majesty’s renown’d,Though uncoift, counsel, learned in the world!Who think’st thyself a Murray,[47]with disdain602May’st look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes!Canst thou plead Pleasure’s cause as well as I?Know’st thou her nature, purpose, parentage?Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all;And know thyself; and know thyself to be(Strange truth!) the most abstemious man alive.Tell not Calista; she will laugh thee dead;Or send thee to her hermitage with L——.610Absurd presumption! Thou who never knew’stA serious thought! shalt thou dare dream of joy?No man e’er found a happy life by chance;Or yawn’d it into being with a wish;Or, with the snout of grovelling appetite,E’er smelt it out, and grubb’d it from the dirt.An art it is, and must be learn’d; and learn’dWith unremitting effort, or be lost;And leaves us perfect blockheads, in our bliss.The clouds may drop down titles and estates;620Wealth may seek us; but Wisdom must be sought;Sought before all; but (how unlike all elseWe seek on earth!) ’tis never sought in vain.First, Pleasure’s birth, rise, strength, and grandeur, see.Brought forth by Wisdom, nursed by Discipline,By Patience taught, by Perseverance crown’d,She rears her head majestic; round her throne,627Erected in the bosom of the just,Each virtue, listed, forms her manly guard.For what are virtues? (formidable name!)What, but the fountain, or defence, of joy?Why, then, commanded? Need mankind commands,At once to merit, and to make, their bliss?—Great Legislator! scarce so great, as kind!634If men are rational, and love delight,Thy gracious law but flatters human choice;In the transgression lies the penalty;And they the most indulge, who most obey.Of Pleasure, next, the final cause explore;Its mighty purpose, its important end.640Not to turn human brutal, but to buildDivine on human, Pleasure came from heaven.In aid to Reason was the goddess sent;To call up all its strength by such a charm.Pleasure, first, succours Virtue; in return,Virtue gives Pleasure an eternal reign.What, but the pleasure of food, friendship, faith,Supports life natural, civil, and divine?’Tis from the pleasure of repast, we live;’Tis from the pleasure of applause, we please;650’Tis from the pleasure of belief, we pray(All prayer would cease, if unbelieved the prize):It serves ourselves, our species, and our God;And to serve more, is past the sphere of man.Glide, then, for ever, pleasure’s sacred stream!Through Eden, as Euphrates ran, it runs,And fosters every growth of happy life;Makes a new Eden where it flows;—but suchAs must be lost, Lorenzo! by thy fall.“What mean I by thy fall?”—Thou’lt shortly see,While Pleasure’s nature is at large display’d;661Already sung her origin, and ends.Those glorious ends, by kind, or by degree,When Pleasure violates, ’tis then a vice,A vengeance too; it hastens into pain.From due refreshment, life, health, reason, joy;From wild excess, pain, grief, distraction, death;Heaven’s justice this proclaims, and that her love.What greater evil can I wish my foe,Than his full draught of pleasure, from a cask670Unbroach’d by just authority, ungaugedBy temperance, by reason unrefined?A thousand demons lurk within the lee.Heaven, others, and ourselves! uninjured these,Drink deep; the deeper, then, the more divine;Angels are angels, from indulgence there;’Tis unrepenting pleasure makes a god.Dost think thyself a god from other joys?A victim rather! shortly sure to bleed.The wrong must mourn: can Heaven’s appointments fail?Can man outwit Omnipotence? strike out681A self-wrought happiness unmeant by HimWho made us, and the world we would enjoy?Who forms an instrument, ordains from whenceIts dissonance, or harmony, shall rise.Heaven bid the soul this mortal frame inspire!Bid virtue’s ray divine inspire the soulWith unprecarious flows of vital joy;And, without breathing, man as well might hopeFor life, as, without piety, for peace.690“Is virtue, then, and piety the same?”—No; piety is more; ’tis virtue’s source;Mother of every worth, as that of joy.Men of the world this doctrine ill digest;They smile at piety; yet boast aloud695Good will to men; nor know they strive to partWhat Nature joins; and thus confute themselves.With piety begins all good on earth;’Tis the first-born of rationality.Conscience, her first law broken, wounded lies;Enfeebled, lifeless, impotent to good;A feign’d affection bounds her utmost power.702Some we can’t love, but for th’ Almighty’s sake;A foe to God was ne’er true friend to man;Some sinister intent taints all he does;And, in his kindest actions, he’s unkind.On piety, humanity is built;And, on humanity, much happiness;And yet still more on piety itself.A soul in commerce with her God, is heaven;710Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life;The whirls of passions, and the strokes of heart.A Deity believed, is joy begun;A Deity adored, is joy advanced;A Deity beloved, is joy matured.Each branch of piety delight inspires;Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next,O’er death’s dark gulf, and all its horror hides;Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy,That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still;720Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a streamOf glory on the consecrated hourOf man, in audience with the Deity.Who worships the great God, that instant joinsThe first in heaven, and sets his foot on hell.Lorenzo! when wast thou at church before?Thou think’st the service long: but is it just?Though just, unwelcome: thou hadst rather treadUnhallow’d ground; the Muse, to win thine ear,729Must take an air less solemn. She complies.Good conscience! at the sound the world retires;Verse disaffects it, and Lorenzo smiles:Yet has she her seraglio full of charms;And such as age shall heighten, not impair.Art thou dejected? Is thy mind o’ercast?Amid her fair ones, thou the fairest choose,To chase thy gloom.—“Go, fix some weighty truth;Chain down some passion; do some generous good;Teach ignorance to see, or grief to smile;Correct thy friend; befriend thy greatest foe;740Or with warm heart, and confidence divine,Spring up, and lay strong hold on Him who made thee.”Thy gloom is scatter’d, sprightly spirits flow;Though wither’d is thy vine, and harp unstrung.Dost call the bowl, the viol, and the dance,Loud mirth, mad laughter? Wretched comforters!Physicians! more than half of thy disease.Laughter, though never censured yet as sin(Pardon a thought that only seems severe),Is half immoral: Is it much indulged?750By venting spleen, or dissipating thought,It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool;And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves.’Tis pride, or emptiness, applies the straw,That tickles little minds to mirth effuse;Of grief approaching, the portentous sign!The house of laughter makes a house of woe.A man triumphant is a monstrous sight;A man dejected is a sight as mean.What cause for triumph, where such ills abound?760What for dejection, where presides a Power,Who call’d us into being to be bless’d?So grieve, as conscious, grief may rise to joy;763So joy, as conscious, joy to grief may fall.Most true, a wise man never will be sad;But neither will sonorous, bubbling mirth,A shallow stream of happiness betray:Too happy to be sportive, he’s serene.Yet would’st thou laugh (but at thy own expense),This counsel strange should I presume to give—770“Retire, and read thy Bible, to be gay.”There truths abound of sovereign aid to peace;Ah! do not prize them less, because inspired,As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do.If not inspired, that pregnant page had stood,Time’s treasure, and the wonder of the wise!Thou think’st, perhaps, thy soul alone at stake;Alas!—should men mistake thee for a fool;—What man of taste for genius, wisdom, truth,Though tender of thy fame, could interpose?780Believe me, sense here acts a double part,And the true critic is a Christian too.But these, thou think’st, are gloomy paths to joy.—True joy in sunshine ne’er was found at first;They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please;And travel only gives us sound repose.Heaven sells all pleasure; effort is the price;The joys of conquest, are the joys of man;And glory the victorious laurel spreadsO’er pleasure’s pure, perpetual, placid stream.790There is a time, when toil must be preferr’d,Or joy, by mistimed fondness, is undone.A man of pleasure, is a man of pains.Thou wilt not take the trouble to be blest.False joys, indeed, are born from want of thought;From thoughts full bent, and energy, the true;And that demands a mind in equal poise,797Remote from gloomy grief, and glaring joy.Much joy not only speaks small happiness,But happiness that shortly must expire.Can joy, unbottom’d in reflection, stand?And, in a tempest, can reflection live?Can joy, like thine, secure itself an hour?Can joy, like thine, meet accident unshock’d?804Or ope the door to honest poverty?Or talk with threatening death, and not turn pale?In such a world, and such a nature, theseAre needful fundamentals of delight:These fundamentals give delight indeed;Delight, pure, delicate, and durable;810Delight, unshaken, masculine, divine;A constant, and a sound, but serious joy.Is joy the daughter of severity?It is:—yet far my doctrine from severe.“Rejoice for ever:” it becomes a man;Exalts, and sets him nearer to the gods.“Rejoice for ever!” Nature cries, “Rejoice!”And drinks to man, in her nectareous cup,Mix’d up of delicates for every sense;To the great Founder of the bounteous feast,820Drinks glory, gratitude, eternal praise;And he that will not pledge her, is a churl.Ill firmly to support, good fully taste,Is the whole science of felicity:Yet sparing pledge: her bowl is not the bestMankind can boast.—“A rational repast;Exertion, vigilance, a mind in arms,A military discipline of thought,To foil temptation in the doubtful field;And ever-waking ardour for the right.”830’Tis these, first give, then guard, a cheerful heart.831Nought that is right, think little; well aware,What reason bids, God bids; by His commandHow aggrandized, the smallest thing we do!Thus, nothing is insipid to the wise;To thee, insipid all, but what is mad;Joys season’d high, and tasting strong of guilt.“Mad! (thou reply’st, with indignation fired);Of ancient sages proud to tread the steps,I follow Nature.”—Follow Nature still,840But look it be thine own: is Conscience, then,No part of nature? Is she not supreme?Thou regicide! Oh, raise her from the dead!Then, follow Nature; and resemble God.When, spite of Conscience, pleasure is pursued,Man’s nature is unnaturally pleased:And what’s unnatural, is painful tooAt intervals, and must disgust even thee!The fact thou know’st; but not, perhaps, the cause.Virtue’s foundations with the world’s were laid;850Heaven mix’d her with our make, and twisted closeHer sacred interests with the strings of life.Who breaks her awful mandate, shocks himself,His better self: and is it greater pain,Our soul should murmur, or our dust repine?And one, in their eternal war, must bleed.If one must suffer, which should least be spared?The pains of mind surpass the pains of sense:Ask, then, the gout, what torment is in guilt.The joys of sense to mental joys are mean:860Sense on the present only feeds; the soulOn past, and future, forages for joy.’Tis hers, by retrospect, through time to range;And forward time’s great sequel to survey.Could human courts take vengeance on the mind,865Axes might rust, and racks and gibbets fall:Guard, then, thy mind, and leave the rest to fate.Lorenzo! wilt thou never be a man?The man is dead, who for the body lives,Lured, by the beating of his pulse, to listWith every lust, that wars against his peace;And sets him quite at variance with himself.872Thyself, first, know; then love: a self there isOf Virtue fond, that kindles at her charms.A self there is, as fond of every vice,While every virtue wounds it to the heart:Humility degrades it, Justice robs,Bless’d Bounty beggars it, fair Truth betrays,And godlike Magnanimity destroys.This self, when rival to the former, scorn;880When not in competition, kindly treat,Defend it, feed it:—but when Virtue bids,Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames.And why? ’Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed;Comply, or own self-love extinct, or blind.For what is vice? self-love in a mistake:A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear.And virtue, what? ’tis self-love in her wits,Quite skilful in the market of delight.Self-love’s good sense is love of that dread Power,890From whom herself, and all she can enjoy.Other self-love is but disguised self-hate;More mortal than the malice of our foes;A self-hate, now, scarce felt; then felt full sore,When being, cursed; extinction, loud implored;And every thing preferr’d to what we are.Yet this self-love Lorenzo makes his choice;And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy.How is his want of happiness betray’d,899By disaffection to the present hour!Imagination wanders far afield:The future pleases: why? the present pains.—“But that’s a secret.” Yes, which all men know;And know from thee, discover’d unawares.Thy ceaseless agitation, restless rollFrom cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause;What is it?—’tis the cradle of the soul,From Instinct sent, to rock her in disease,Which her physician, Reason, will not cure.A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while910It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.Such are Lorenzo’s wretched remedies!The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.Superior wisdom is superior bliss.And what sure mark distinguishes the wise?Consistent wisdom ever wills the same;Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing.Sick of herself, is Folly’s character,As Wisdom’s is, a modest self-applause.A change of evils is thy good supreme;920Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest.Man’s greatest strength is shown in standing still.The first sure symptom of a mind in health,Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.False pleasure from abroad her joys imports;Rich from within, and self-sustain’d, the true.The true is fix’d, and solid as a rock;Slippery the false, and tossing, as the wave.This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain;That, like the fabled, self-enamour’d boy,[48]930Home-contemplation her supreme delight;She dreads an interruption from without,932Smit with her own condition; and the moreIntense she gazes, still it charms the more.No man is happy, till he thinks, on earthThere breathes not a more happy than himself:Then envy dies, and love o’erflows on all;And love o’erflowing makes an angel here.Such angels, all, entitled to reposeOn Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns,940Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven!To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,They stand, collecting every beam of thought,Till their hearts kindle with divine delight:For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of oldIn Israel’s dream, come from, and go to, heaven.Hence are they studious of sequester’d scenes;While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee.Were all men happy, revellings would cease,950That opiate for inquietude within.Lorenzo! never man was truly blest,But it composed, and gave him such a cast,As folly might mistake for want of joy.A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud;A modest aspect, and a smile at heart.O for a joy from thy Philander’s spring!A spring perennial, rising in the breast,And permanent, as pure! no turbid streamOf rapturous exultation, swelling high;960Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while,Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.What does the man, who transient joy prefers?What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?Vain are all sudden sallies of delight;Convulsions of a weak, distemper’d joy.966Joy’s a fix’d state; a tenure, not a start.Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss:That is the gem: sell all, and purchase that.Why go a-begging to contingencies,Not gain’d with ease, nor safely loved, if gain’d?At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;Suspect it; what thou canst insure, enjoy;973And nought but what thou givest thyself, is sure.Reason perpetuates joy that Reason gives,And makes it as immortal as herself:To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.Worth, conscious worth! should absolutely reign;And other joys ask leave for their approach;Nor, unexamined, ever leave obtain.980Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joysWage war, and perish in intestine broils;Not the least promise of internal peace!No bosom-comfort, or unborrow’d bliss!Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound,’Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure;If gain’d, dear-bought; and better miss’d than gain’d.Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured.Fancy, and Sense, from an infected shore,Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize.990Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!By fond indulgence but inflamed the more!),Fancy still cruises, when poor Sense is tired.Imagination is the Paphian shop,Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame,Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess,And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires),With wanton art, those fatal arrows form,Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.Would’st thou receive them, other thoughts there are,On angel-wing, descending from above,1001Which these, with art divine, would counterwork,And form celestial armour for thy peace.In this is seen Imagination’s guilt;But who can count her follies? She betrays thee,To think in grandeur there is something great.For works of curious art, and ancient fame,Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain’d;And foreign climes must cater for thy taste.Hence, what disaster!—Though the price was paid,1010That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome,Whose foot (ye gods!) though cloven, must be kiss’d,Detain’d thy dinner on the Latian shore;(Such is the fate of honest Protestants!)And poor Magnificence is starved to death.Hence just resentment, indignation, ire!—Be pacified: if outward things are great,’Tis magnanimity great things to scorn;Pompous expenses, and parades august,And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace.1020True happiness ne’er enter’d at an eye;True happiness resides in things unseen.No smiles of Fortune ever bless’d the bad,Nor can her frowns rob Innocence of joys;That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor:So tell his Holiness, and be revenged.Pleasure, we both agree, is man’s chief good;Our only contest, what deserves the name.Give Pleasure’s name to nought, but what has pass’dTh’ authentic seal of Reason (which like Yorke,[49]1030Demurs on what it passes), and defiesThe tooth of time; when past, a pleasure still;Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age,1033And doubly to be prized, as it promotesOur future, while it forms our present, joy.Some joys the future overcast; and someThrow all their beams that way, and gild the tomb.Some joys endear eternity; some giveAbhorr’d annihilation dreadful charms.Are rival joys contending for thy choice?1040Consult thy whole existence, and be safe;That oracle will put all doubt to flight.Short is the lesson, though my lecture long;Be good—and let Heaven answer for the rest.Yet, with a sigh o’er all mankind, I grantIn this our day of proof, our land of hope,The good man has his clouds that intervene;Clouds, that obscure his sublunary day,But never conquer: even the best must own,Patience, and resignation, are the pillars1050Of human peace on earth. The pillars, these:But those of Seth not more remote from thee,Till this heroic lesson thou hast learn’d;To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.Fired at the prospect of unclouded bliss,Heaven in reversion, like the sun, as yetBeneath th’ horizon, cheers us in this world;It sheds, on souls susceptible of light,The glorious dawn of our eternal day.“This (says Lorenzo) is a fair harangue:1060But can harangues blow back strong nature’s stream;Or stem the tide Heaven pushes through our veins,Which sweeps away man’s impotent resolves,And lays his labour level with the world?”Themselves men make their comment on mankind;And think nought is, but what they find at home:Thus, weakness to chimera turns the truth.1067Nothing romantic has the Muse prescribed.Above,[50]Lorenzo saw the man of earth,The mortal man; and wretched was the sight.To balance that, to comfort, and exalt,Now see the man immortal: him, I mean,Who lives as such; whose heart, full bent on heaven,Leans all that way, his bias to the stars.The world’s dark shades, in contrast set, shall raiseHis lustre more; though bright, without a foil:Observe his awful portrait, and admire;Nor stop at wonder; imitate, and live.Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw,What nothing less than angel can exceed!1080A man on earth devoted to the skies;Like ships in sea, while in, above the world.With aspect mild, and elevated eye,Behold him seated on a mount serene,Above the fogs of sense, and passion’s storm;All the black cares, and tumults, of this life,Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet,Excite his pity, not impair his peace.Earth’s genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave,A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he sees,1090Bewilder’d in the vale; in all unlike!His full reverse in all! What higher praise?What stronger demonstration of the right?The present all their care; the future, his.When public welfare calls, or private want,They give to fame; his bounty he conceals.Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt.Mankind’s esteem they court; and he, his own.Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities;His, the composed possession of the true.1100Alike throughout is his consistent peace,All of one colour, and an even thread;While party-colour’d shreds of happiness,With hideous gaps between, patch up for themA madman’s robe; each puff of Fortune blowsThe tatters by, and shows their nakedness.He sees with other eyes than theirs: where theyBehold a sun, he spies a Deity;What makes them only smile, makes him adore.Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees;1110An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain.They things terrestrial worship, as divine:His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust,That dims his sight, and shortens his survey,Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound.Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)He lays aside to find his dignity;No dignity they find in aught besides.They triumph in externals (which concealMan’s real glory), proud of an eclipse.1120Himself too much he prizes to be proud,And nothing thinks so great in man, as man.Too dear he holds his interest, to neglectAnother’s welfare, or his right invade;Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey.They kindle at the shadow of a wrong:Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven,Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe;Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.A cover’d heart their character defends;1130A cover’d heart denies him half his praise.With nakedness his innocence agrees;While their broad foliage testifies their fall:Their no joys end, where his full feast begins;1134His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.To triumph in existence, his alone;And his alone, triumphantly to thinkHis true existence is not yet begun.His glorious course was, yesterday, complete;Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet.But nothing charms Lorenzo, like the firm,Undaunted breast—and whose is that high praise?1142They yield to pleasure, though they danger brave,And show no fortitude, but in the field;If there they show it, ’tis for glory shown;Nor will that cordial always man their hearts.A cordial his sustains, that cannot fail;By pleasure unsubdued, unbroke by pain,He shares in that Omnipotence he trusts.All-bearing, all-attempting, till he falls;1150And when he falls, writes VICI on his shield.From magnanimity, all fear above;From nobler recompence, above applause;Which owes to man’s short outlook all its charms.Backward to credit what he never felt,Lorenzo cries,—“Where shines this miracle?From what root rises this immortal man?”A root that grows not in Lorenzo’s ground;The root dissect, nor wonder at the flower.He follows nature (not like thee) and shows us1160An uninverted system of a man.His appetite wears Reason’s golden chain,And finds, in due restraint, its luxury.His passion, like an eagle well reclaim’d,Is taught to fly at nought, but infinite.Patient his hope, unanxious is his care,His caution fearless, and his grief (if griefThe gods ordain) a stranger to despair.1168And why?—because affection, more than meet,His wisdom leaves not disengaged from heaven.Those secondary goods that smile on earth,He, loving in proportion, loves in peace.They most the world enjoy, who least admire.His understanding ’scapes the common cloudOf fumes, arising from a boiling breast.His head is clear, because his heart is cool,By worldly competitions uninflamed.The moderate movements of his soul admitDistinct ideas, and matured debate,An eye impartial, and an even scale;1180Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice.Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise;On its own dunghill, wiser than the world.What, then, the world? It must be doubly weak;Strange truth! as soon would they believe their creed.Yet thus it is; nor otherwise can be;So far from aught romantic, what I sing.Bliss has no being, virtue has no strength,But from the prospect of immortal life.Who think earth all, or (what weighs just the same)1190Who care no farther, must prize what it yields;Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.Who thinks earth nothing, can’t its charms admire;He can’t a foe, though most malignant, hate,Because that hate would prove his greater foe.’Tis hard for them (yet who so loudly boastGood-will to men?) to love their dearest friend;For may not he invade their good supreme,Where the least jealousy turns love to gall?All shines to them, that for a season shines.1200Each act, each thought, he questions, “What its weight,Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?”—1202And what it there appears, he deems it now.Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul.The godlike man has nothing to conceal.His virtue, constitutionally deep,Has habit’s firmness, and affection’s flame;Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire;And Death, which others slays, makes him a god.And now, Lorenzo! bigot of this world!1210Wont to disdain poor bigots caught by Heaven!Stand by thy scorn, and be reduced to nought:For what art thou?—Thou boaster! while thy glare,Thy gaudy grandeur, and mere worldly worth,Like a broad mist, at distance, strikes us most;And, like a mist, is nothing when at hand;His merit, like a mountain, on approach,Swells more, and rises nearer to the skies,By promise now, and, by possession, soon,(Too soon, too much, it cannot be) his own.1220From this thy just annihilation rise,Lorenzo! rise to something, by reply.The world, thy client, listens, and expects;And longs to crown thee with immortal praise.Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine;And Wit talks most, when least she has to say,And Reason interrupts not her career.She’ll say—that mists above the mountains rise;And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse;She’ll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust,1230And fly conviction, in the dust she raised.Wit, how delicious to man’s dainty taste!’Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense;But, as its substitute, a dire disease.Pernicious talent! flatter’d by the world,By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.1236Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds;Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspiresThe lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs,Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.For thy renown, ’twere well was this the worst;Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,1243See Dulness, blundering on vivacities,Shakes her sage head at the calamity,Which has exposed, and let her down to thee.But Wisdom, awful Wisdom! which inspects,Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers,Seizes the right, and holds it to the last;How rare! In senates, synods, sought in vain;1250Or if there found, ’tis sacred to the few;While a lewd prostitute to multitudes,Frequent, as fatal, Wit: in civil life,Wit makes an enterpriser; Sense, a man.Wit hates authority; commotion loves,And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.In states, ’tis dangerous; in religion, death:Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe?Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;The plume exposes, ’tis our helmet saves.1260Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.Wit, widow’d of good sense, is worse than nought;It hoists more sail to run against a rock.Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool;Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit.How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun,Where syrens sit, to sing thee to thy fate!A joy, in which our reason bears no part,1270Is but a sorrow, tickling, ere it stings.Let not the cooings of the world allure thee;Which of her lovers ever found her true?Happy! of this bad world who little know?—And yet, we much must know her, to be safe;To know the world, not love her, is thy point;She gives but little, nor that little, long.There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse;A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy,Our thoughtless agitation’s idle child,1280That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires,Leaving the soul more vapid than before.An animal ovation! such as holdsNo commerce with our reason, but subsistsOn juices, through the well-toned tubes, well strain’d;A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright;And when it jars—thy syrens sing no more,Thy dance is done; the demi-god is thrown(Short apotheosis!) beneath the man,In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair.1290Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread,And startle at destruction? If thou art,Accept a buckler, take it to the field;(A field of battle is this mortal life!)When danger threatens, lay it on thy heart;A single sentence, proof against the world:“Soul, body, fortune!—every good pertainsTo one of these; but prize not all alike;The goods of fortune to thy body’s health,Body to soul, and soul submit to God.”1300Would’st thou build lasting happiness? do this;Th’ inverted pyramid can never stand.Is this truth doubtful? It outshines the sun;Nay, the sun shines not, but to show us this,1304The single lesson of mankind on earth.And yet—yet, what? No news! Mankind is mad;Such mighty numbers list against the right,(And what can’t numbers, when bewitch’d, achieve!)They talk themselves to something like belief,That all earth’s joys are theirs: as Athens’ foolGrinn’d from the port, on every sail his own.They grin; but wherefore? and how long the laugh?Half ignorance, their mirth; and half, a lie;1313To cheat the world, and cheat themselves, they smile.Hard either task! The most abandon’d own,That others, if abandon’d, are undone:Then, for themselves, the moment Reason wakes(And Providence denies it long repose),O how laborious is their gaiety!They scarce can swallow their ebullient spleen,1320Scarce muster patience to support the farce,And pump sad laughter till the curtain falls.Scarce, did I say? Some cannot sit it out;Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw,And show us what their joy, by their despair.The clotted hair! gored breast! blaspheming eye!Its impious fury still alive in death!Shut, shut the shocking scene.—But Heaven deniesA cover to such guilt; and so should man.Look round, Lorenzo! see the reeking blade,1330Th’ envenom’d phial, and the fatal ball;The strangling cord, and suffocating stream;The loathsome rottenness, and foul decaysFrom raging riot (slower suicides!)And pride in these, more execrable still!How horrid all to thought!—but horrors, these,That vouch the truth; and aid my feeble song.From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be blest:1338Bliss is too great, to lodge within an hour:When an immortal being aims at bliss,Duration is essential to the name.O for a joy from reason! joy from that,Which makes man Man; and, exercised aright,Will make him more: a bounteous joy! that givesAnd promises; that weaves, with art divine,The richest prospect into present peace:A joy ambitious! joy in common heldWith thrones ethereal, and their greater far;A joy high privileged from chance, time, death!A joy, which death shall double, judgment crown!1350Crown’d higher, and still higher, at each stage,Through bless’d eternity’s long day; yet still,Not more remote from sorrow, than from Him,Whose lavish hand, whose love stupendous, poursSo much of Deity on guilty dust.There, O my Lucia! may I meet thee there,Where not thy presence can improve my bliss!Affects not this the sages of the world?Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?Eternity, depending on an hour,1360Makes serious thought man’s wisdom, joy, and praise,Nor need you blush (though sometimes your designsMay shun the light) at your designs on heaven:Sole point! where over-bashful is your blame.Are you not wise?—You know you are: yet hearOne truth, amid your numerous schemes, mislaid,Or overlook’d, or thrown aside, if seen;“Our schemes to plan by this world, or the next,Is the sole difference between wise and fool.”All worthy men will weigh you in this scale;1370What wonder then, if they pronounce you light?1371Is their esteem alone not worth your care?Accept my simple scheme of common sense:Thus, save your fame, and make two worlds your own.The world replies not;—but the world persists;And puts the cause off to the longest day,Planning evasions for the day of doom.So far, at that re-hearing, from redress,They then turn witnesses against themselves;Hear that, Lorenzo! nor be wise to-morrow.1380Haste, haste! a man, by nature, is in haste;For who shall answer for another hour?’Tis highly prudent, to make one sure friend;And that thou canst not do, this side the skies.Ye sons of earth! (nor willing to be more!)Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free,Thus, in an age so gay, the Muse plain truths(Truths, which, at church, you might have heard in prose)Has ventured into light; well pleased the verseShould be forgot, if you the truths retain;1390And crown her with your welfare, not your praise.But praise she need not fear: I see my fate;And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf.Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,Must die; and die unwept; O thou minuteDevoted page! go forth among thy foes;Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,And die a double death: mankind incensed,Denies thee long to live: nor shalt thou rest,When thou art dead; in Stygian shades arraign’d1400By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne;And bold blasphemer of his friend,—the World;The World, whose legions cost him slender pay,And volunteers around his banner swarm;1404Prudent, as Prussia,[51]in her zeal for Gaul.“Are all, then, fools?” Lorenzo cries.—Yes, all,But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee);“The mother of true wisdom is the will;”The noblest intellect, a fool without it.World-wisdom much has done, and more may do,1410In arts and sciences, in wars, and peace:But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee,And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.This is the most indulgence can afford;—“Thy wisdom all can do, but—make thee wise.”Nor think this censure is severe on thee;Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.1417

And has all nature, then, espoused my part?

Have I bribed heaven, and earth, to plead against thee?

And is thy soul immortal?—What remains?

All, all, Lorenzo!—Make immortal blest.

Unblest immortals!—What can shock us more?

And yet Lorenzo still affects the world;

There stows his treasure; thence his title draws,

Man of the world (for such would’st thou be call’d),

And art thou proud of that inglorious style?

Proud of reproach? for a reproach it was,10

In ancient days; and Christian,—in an age,

When men were men, and not ashamed of heaven,

Fired their ambition, as it crown’d their joy.

Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font,

Fain would I re-baptize thee, and confer

A purer spirit, and a nobler name.

Thy fond attachments, fatal, and inflamed,

Point out my path, and dictate to my song:

To thee, the world how fair! how strongly strikes

Ambition! and gay pleasure stronger still!20

Thy triple bane! the triple bolt that lays21

Thy virtue dead! Be these my triple theme;

Nor shall thy wit, or wisdom, be forgot.

Common the theme; not so the song; if she

My song invokes, Urania deigns to smile.

The charm that chains us to the world, her foe,

If she dissolves, the man of earth, at once,

Starts from his trance, and sighs for other scenes;

Scenes, where these sparks of night, these stars shall shine

Unnumber’d suns (for all things, as they are,30

The blest behold); and, in one glory, pour

Their blended blaze on man’s astonish’d sight;

A blaze—the least illustrious object there.

Lorenzo! since eternal is at hand,

To swallow Time’s ambitions; as the vast

Leviathan, the bubbles vain, that ride

High on the foaming billow; what avail

High titles, high descent, attainments high,

If unattain’d our highest? O Lorenzo!

What lofty thoughts, these elements above,40

What towering hopes, what sallies from the sun,

What grand surveys of destiny divine,

And pompous presage of unfathom’d fate,

Should roll in bosoms, where a spirit burns,

Bound for eternity! in bosoms read

By Him, who foibles in archangels sees!

On human hearts He bends a jealous eye,

And marks, and in heaven’s register enrols,

The rise, and progress, of each option there;

Sacred to doomsday! That the page unfolds,50

And spreads us to the gaze of gods and men.

And what an option, O Lorenzo, thine!

This world! and this, unrivall’d by the skies!

A world, where lust of pleasure, grandeur, gold,

Three demons that divide its realms between them,55

With strokes alternate buffet to and fro

Man’s restless heart, their sport, their flying ball;

Till, with the giddy circle sick, and tired,

It pants for peace, and drops into despair.

Such is the world Lorenzo sets above

That glorious promise angels were esteem’d

Too mean to bring; a promise, their Adored62

Descended to communicate, and press,

By counsel, miracle, life, death, on man.

Such is the world Lorenzo’s wisdom woos,

And on its thorny pillow seeks repose;

A pillow, which, like opiates ill prepared,

Intoxicates, but not composes; fills

The visionary mind with gay chimeras,

All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest;70

What unfeign’d travel, and what dreams of joy!

How frail, men, things! how momentary, both!

Fantastic chase of shadows hunting shades!

The gay, the busy, equal though unlike;

Equal in wisdom, differently wise!

Through flowery meadows, and through dreary wastes,

One bustling, and one dancing, into death.

There’s not a day, but, to the man of thought,

Betrays some secret, that throws new reproach

On life, and makes him sick of seeing more.80

The scenes of business tell us—“What are men;"

The scenes of pleasure—“What is all beside;”

There, others we despise; and here, ourselves:

Amid disgust eternal, dwells delight?

’Tis approbation strikes the string of joy.

What wondrous prize has kindled this career,

Stuns with the din, and chokes us with the dust,

On life’s gay stage, one inch above the grave?

The proud run up and down in quest of eyes;89

The sensual, in pursuit of something worse;

The grave, of gold; the politic, of power;

And all, of other butterflies, as vain!

As eddies draw things frivolous, and light,

How is man’s heart by vanity drawn in;

On the swift circle of returning toys,

Whirl’d, straw-like, round and round, and then engulf’d,

Where gay delusion darkens to despair!

“This is a beaten track.”—Is this a track

Should not be beaten? Never beat enough,

Till enough learn’d the truths it would inspire.100

Shall Truth be silent, because Folly frowns?

Turn the world’s history; what find we there,

But Fortune’s sports, or Nature’s cruel claims,

Or Woman’s artifice, or Man’s revenge,

And endless inhumanities on man?

Fame’s trumpet seldom sounds, but, like the knell,

It brings bad tidings: how it hourly blows

Man’s misadventures round the listening world!

Man is the tale of narrative old time;

Sad tale; which high as Paradise begins;110

As if, the toil of travel to delude,

From stage to stage, in his eternal round,

The Days, his daughters, as they spin our hours

On Fortune’s wheel, where accident unthought

Oft, in a moment, snaps life’s strongest thread,

Each, in her turn, some tragic story tells,

With, now and then, a wretched farce between;

And fills his chronicle with human woes.

Time’s daughters, true as those of men, deceive us;

Not one, but puts some cheat on all mankind:120

While in their father’s bosom, not yet ours,

They flatter our fond hopes, and promise much

Of amiable; but hold him not o’er-wise,123

Who dares to trust them; and laugh round the year

At still-confiding, still-confounded, man,

Confiding, though confounded; hoping on,

Untaught by trial, unconvinced by proof,

And ever looking for the never seen.

Life to the last, like harden’d felons, lies;

Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires.130

Its little joys go out by one and one,

And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night;

Night darker, than what, now, involves the pole.

O Thou, who dost permit these ills to fall,

For gracious ends, and would’st that man should mourn!

O Thou, whose hands this goodly fabric framed,

Who know’st it best, and would’st that man should know!

What is this sublunary world? A vapour;

A vapour all it holds; itself, a vapour;

From the damp bed of chaos, by Thy beam140

Exhaled, ordain’d to swim its destined hour

In ambient air, then melt, and disappear.

Earth’s days are number’d, nor remote her doom;

As mortal, though less transient, than her sons;

Yet they doat on her, as the world and they

Were both eternal, solid; Thou, a dream.

They doat!—on what? Immortal views apart,

A region of outsides! a land of shadows!

A fruitful field of flowery promises!

A wilderness of joys! perplex’d with doubts,150

And sharp with thorns! a troubled ocean, spread

With bold adventurers, their all on board!

No second hope, if here their fortune frowns;

Frown soon it must. Of various rates they sail,

Of ensigns various; all alike in this,

All restless, anxious; toss’d with hopes, and fears,

In calmest skies; obnoxious all to storm;157

And stormy the most general blast of life:

All bound for happiness; yet few provide

The chart of knowledge, pointing where it lies;

Or Virtue’s helm, to shape the course design’d:

All, more or less, capricious fate lament,

Now lifted by the tide, and now resorb’d,163

And farther from their wishes than before:

All, more or less, against each other dash.

To mutual hurt, by gusts of passion driven,

And suffering more from folly, than from fate.

Ocean! thou dreadful and tumultuous home

Of dangers, at eternal war with man!

Death’s capital, where most he domineers,170

With all his chosen terrors frowning round,

(Though lately feasted high at Albion’s cost,)[43]

Wide-opening, and loud roaring still for more!

Too faithful mirror! how dost thou reflect

The melancholy face of human life!

The strong resemblance tempts me farther still:

And, haply, Britain may be deeper struck

By moral truth, in such a mirror seen,

Which Nature holds for ever at her eye.

Self-flatter’d, unexperienced, high in hope,180

When young, with sanguine cheer, and streamers gay,

We cut our cable, launch into the world,

And fondly dream each wind and star our friend;

All, in some darling enterprise embark’d:

But where is he can fathom its extent?

Amid a multitude of artless hands,

Ruin’s sure perquisite! her lawful prize!

Some steer aright; but the black blast blows hard,

And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof,

Full against wind and tide, some win their way;190

And when strong effort has deserved the port,

And tugg’d it into view, ’tis won! ’tis lost!

Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate:

They strike; and, while they triumph, they expire.

In stress of weather, most; some sink outright;

O’er them, and o’er their names, the billows close;

To-morrow knows not they were ever born.

Others a short memorial leave behind,

Like a flag floating,[44]when the bark’s engulf’d;

It floats a moment, and is seen no more:200

One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot.

How few, beneath auspicious planets born

(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate’s elect!),

With swelling sails make good the promised port,

With all their wishes freighted! Yet even these,

Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain;

Free from misfortune, not from nature free,

They still are men; and when is man secure?

As fatal time, as storm! the rush of years

Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes210

In ruin end: and, now, their proud success

But plants new terrors on the victor’s brow:

What pain to quit the world, just made their own,

Their nest so deeply down’d, and built so high!

Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

Woe then apart (if woe apart can be

From mortal man), and fortune at our nod,

The gay, rich, great, triumphant, and august!

What are they?—The most happy (strange to say!)

Convince me most of human misery;220

What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow!221

More wretched, then, than e’er their slave can be;

Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need,

Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting:

Then, what provoking indigence in wealth!

What aggravated impotence in power!

High titles, then, what insult of their pain!

If that sole anchor, equal to the waves,

Immortal Hope! defies not the rude storm,

Takes comfort from the foaming billow’s rage,230

And makes a welcome harbour of the tomb.

Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires?

“But here (thou say’st) the miseries of life

Are huddled in a group. A more distinct

Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better news.”

Look on life’s stages: they speak plainer still;

The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh.

Look on thy lovely boy; in him behold

The best that can befall the best on earth;

The boy has virtue by his mother’s side:240

Yes, on Florello look: a father’s heart

Is tender, though the man’s is made of stone;

The truth, through such a medium seen, may make

Impression deep, and fondness prove thy friend.

Florello lately cast on this rude coast

A helpless infant; now a heedless child;

To poor Clarissa’s throes, thy care succeeds;

Care full of love, and yet severe as hate!

O’er thy soul’s joy how oft thy fondness frowns!

Needful austerities his will restrain;250

As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm.

As yet, his reason cannot go alone;

But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on.

His little heart is often terrified;

The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale;255

Its pearly dewdrop trembles in his eye;

His harmless eye! and drowns an angel there.

Ah! what avails his innocence? The task

Enjoin’d must discipline his early powers;

He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin;

Guiltless, and sad! a wretch before the fall!

How cruel this! more cruel to forbear.262

Our nature such, with necessary pains,

We purchase prospects of precarious peace:

Though not a father, this might steal a sigh.

Suppose him disciplined aright (if not,

’Twill sink our poor account to poorer still);

Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty,

He leaps enclosure, bounds into the world!

The world is taken, after ten years’ toil,270

Like ancient Troy; and all its joys his own.

Alas! the world’s a tutor more severe;

Its lessons hard, and ill deserve his pains;

Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught,

Or books (fair Virtue’s advocates!) inspired.

For who receives him into public life?

Men of the world, the terræ-filial breed,

Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere

(Which glitter’d long, at distance, in his sight),

And, in their hospitable arms, enclose:280

Men, who think nought so strong of the romance,

So rank knight-errant, as a real friend:

Men, that act up to Reason’s golden rule,

All weakness of affection quite subdued:

Men, that would blush at being thought sincere,

And feign, for glory, the few faults they want;

That love a lie, where truth would pay as well;

As if to them, Vice shone her own reward.

Lorenzo! canst thou bear a shocking sight?289

Such, for Florello’s sake, ’twill now appear:

See, the steel’d files of season’d veterans,

Train’d to the world, in burnish’d falsehood bright;

Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace;

All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb’d off;

All their keen purpose, in politeness, sheath’d;

His friends eternal—during interest;

His foes implacable—when worth their while;

At war with every welfare, but their own;

As wise as Lucifer; and half as good;

And by whom none, but Lucifer, can gain—300

Naked, through these (so common fate ordains),

Naked of heart, his cruel course he runs,

Stung out of all, most amiable in life,

Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles unfeign’d;

Affection, as his species, wide diffused;

Noble presumptions to mankind’s renown;

Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love.

These claims to joy (if mortals joy might claim)

Will cost him many a sigh; till time, and pains,

From the slow mistress of this school, Experience,310

And her assistant, pausing, pale, Distrust,

Purchase a dear-bought clue to lead his youth

Through serpentine obliquities of life,

And the dark labyrinth of human hearts.

And happy! if the clue shall come so cheap:

For, while we learn to fence with public guilt,

Full oft we feel its foul contagion too,

If less than heavenly virtue is our guard.

Thus, a strange kind of cursed necessity

Brings down the sterling temper of his soul,320

By base alloy, to bear the current stamp,

Below call’d wisdom; sinks him into safety;

And brands him into credit with the world;323

Where specious titles dignify disgrace,

And nature’s injuries are arts of life;

Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes;

And heavenly talents make infernal hearts;

That unsurmountable extreme of guilt!

Poor Machiavel! who labour’d hard his plan,

Forgot, that genius need not go to school;

Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise,

His plan had practised, long before ’twas writ.332

The world’s all title-page; there’s no contents;

The world’s all face; the man who shows his heart,

Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn’d.

A man I knew, who lived upon a smile;

And well it fed him; he look’d plump and fair;

While rankest venom foam’d through every vein.

Lorenzo! what I tell thee, take not ill!

Living, he fawn’d on every fool alive;340

And, dying, cursed the friend on whom he lived.

To such proficients thou art half a saint.

In foreign realms (for thou hast travell’d far)

How curious to contemplate two state-rooks,

Studious their nests to feather in a trice,

With all the necromantics of their art,

Playing the game of faces on each other,

Making court sweetmeats of their latent gall,

In foolish hope, to steal each other’s trust;

Both cheating, both exulting, both deceived;350

And, sometimes, both (let earth rejoice) undone!

Their parts we doubt not; but be that their shame;

Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind,

Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool;

And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve?

For who can thank the man, he cannot see?

Why so much cover? It defeats itself.357

Ye, that know all things! know ye not, men’s hearts

Are therefore known, because they are conceal’d?

For why conceal’d?—The cause they need not tell.

I give him joy, that’s awkward at a lie;

Whose feeble nature Truth keeps still in awe;

His incapacity is his renown.363

’Tis great, ’tis manly, to disdain disguise;

It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength.

Thou say’st, ’tis needful: is it therefore right?

Howe’er, I grant it some small sign of grace,

To strain at an excuse: And would’st thou then

Escape that cruel need? Thou may’st, with ease;

Think no post needful that demands a knave.370

When late our civil helm was shifting hands,

So Pulteney thought: think better, if you can.

But this, how rare! the public path of life

Is dirty;—yet, allow that dirt its due,

It makes the noble mind more noble still:

The world’s no neuter; it will wound, or save;

Or virtue quench, or indignation fire.

You say, the world, well known, will make a man:

The world, well known, will give our hearts to Heaven,

Or make us demons, long before we die.380

To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines,

Take either part, sure ills attend the choice;

Sure, though not equal, detriment ensues.

Not Virtue’s self is deified on earth;

Virtue has her relapses, conflicts, foes;

Foes, that ne’er fail to make her feel their hate.

Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.

True friends to virtue, last, and least, complain;

But if they sigh, can others hope to smile?

If Wisdom has her miseries to mourn,390

How can poor Folly lead a happy life?391

And if both suffer, what has earth to boast,

Where he most happy, who the least laments?

Where much, much patience, the most envied state,

And some forgiveness, needs, the best of friends?

For friend, or happy life, who looks not higher,

Of neither shall he find the shadow here.

The world’s sworn advocate, without a fee,

Lorenzo smartly, with a smile, replies:

“Thus far thy song is right; and all must own,400

Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.—

And joys peculiar who to Vice denies?

If vice it is, with nature to comply:

If Pride, and Sense, are so predominant,

To check, not overcome, them, makes a saint.

Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaim

Pleasure, and glory, the chief good of man?”

Can Pride, and Sensuality, rejoice?

From purity of thought, all pleasure springs;

And, from an humble spirit, all our peace.410

Ambition, pleasure! let us talk of these:

Of these, the Porch, and Academy, talk’d;

Of these, each following age had much to say:

Yet, unexhausted, still, the needful theme.

Who talks of these, to mankind all at once

He talks; for where the saint from either free?

Are these thy refuge?—No: these rush upon thee;

Thy vitals seize, and, vulture-like, devour;

I’ll try, if I can pluck thee from thy rock,

Prometheus! from this barren ball of earth;420

If Reason can unchain thee, thou art free.

And, first, thy Caucasus, Ambition, calls;

Mountain of torments! eminence of woes!

Of courted woes! and courted through mistake!

’Tis not ambition charms thee; ’tis a cheat425

Will make thee start, as H—— at his moor.

Dost grasp at greatness? First, know what it is:

Think’st thou thy greatness in distinction lies?

Not in the feather, wave it e’er so high,

By Fortune stuck, to mark us from the throng,

Is glory lodged: ’tis lodged in the reverse;

In that which joins, in that which equals, all,432

The monarch and his slave;—“A deathless soul,

Unbounded prospect, and immortal kin,

A Father God, and brothers in the skies;”

Elder, indeed, in time; but less remote

In excellence, perhaps, than thought by man;

Why greater what can fall, than what can rise?

If still delirious, now, Lorenzo! go;

And with thy full-blown brothers of the world,440

Throw scorn around thee; cast it on thy slaves;

Thy slaves, and equals: how scorn cast on them

Rebounds on thee! If man is mean, as man,

Art thou a god? If Fortune makes him so,

Beware the consequence: a maxim that,

Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind,

Where, in the drapery, the man is lost;

Externals fluttering, and the soul forgot.

Thy greatest glory, when disposed to boast,

Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share.450

We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy:

Judge we, in their caparisons, of men?

It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art;

All the distinctions of this little life

Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man,

When, through death’s straits, earth’s subtle serpents creep,

Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown.

As crooked Satan the forbidden tree,458

They leave their party-colour’d robe behind,

All that now glitters, while they rear aloft

Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below.

Of fortune’s fucus[45]strip them, yet alive;

Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still,

Away with all, but moral, in their minds;

And let what then remains, impose their name,

Pronounce them weak, or worthy; great, or mean.

How mean that snuff[46]of glory Fortune lights,

And Death puts out! Dost thou demand a test,

A test, at once, infallible, and short,

Of real greatness? That man greatly lives,470

Whate’er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies;

High-flush’d with hope, where heroes shall despair.

If this a true criterion, many courts,

Illustrious, might afford but few grandees.

Th’ Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys

Nought greater, than an honest, humble heart;

An humble heart, His residence! pronounced

His second seat; and rival to the skies.

The private path, the secret acts of men,

If noble, far the noblest of our lives!480

How far above Lorenzo’s glory sits

Th’ illustrious master of a name unknown;

Whose worth unrivall’d, and unwitness’d, loves

Life’s sacred shades, where gods converse with men;

And Peace, beyond the world’s conceptions, smiles!

As thou (now dark), before we part, shalt see.

But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns.

Lorenzo’s sick, but when Lorenzo’s seen;

And, when he shrugs at public business, lies.

Denied the public eye, the public voice,490

As if he lived on others’ breath, he dies.

Fain would he make the world his pedestal;492

Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he.

Knows he, that mankind praise against their will,

And mix as much detraction as they can?

Knows he, that faithless Fame her whisper has,

As well as trumpet? that his vanity

Is so much tickled from not hearing all?

Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise,

Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines,500

Taking his country by five hundred ears,

Senates at once admire him, and despise,

With modest laughter lining loud applause,

Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame?

His fame, which (like the mighty Cæsar), crown’d

With laurels, in full senate, greatly falls,

By seeming friends, that honour, and destroy.

We rise in glory, as we sink in pride:

Where boasting ends, there dignity begins:

And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake,510

The blind Lorenzo’s proud—of being proud;

And dreams himself ascending in his fall.

An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain:

All vice wants hellebore; but of all vice,

Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl;

Because, unlike all other vice, it flies,

In fact, the point, in fancy most pursued.

Who court applause, oblige the world in this;

They gratify man’s passion to refuse.

Superior honour, when assumed, is lost;520

Even good men turn banditti, and rejoice,

Like Kouli-Kan, in plunder of the proud.

Though somewhat disconcerted, steady still

To the world’s cause, with half a face of joy,

Lorenzo cries—“Be, then, Ambition cast;

Ambition’s dearer far stands unimpeach’d,526

Gay Pleasure! proud Ambition is her slave;

For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill;

For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes;

And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile:

Who can resist her charms?—or, should? Lorenzo!

What mortal shall resist, where angels yield?

Pleasure’s the mistress of ethereal powers;533

For her contend the rival gods above;

Pleasure’s the mistress of the world below;

And well it was for man, that Pleasure charms:

How would all stagnate, but for Pleasure’s ray!

How would the frozen stream of action cease!

What is the pulse of this so busy world?

The love of pleasure: that, through every vein,540

Throws motion, warmth; and shuts out death from life.

Though various are the tempers of mankind,

Pleasure’s gay family hold all in chains:

Some most affect the black; and some, the fair;

Some honest pleasure court; and some, obscene.

Pleasures obscene are various, as the throng

Of passions, that can err in human hearts;

Mistake their objects, or transgress their bounds.

Think you there’s but one whoredom? Whoredom, all,

But when our reason licenses delight.550

Dost doubt, Lorenzo? thou shalt doubt no more.

Thy father chides thy gallantries; yet hugs

An ugly, common harlot, in the dark;

A rank adulterer with others’ gold!

And that hag, Vengeance, in a corner, charms.

Hatred her brothel has, as well as Love,

Where horrid epicures debauch in blood.

Whate’er the motive, pleasure is the mark:

For her, the black assassin draws his sword;

For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp,560

To which no single sacrifice may fall;

For her, the saint abstains; the miser starves;

The Stoic proud, for Pleasure, pleasure scorn’d;

For her, Affliction’s daughters grief indulge,

And find, or hope, a luxury in tears;

For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy;

And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death.

Thus universal her despotic power!

And as her empire wide, her praise is just.

Patron of pleasure! doater on delight!570

I am thy rival; pleasure I profess;

Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song.

Pleasure is nought but virtue’s gayer name;

I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low;

Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower;

And honest Epicurus’ foes were fools.

But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence;

If o’erstrain’d wisdom still retains the name.

How knits Austerity her cloudy brow,

And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praise580

Of Pleasure, to mankind, unpraised, too dear!

Ye modern Stoics! hear my soft reply;

Their senses men will trust: we can’t impose;

Or, if we could, is imposition right?

Own honey sweet; but, owning, add this sting;

“When mix’d with poison, it is deadly too.”

Truth never was indebted to a lie.

Is nought but virtue to be praised, as good?

Why then is health preferr’d before disease?

What nature loves is good, without our leave.590

And where no future drawback cries, “Beware!”

Pleasure, though not from virtue, should prevail.

’Tis balm to life, and gratitude to Heaven;

How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy’d!594

The love of pleasure is man’s eldest-born,

Born in his cradle, living to his tomb;

Wisdom, her younger sister, though more grave,

Was meant to minister, and not to mar,

Imperial Pleasure, queen of human hearts.

Lorenzo! thou, her majesty’s renown’d,

Though uncoift, counsel, learned in the world!

Who think’st thyself a Murray,[47]with disdain602

May’st look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes!

Canst thou plead Pleasure’s cause as well as I?

Know’st thou her nature, purpose, parentage?

Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all;

And know thyself; and know thyself to be

(Strange truth!) the most abstemious man alive.

Tell not Calista; she will laugh thee dead;

Or send thee to her hermitage with L——.610

Absurd presumption! Thou who never knew’st

A serious thought! shalt thou dare dream of joy?

No man e’er found a happy life by chance;

Or yawn’d it into being with a wish;

Or, with the snout of grovelling appetite,

E’er smelt it out, and grubb’d it from the dirt.

An art it is, and must be learn’d; and learn’d

With unremitting effort, or be lost;

And leaves us perfect blockheads, in our bliss.

The clouds may drop down titles and estates;620

Wealth may seek us; but Wisdom must be sought;

Sought before all; but (how unlike all else

We seek on earth!) ’tis never sought in vain.

First, Pleasure’s birth, rise, strength, and grandeur, see.

Brought forth by Wisdom, nursed by Discipline,

By Patience taught, by Perseverance crown’d,

She rears her head majestic; round her throne,627

Erected in the bosom of the just,

Each virtue, listed, forms her manly guard.

For what are virtues? (formidable name!)

What, but the fountain, or defence, of joy?

Why, then, commanded? Need mankind commands,

At once to merit, and to make, their bliss?—

Great Legislator! scarce so great, as kind!634

If men are rational, and love delight,

Thy gracious law but flatters human choice;

In the transgression lies the penalty;

And they the most indulge, who most obey.

Of Pleasure, next, the final cause explore;

Its mighty purpose, its important end.640

Not to turn human brutal, but to build

Divine on human, Pleasure came from heaven.

In aid to Reason was the goddess sent;

To call up all its strength by such a charm.

Pleasure, first, succours Virtue; in return,

Virtue gives Pleasure an eternal reign.

What, but the pleasure of food, friendship, faith,

Supports life natural, civil, and divine?

’Tis from the pleasure of repast, we live;

’Tis from the pleasure of applause, we please;650

’Tis from the pleasure of belief, we pray

(All prayer would cease, if unbelieved the prize):

It serves ourselves, our species, and our God;

And to serve more, is past the sphere of man.

Glide, then, for ever, pleasure’s sacred stream!

Through Eden, as Euphrates ran, it runs,

And fosters every growth of happy life;

Makes a new Eden where it flows;—but such

As must be lost, Lorenzo! by thy fall.

“What mean I by thy fall?”—Thou’lt shortly see,

While Pleasure’s nature is at large display’d;661

Already sung her origin, and ends.

Those glorious ends, by kind, or by degree,

When Pleasure violates, ’tis then a vice,

A vengeance too; it hastens into pain.

From due refreshment, life, health, reason, joy;

From wild excess, pain, grief, distraction, death;

Heaven’s justice this proclaims, and that her love.

What greater evil can I wish my foe,

Than his full draught of pleasure, from a cask670

Unbroach’d by just authority, ungauged

By temperance, by reason unrefined?

A thousand demons lurk within the lee.

Heaven, others, and ourselves! uninjured these,

Drink deep; the deeper, then, the more divine;

Angels are angels, from indulgence there;

’Tis unrepenting pleasure makes a god.

Dost think thyself a god from other joys?

A victim rather! shortly sure to bleed.

The wrong must mourn: can Heaven’s appointments fail?

Can man outwit Omnipotence? strike out681

A self-wrought happiness unmeant by Him

Who made us, and the world we would enjoy?

Who forms an instrument, ordains from whence

Its dissonance, or harmony, shall rise.

Heaven bid the soul this mortal frame inspire!

Bid virtue’s ray divine inspire the soul

With unprecarious flows of vital joy;

And, without breathing, man as well might hope

For life, as, without piety, for peace.690

“Is virtue, then, and piety the same?”—

No; piety is more; ’tis virtue’s source;

Mother of every worth, as that of joy.

Men of the world this doctrine ill digest;

They smile at piety; yet boast aloud695

Good will to men; nor know they strive to part

What Nature joins; and thus confute themselves.

With piety begins all good on earth;

’Tis the first-born of rationality.

Conscience, her first law broken, wounded lies;

Enfeebled, lifeless, impotent to good;

A feign’d affection bounds her utmost power.702

Some we can’t love, but for th’ Almighty’s sake;

A foe to God was ne’er true friend to man;

Some sinister intent taints all he does;

And, in his kindest actions, he’s unkind.

On piety, humanity is built;

And, on humanity, much happiness;

And yet still more on piety itself.

A soul in commerce with her God, is heaven;710

Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life;

The whirls of passions, and the strokes of heart.

A Deity believed, is joy begun;

A Deity adored, is joy advanced;

A Deity beloved, is joy matured.

Each branch of piety delight inspires;

Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next,

O’er death’s dark gulf, and all its horror hides;

Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy,

That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still;720

Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream

Of glory on the consecrated hour

Of man, in audience with the Deity.

Who worships the great God, that instant joins

The first in heaven, and sets his foot on hell.

Lorenzo! when wast thou at church before?

Thou think’st the service long: but is it just?

Though just, unwelcome: thou hadst rather tread

Unhallow’d ground; the Muse, to win thine ear,729

Must take an air less solemn. She complies.

Good conscience! at the sound the world retires;

Verse disaffects it, and Lorenzo smiles:

Yet has she her seraglio full of charms;

And such as age shall heighten, not impair.

Art thou dejected? Is thy mind o’ercast?

Amid her fair ones, thou the fairest choose,

To chase thy gloom.—“Go, fix some weighty truth;

Chain down some passion; do some generous good;

Teach ignorance to see, or grief to smile;

Correct thy friend; befriend thy greatest foe;740

Or with warm heart, and confidence divine,

Spring up, and lay strong hold on Him who made thee.”

Thy gloom is scatter’d, sprightly spirits flow;

Though wither’d is thy vine, and harp unstrung.

Dost call the bowl, the viol, and the dance,

Loud mirth, mad laughter? Wretched comforters!

Physicians! more than half of thy disease.

Laughter, though never censured yet as sin

(Pardon a thought that only seems severe),

Is half immoral: Is it much indulged?750

By venting spleen, or dissipating thought,

It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool;

And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves.

’Tis pride, or emptiness, applies the straw,

That tickles little minds to mirth effuse;

Of grief approaching, the portentous sign!

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

A man triumphant is a monstrous sight;

A man dejected is a sight as mean.

What cause for triumph, where such ills abound?760

What for dejection, where presides a Power,

Who call’d us into being to be bless’d?

So grieve, as conscious, grief may rise to joy;763

So joy, as conscious, joy to grief may fall.

Most true, a wise man never will be sad;

But neither will sonorous, bubbling mirth,

A shallow stream of happiness betray:

Too happy to be sportive, he’s serene.

Yet would’st thou laugh (but at thy own expense),

This counsel strange should I presume to give—770

“Retire, and read thy Bible, to be gay.”

There truths abound of sovereign aid to peace;

Ah! do not prize them less, because inspired,

As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do.

If not inspired, that pregnant page had stood,

Time’s treasure, and the wonder of the wise!

Thou think’st, perhaps, thy soul alone at stake;

Alas!—should men mistake thee for a fool;—

What man of taste for genius, wisdom, truth,

Though tender of thy fame, could interpose?780

Believe me, sense here acts a double part,

And the true critic is a Christian too.

But these, thou think’st, are gloomy paths to joy.—

True joy in sunshine ne’er was found at first;

They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please;

And travel only gives us sound repose.

Heaven sells all pleasure; effort is the price;

The joys of conquest, are the joys of man;

And glory the victorious laurel spreads

O’er pleasure’s pure, perpetual, placid stream.790

There is a time, when toil must be preferr’d,

Or joy, by mistimed fondness, is undone.

A man of pleasure, is a man of pains.

Thou wilt not take the trouble to be blest.

False joys, indeed, are born from want of thought;

From thoughts full bent, and energy, the true;

And that demands a mind in equal poise,797

Remote from gloomy grief, and glaring joy.

Much joy not only speaks small happiness,

But happiness that shortly must expire.

Can joy, unbottom’d in reflection, stand?

And, in a tempest, can reflection live?

Can joy, like thine, secure itself an hour?

Can joy, like thine, meet accident unshock’d?804

Or ope the door to honest poverty?

Or talk with threatening death, and not turn pale?

In such a world, and such a nature, these

Are needful fundamentals of delight:

These fundamentals give delight indeed;

Delight, pure, delicate, and durable;810

Delight, unshaken, masculine, divine;

A constant, and a sound, but serious joy.

Is joy the daughter of severity?

It is:—yet far my doctrine from severe.

“Rejoice for ever:” it becomes a man;

Exalts, and sets him nearer to the gods.

“Rejoice for ever!” Nature cries, “Rejoice!”

And drinks to man, in her nectareous cup,

Mix’d up of delicates for every sense;

To the great Founder of the bounteous feast,820

Drinks glory, gratitude, eternal praise;

And he that will not pledge her, is a churl.

Ill firmly to support, good fully taste,

Is the whole science of felicity:

Yet sparing pledge: her bowl is not the best

Mankind can boast.—“A rational repast;

Exertion, vigilance, a mind in arms,

A military discipline of thought,

To foil temptation in the doubtful field;

And ever-waking ardour for the right.”830

’Tis these, first give, then guard, a cheerful heart.831

Nought that is right, think little; well aware,

What reason bids, God bids; by His command

How aggrandized, the smallest thing we do!

Thus, nothing is insipid to the wise;

To thee, insipid all, but what is mad;

Joys season’d high, and tasting strong of guilt.

“Mad! (thou reply’st, with indignation fired);

Of ancient sages proud to tread the steps,

I follow Nature.”—Follow Nature still,840

But look it be thine own: is Conscience, then,

No part of nature? Is she not supreme?

Thou regicide! Oh, raise her from the dead!

Then, follow Nature; and resemble God.

When, spite of Conscience, pleasure is pursued,

Man’s nature is unnaturally pleased:

And what’s unnatural, is painful too

At intervals, and must disgust even thee!

The fact thou know’st; but not, perhaps, the cause.

Virtue’s foundations with the world’s were laid;850

Heaven mix’d her with our make, and twisted close

Her sacred interests with the strings of life.

Who breaks her awful mandate, shocks himself,

His better self: and is it greater pain,

Our soul should murmur, or our dust repine?

And one, in their eternal war, must bleed.

If one must suffer, which should least be spared?

The pains of mind surpass the pains of sense:

Ask, then, the gout, what torment is in guilt.

The joys of sense to mental joys are mean:860

Sense on the present only feeds; the soul

On past, and future, forages for joy.

’Tis hers, by retrospect, through time to range;

And forward time’s great sequel to survey.

Could human courts take vengeance on the mind,865

Axes might rust, and racks and gibbets fall:

Guard, then, thy mind, and leave the rest to fate.

Lorenzo! wilt thou never be a man?

The man is dead, who for the body lives,

Lured, by the beating of his pulse, to list

With every lust, that wars against his peace;

And sets him quite at variance with himself.872

Thyself, first, know; then love: a self there is

Of Virtue fond, that kindles at her charms.

A self there is, as fond of every vice,

While every virtue wounds it to the heart:

Humility degrades it, Justice robs,

Bless’d Bounty beggars it, fair Truth betrays,

And godlike Magnanimity destroys.

This self, when rival to the former, scorn;880

When not in competition, kindly treat,

Defend it, feed it:—but when Virtue bids,

Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames.

And why? ’Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed;

Comply, or own self-love extinct, or blind.

For what is vice? self-love in a mistake:

A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear.

And virtue, what? ’tis self-love in her wits,

Quite skilful in the market of delight.

Self-love’s good sense is love of that dread Power,890

From whom herself, and all she can enjoy.

Other self-love is but disguised self-hate;

More mortal than the malice of our foes;

A self-hate, now, scarce felt; then felt full sore,

When being, cursed; extinction, loud implored;

And every thing preferr’d to what we are.

Yet this self-love Lorenzo makes his choice;

And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy.

How is his want of happiness betray’d,899

By disaffection to the present hour!

Imagination wanders far afield:

The future pleases: why? the present pains.—

“But that’s a secret.” Yes, which all men know;

And know from thee, discover’d unawares.

Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll

From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause;

What is it?—’tis the cradle of the soul,

From Instinct sent, to rock her in disease,

Which her physician, Reason, will not cure.

A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while910

It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.

Such are Lorenzo’s wretched remedies!

The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.

Superior wisdom is superior bliss.

And what sure mark distinguishes the wise?

Consistent wisdom ever wills the same;

Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing.

Sick of herself, is Folly’s character,

As Wisdom’s is, a modest self-applause.

A change of evils is thy good supreme;920

Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest.

Man’s greatest strength is shown in standing still.

The first sure symptom of a mind in health,

Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.

False pleasure from abroad her joys imports;

Rich from within, and self-sustain’d, the true.

The true is fix’d, and solid as a rock;

Slippery the false, and tossing, as the wave.

This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain;

That, like the fabled, self-enamour’d boy,[48]930

Home-contemplation her supreme delight;

She dreads an interruption from without,932

Smit with her own condition; and the more

Intense she gazes, still it charms the more.

No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth

There breathes not a more happy than himself:

Then envy dies, and love o’erflows on all;

And love o’erflowing makes an angel here.

Such angels, all, entitled to repose

On Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns,940

Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven!

To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!

With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,

They stand, collecting every beam of thought,

Till their hearts kindle with divine delight:

For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old

In Israel’s dream, come from, and go to, heaven.

Hence are they studious of sequester’d scenes;

While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee.

Were all men happy, revellings would cease,950

That opiate for inquietude within.

Lorenzo! never man was truly blest,

But it composed, and gave him such a cast,

As folly might mistake for want of joy.

A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud;

A modest aspect, and a smile at heart.

O for a joy from thy Philander’s spring!

A spring perennial, rising in the breast,

And permanent, as pure! no turbid stream

Of rapturous exultation, swelling high;960

Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while,

Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.

What does the man, who transient joy prefers?

What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?

Vain are all sudden sallies of delight;

Convulsions of a weak, distemper’d joy.966

Joy’s a fix’d state; a tenure, not a start.

Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss:

That is the gem: sell all, and purchase that.

Why go a-begging to contingencies,

Not gain’d with ease, nor safely loved, if gain’d?

At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;

Suspect it; what thou canst insure, enjoy;973

And nought but what thou givest thyself, is sure.

Reason perpetuates joy that Reason gives,

And makes it as immortal as herself:

To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.

Worth, conscious worth! should absolutely reign;

And other joys ask leave for their approach;

Nor, unexamined, ever leave obtain.980

Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys

Wage war, and perish in intestine broils;

Not the least promise of internal peace!

No bosom-comfort, or unborrow’d bliss!

Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound,

’Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure;

If gain’d, dear-bought; and better miss’d than gain’d.

Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured.

Fancy, and Sense, from an infected shore,

Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize.990

Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!

By fond indulgence but inflamed the more!),

Fancy still cruises, when poor Sense is tired.

Imagination is the Paphian shop,

Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame,

Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess,

And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires),

With wanton art, those fatal arrows form,

Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.

Would’st thou receive them, other thoughts there are,

On angel-wing, descending from above,1001

Which these, with art divine, would counterwork,

And form celestial armour for thy peace.

In this is seen Imagination’s guilt;

But who can count her follies? She betrays thee,

To think in grandeur there is something great.

For works of curious art, and ancient fame,

Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain’d;

And foreign climes must cater for thy taste.

Hence, what disaster!—Though the price was paid,1010

That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome,

Whose foot (ye gods!) though cloven, must be kiss’d,

Detain’d thy dinner on the Latian shore;

(Such is the fate of honest Protestants!)

And poor Magnificence is starved to death.

Hence just resentment, indignation, ire!—

Be pacified: if outward things are great,

’Tis magnanimity great things to scorn;

Pompous expenses, and parades august,

And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace.1020

True happiness ne’er enter’d at an eye;

True happiness resides in things unseen.

No smiles of Fortune ever bless’d the bad,

Nor can her frowns rob Innocence of joys;

That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor:

So tell his Holiness, and be revenged.

Pleasure, we both agree, is man’s chief good;

Our only contest, what deserves the name.

Give Pleasure’s name to nought, but what has pass’d

Th’ authentic seal of Reason (which like Yorke,[49]1030

Demurs on what it passes), and defies

The tooth of time; when past, a pleasure still;

Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age,1033

And doubly to be prized, as it promotes

Our future, while it forms our present, joy.

Some joys the future overcast; and some

Throw all their beams that way, and gild the tomb.

Some joys endear eternity; some give

Abhorr’d annihilation dreadful charms.

Are rival joys contending for thy choice?1040

Consult thy whole existence, and be safe;

That oracle will put all doubt to flight.

Short is the lesson, though my lecture long;

Be good—and let Heaven answer for the rest.

Yet, with a sigh o’er all mankind, I grant

In this our day of proof, our land of hope,

The good man has his clouds that intervene;

Clouds, that obscure his sublunary day,

But never conquer: even the best must own,

Patience, and resignation, are the pillars1050

Of human peace on earth. The pillars, these:

But those of Seth not more remote from thee,

Till this heroic lesson thou hast learn’d;

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

Fired at the prospect of unclouded bliss,

Heaven in reversion, like the sun, as yet

Beneath th’ horizon, cheers us in this world;

It sheds, on souls susceptible of light,

The glorious dawn of our eternal day.

“This (says Lorenzo) is a fair harangue:1060

But can harangues blow back strong nature’s stream;

Or stem the tide Heaven pushes through our veins,

Which sweeps away man’s impotent resolves,

And lays his labour level with the world?”

Themselves men make their comment on mankind;

And think nought is, but what they find at home:

Thus, weakness to chimera turns the truth.1067

Nothing romantic has the Muse prescribed.

Above,[50]Lorenzo saw the man of earth,

The mortal man; and wretched was the sight.

To balance that, to comfort, and exalt,

Now see the man immortal: him, I mean,

Who lives as such; whose heart, full bent on heaven,

Leans all that way, his bias to the stars.

The world’s dark shades, in contrast set, shall raise

His lustre more; though bright, without a foil:

Observe his awful portrait, and admire;

Nor stop at wonder; imitate, and live.

Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw,

What nothing less than angel can exceed!1080

A man on earth devoted to the skies;

Like ships in sea, while in, above the world.

With aspect mild, and elevated eye,

Behold him seated on a mount serene,

Above the fogs of sense, and passion’s storm;

All the black cares, and tumults, of this life,

Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet,

Excite his pity, not impair his peace.

Earth’s genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave,

A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he sees,1090

Bewilder’d in the vale; in all unlike!

His full reverse in all! What higher praise?

What stronger demonstration of the right?

The present all their care; the future, his.

When public welfare calls, or private want,

They give to fame; his bounty he conceals.

Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt.

Mankind’s esteem they court; and he, his own.

Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities;

His, the composed possession of the true.1100

Alike throughout is his consistent peace,

All of one colour, and an even thread;

While party-colour’d shreds of happiness,

With hideous gaps between, patch up for them

A madman’s robe; each puff of Fortune blows

The tatters by, and shows their nakedness.

He sees with other eyes than theirs: where they

Behold a sun, he spies a Deity;

What makes them only smile, makes him adore.

Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees;1110

An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain.

They things terrestrial worship, as divine:

His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust,

That dims his sight, and shortens his survey,

Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound.

Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)

He lays aside to find his dignity;

No dignity they find in aught besides.

They triumph in externals (which conceal

Man’s real glory), proud of an eclipse.1120

Himself too much he prizes to be proud,

And nothing thinks so great in man, as man.

Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect

Another’s welfare, or his right invade;

Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey.

They kindle at the shadow of a wrong:

Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven,

Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe;

Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.

A cover’d heart their character defends;1130

A cover’d heart denies him half his praise.

With nakedness his innocence agrees;

While their broad foliage testifies their fall:

Their no joys end, where his full feast begins;1134

His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.

To triumph in existence, his alone;

And his alone, triumphantly to think

His true existence is not yet begun.

His glorious course was, yesterday, complete;

Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet.

But nothing charms Lorenzo, like the firm,

Undaunted breast—and whose is that high praise?1142

They yield to pleasure, though they danger brave,

And show no fortitude, but in the field;

If there they show it, ’tis for glory shown;

Nor will that cordial always man their hearts.

A cordial his sustains, that cannot fail;

By pleasure unsubdued, unbroke by pain,

He shares in that Omnipotence he trusts.

All-bearing, all-attempting, till he falls;1150

And when he falls, writes VICI on his shield.

From magnanimity, all fear above;

From nobler recompence, above applause;

Which owes to man’s short outlook all its charms.

Backward to credit what he never felt,

Lorenzo cries,—“Where shines this miracle?

From what root rises this immortal man?”

A root that grows not in Lorenzo’s ground;

The root dissect, nor wonder at the flower.

He follows nature (not like thee) and shows us1160

An uninverted system of a man.

His appetite wears Reason’s golden chain,

And finds, in due restraint, its luxury.

His passion, like an eagle well reclaim’d,

Is taught to fly at nought, but infinite.

Patient his hope, unanxious is his care,

His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief

The gods ordain) a stranger to despair.1168

And why?—because affection, more than meet,

His wisdom leaves not disengaged from heaven.

Those secondary goods that smile on earth,

He, loving in proportion, loves in peace.

They most the world enjoy, who least admire.

His understanding ’scapes the common cloud

Of fumes, arising from a boiling breast.

His head is clear, because his heart is cool,

By worldly competitions uninflamed.

The moderate movements of his soul admit

Distinct ideas, and matured debate,

An eye impartial, and an even scale;1180

Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice.

Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise;

On its own dunghill, wiser than the world.

What, then, the world? It must be doubly weak;

Strange truth! as soon would they believe their creed.

Yet thus it is; nor otherwise can be;

So far from aught romantic, what I sing.

Bliss has no being, virtue has no strength,

But from the prospect of immortal life.

Who think earth all, or (what weighs just the same)1190

Who care no farther, must prize what it yields;

Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.

Who thinks earth nothing, can’t its charms admire;

He can’t a foe, though most malignant, hate,

Because that hate would prove his greater foe.

’Tis hard for them (yet who so loudly boast

Good-will to men?) to love their dearest friend;

For may not he invade their good supreme,

Where the least jealousy turns love to gall?

All shines to them, that for a season shines.1200

Each act, each thought, he questions, “What its weight,

Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?”—1202

And what it there appears, he deems it now.

Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul.

The godlike man has nothing to conceal.

His virtue, constitutionally deep,

Has habit’s firmness, and affection’s flame;

Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire;

And Death, which others slays, makes him a god.

And now, Lorenzo! bigot of this world!1210

Wont to disdain poor bigots caught by Heaven!

Stand by thy scorn, and be reduced to nought:

For what art thou?—Thou boaster! while thy glare,

Thy gaudy grandeur, and mere worldly worth,

Like a broad mist, at distance, strikes us most;

And, like a mist, is nothing when at hand;

His merit, like a mountain, on approach,

Swells more, and rises nearer to the skies,

By promise now, and, by possession, soon,

(Too soon, too much, it cannot be) his own.1220

From this thy just annihilation rise,

Lorenzo! rise to something, by reply.

The world, thy client, listens, and expects;

And longs to crown thee with immortal praise.

Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine;

And Wit talks most, when least she has to say,

And Reason interrupts not her career.

She’ll say—that mists above the mountains rise;

And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse;

She’ll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust,1230

And fly conviction, in the dust she raised.

Wit, how delicious to man’s dainty taste!

’Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense;

But, as its substitute, a dire disease.

Pernicious talent! flatter’d by the world,

By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.1236

Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds;

Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires

The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.

Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs,

Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.

For thy renown, ’twere well was this the worst;

Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,1243

See Dulness, blundering on vivacities,

Shakes her sage head at the calamity,

Which has exposed, and let her down to thee.

But Wisdom, awful Wisdom! which inspects,

Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers,

Seizes the right, and holds it to the last;

How rare! In senates, synods, sought in vain;1250

Or if there found, ’tis sacred to the few;

While a lewd prostitute to multitudes,

Frequent, as fatal, Wit: in civil life,

Wit makes an enterpriser; Sense, a man.

Wit hates authority; commotion loves,

And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.

In states, ’tis dangerous; in religion, death:

Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe?

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;

The plume exposes, ’tis our helmet saves.1260

Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;

When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;

Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Wit, widow’d of good sense, is worse than nought;

It hoists more sail to run against a rock.

Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool;

Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit.

How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun,

Where syrens sit, to sing thee to thy fate!

A joy, in which our reason bears no part,1270

Is but a sorrow, tickling, ere it stings.

Let not the cooings of the world allure thee;

Which of her lovers ever found her true?

Happy! of this bad world who little know?—

And yet, we much must know her, to be safe;

To know the world, not love her, is thy point;

She gives but little, nor that little, long.

There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse;

A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy,

Our thoughtless agitation’s idle child,1280

That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires,

Leaving the soul more vapid than before.

An animal ovation! such as holds

No commerce with our reason, but subsists

On juices, through the well-toned tubes, well strain’d;

A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright;

And when it jars—thy syrens sing no more,

Thy dance is done; the demi-god is thrown

(Short apotheosis!) beneath the man,

In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair.1290

Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread,

And startle at destruction? If thou art,

Accept a buckler, take it to the field;

(A field of battle is this mortal life!)

When danger threatens, lay it on thy heart;

A single sentence, proof against the world:

“Soul, body, fortune!—every good pertains

To one of these; but prize not all alike;

The goods of fortune to thy body’s health,

Body to soul, and soul submit to God.”1300

Would’st thou build lasting happiness? do this;

Th’ inverted pyramid can never stand.

Is this truth doubtful? It outshines the sun;

Nay, the sun shines not, but to show us this,1304

The single lesson of mankind on earth.

And yet—yet, what? No news! Mankind is mad;

Such mighty numbers list against the right,

(And what can’t numbers, when bewitch’d, achieve!)

They talk themselves to something like belief,

That all earth’s joys are theirs: as Athens’ fool

Grinn’d from the port, on every sail his own.

They grin; but wherefore? and how long the laugh?

Half ignorance, their mirth; and half, a lie;1313

To cheat the world, and cheat themselves, they smile.

Hard either task! The most abandon’d own,

That others, if abandon’d, are undone:

Then, for themselves, the moment Reason wakes

(And Providence denies it long repose),

O how laborious is their gaiety!

They scarce can swallow their ebullient spleen,1320

Scarce muster patience to support the farce,

And pump sad laughter till the curtain falls.

Scarce, did I say? Some cannot sit it out;

Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw,

And show us what their joy, by their despair.

The clotted hair! gored breast! blaspheming eye!

Its impious fury still alive in death!

Shut, shut the shocking scene.—But Heaven denies

A cover to such guilt; and so should man.

Look round, Lorenzo! see the reeking blade,1330

Th’ envenom’d phial, and the fatal ball;

The strangling cord, and suffocating stream;

The loathsome rottenness, and foul decays

From raging riot (slower suicides!)

And pride in these, more execrable still!

How horrid all to thought!—but horrors, these,

That vouch the truth; and aid my feeble song.

From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be blest:1338

Bliss is too great, to lodge within an hour:

When an immortal being aims at bliss,

Duration is essential to the name.

O for a joy from reason! joy from that,

Which makes man Man; and, exercised aright,

Will make him more: a bounteous joy! that gives

And promises; that weaves, with art divine,

The richest prospect into present peace:

A joy ambitious! joy in common held

With thrones ethereal, and their greater far;

A joy high privileged from chance, time, death!

A joy, which death shall double, judgment crown!1350

Crown’d higher, and still higher, at each stage,

Through bless’d eternity’s long day; yet still,

Not more remote from sorrow, than from Him,

Whose lavish hand, whose love stupendous, pours

So much of Deity on guilty dust.

There, O my Lucia! may I meet thee there,

Where not thy presence can improve my bliss!

Affects not this the sages of the world?

Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?

Eternity, depending on an hour,1360

Makes serious thought man’s wisdom, joy, and praise,

Nor need you blush (though sometimes your designs

May shun the light) at your designs on heaven:

Sole point! where over-bashful is your blame.

Are you not wise?—You know you are: yet hear

One truth, amid your numerous schemes, mislaid,

Or overlook’d, or thrown aside, if seen;

“Our schemes to plan by this world, or the next,

Is the sole difference between wise and fool.”

All worthy men will weigh you in this scale;1370

What wonder then, if they pronounce you light?1371

Is their esteem alone not worth your care?

Accept my simple scheme of common sense:

Thus, save your fame, and make two worlds your own.

The world replies not;—but the world persists;

And puts the cause off to the longest day,

Planning evasions for the day of doom.

So far, at that re-hearing, from redress,

They then turn witnesses against themselves;

Hear that, Lorenzo! nor be wise to-morrow.1380

Haste, haste! a man, by nature, is in haste;

For who shall answer for another hour?

’Tis highly prudent, to make one sure friend;

And that thou canst not do, this side the skies.

Ye sons of earth! (nor willing to be more!)

Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free,

Thus, in an age so gay, the Muse plain truths

(Truths, which, at church, you might have heard in prose)

Has ventured into light; well pleased the verse

Should be forgot, if you the truths retain;1390

And crown her with your welfare, not your praise.

But praise she need not fear: I see my fate;

And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf.

Since many an ample volume, mighty tome,

Must die; and die unwept; O thou minute

Devoted page! go forth among thy foes;

Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth,

And die a double death: mankind incensed,

Denies thee long to live: nor shalt thou rest,

When thou art dead; in Stygian shades arraign’d1400

By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne;

And bold blasphemer of his friend,—the World;

The World, whose legions cost him slender pay,

And volunteers around his banner swarm;1404

Prudent, as Prussia,[51]in her zeal for Gaul.

“Are all, then, fools?” Lorenzo cries.—Yes, all,

But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee);

“The mother of true wisdom is the will;”

The noblest intellect, a fool without it.

World-wisdom much has done, and more may do,1410

In arts and sciences, in wars, and peace:

But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee,

And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.

This is the most indulgence can afford;—

“Thy wisdom all can do, but—make thee wise.”

Nor think this censure is severe on thee;

Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce.1417

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