These days! where e'en th' extravagance of poetry Is at a loss for figures to express Men's folly, whimsies, and inconstancy, And by a faint description makes them less. Then tell us what is Fame, where shall we search for it? Look where exalted Virtue and Religion sit, Look where you see The greatest scorn of learned vanity! (And then how much a nothing is mankind! Whose reason is weighed down by popular air, Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; And hopes to lengthen life by a transfusion of breath, Which yet whoe'er examines right will find To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind!) And when you find out these, believe true Fame is there, Far above all reward, yet to which all is due: And this, ye great unknown! is only known in you. VIII. The juggling sea-god, when by chance trepann'd By some instructed querist sleeping on the sand, Impatient of all answers, straight became A stealing brook, and strove to creep away Vext at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; This surly slippery God, when he design'd To furnish his escapes, Ne'er borrow'd more variety of shapes Than you to please and satisfy mankind, And seem (almost) transform'd to water, flame, and air, So well you answer all phenomena there: Though madmen and the wits, philosophers, and fools, With all that factious or enthusiastic dotards dream, And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, and shame. Contrive to shock your minds with many a senseless doubt; Doubts where the Delphic God would grope in ignorance and night, The God of learning and of light IX. Philosophy, as it before us lies, Seems to have borrow'd some ungrateful taste From every age through which it pass'd, For man to dress and polish his uncourtly mind, In what mock habits have they put her since the fall! More oft in fools and madmen's hands than sages, With a huge farthingale to swell her fustian stuff, Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, How soon have you restor'd her charms, And rid her of her lumber and her books, And rather tight than great! How fond we are to court her to our arms? X. 1 Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, And changes all to beauty and the praise And Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! Rather forgive what my first transport said: May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, Lie upon you and on your children's head! For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see The fatal time when that could be!) Have ev'n increas'd their pride and cruelty. Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late` You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, And which they've now the consciences to weigh In the same balance with our tears, And with such scanty wages pay The bondage and the slavery of years. Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; And had they common generosity, They would not use thus. Well-though you've rais'd her to this high degree, Ourselves are rais'd as well as she; And, spite of all that they or you can do, 'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, Still to be of the same exalted sex with you. XI. Alas, how fleeting and how vain, Is ev'n the nobler man, our learning and our wit! I sigh whene'er I think of it: As at the closing of an unhappy scene Of some great king and conqueror's death, When the sad melancholy Muse Stays but to catch his utmost breath. I grieve, this nobler work most happily begun Which still the sooner it arrives, Although we boast our winter sun looks bright, And foolishly are glad to see it at its height, Yet so much sooner comes the long and gloomy night. No conquest ever yet begun, And by one mighty hero carried to its height, It lost some mighty pieces through all hands it past, Nor e'er call back again) The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. XII. And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare With what unhappy men shall dare To be successors to these great unknown, On Learning's high establish'd throne. Censure, and Pedantry, and Pride, Numberless nations, stretching far and wide, Shall (I foresee it) soon with Gothic swarms come forth From Ignorance's universal North, And with blind rage break all this peaceful govern ment: Yet shall these traces of your wit remain, Like a just map, to tell the vast extent Of conquest in your short and happy reign: How strange a paradox is true, That men who liv'd and died without a name. Are the chief heroes in the sacred list of fame. |