She dreads an interruption from without,
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,
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 sequest'red scenes;
While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee.
Were all men happy, revellings would cease,
That opiate for inquietude within.
Lorenzo! never man was truly blest,
But it compos'd, 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 rapt'rous exultation, swelling high;
Which like land-floods, impetuous pour awhile,
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.
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 contingences,
Not gain'd with ease, nor safely lov'd, if gain'd?
At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Suspect it; what thou canst ensure, enjoy;
And nought but what thou giv'st 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 unexamin'd, ever leave obtain.
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 plea-
If gain'd dear-bought; and better miss'd than gain'd,
Much pain must expiate, what much pain procur'd.
Fancy, and sense, from an infected shore,
Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize.
Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!
By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more!)
Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir❜d.
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. Wouldst thou receive them, other thoughts there are, On angel-wing descending from above,
Which these, with art divine, would counter-work, And form celestial armor for thy peace.
In this is seen imaginations 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,
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 starv'd to death.
Hence just resentment, indignation, ire !—
Be pacify'd; if outward things are great,
'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn;
Pompous expences, and parades august,
And courts; that insalubrious soil to peace.
True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye;
True happiness resides in things unseen.
No smiles of fortune ever blest the bad,
Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys;
That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor
So tell his Holiness,* and be reveng'd.
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.
The authentic seal of reason (which, like Yorke,
Demurs on what it passes,) and defies.
The tooth of time; when past, a pleasure still;
Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age,
And doubly to be priz'd, 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?
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: ev'n the best must own,
Patience, and resignation, are the pillars
Of human peace on earth. The pillars, these:
But those of Seth not more remote from thee,
Till this heroic lesson thou hast learnt;
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.
Fir'd at the prospect of unclouded bliss, Heaven, in reversion, like the sun, as yet Beneath the 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: "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 labor 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. Nothing romantic has the muse prescrib❜d. *Above, 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,
A man on earth devoted to the skies:
Like ships at 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 scepter'd and the slave,
A mingled mob! a wand'ring herd! he sees,
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 compos'd possession of the true.
Alike throughout is his consistent piece,
All of one color, and an even thread;
While party-color'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 shews 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;
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 honors (if they prove his fate)
He lays aside to find his dignity;
No dignity they find in ought besides.
They triumph, in externals (which conceal
Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse.
Himself too much he prizes to be proud,
And nothing thinks so great in man, as man.
Too dear he holds his int'rest, to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade;
Their int'rest, like a lion, lives on prey.
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong;
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n,
Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe;
Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.
A cover'd heart their character defends;
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:
His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.
To triumph in existence, his alone;
|