Till their hearts kindle with divine delight; 945
For all their thoughts, like angels, feen of old
In Ifrael's dream, come from, and go to, heaven:
Hence, are they ftudious of fequefter'd scenes ;
While noise, and diffipation, comfort thee.
Were all men happy, revelings 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 caft, unlike the triumph of the proud;
A modeft afpect, and a fmile at heart.
O for a joy from thy Philander's spring!
A fpring perennial, rifing in the breast,
And permanent, as pure! no turbid ftream
Of rapturous exultation, fwelling high;
Which, like land-floods, impetuous pour a while,
Then fink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man, who tranfient joy prefers ?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?
Vain are all fudden fallies of delight;
Convulfions of a weak, distemper'd joy.
Joy's a fixt ftate; a tenure, not a start.
Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss :
That is the gem: fell All, and purchase That.
Why go a-begging to contingencies,
Not gain'd with cafe, nor fafely lov'd, if gain'd?
At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Sufpect it; what thou canft enfure, enjoy;
And nought but what thou giv'ft thy felf, is fure.
Reafon perpetuates joy that reafon gives,
And makes it as immortal as herself:
To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.
Worth, confcious worth! should absolutely reign;
And other joys afk leave for their approach;
Nor, unexamin'd, ever leave obtain.
Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys
Wage war, and perish in inteftine broils;
Not the leaft promise of internal peace!
No bofom-comfort! or unborrow'd blifs!
Thy thoughts are vagabonds; All outward-bound, 985
'Mid fands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure;
If gain'd, dear-bought; and better mifs'd than gain'd.
Much pain must expiate what much pain procur'd.
Fancy, and fenfe, from an infected shore,
Thy cargo bring; and peftilence the prize.
Then, fuch thy thirst (insatiable thirst!
By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more!)
Fancy ftill cruifes, when poor fense is tir'd.
Imagination is the Paphian fhop,
Where feeble happinefs, like Vulcan, lame,
Bids foul ideas, in their dark recefs,
And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires),
With wanton art, thofe fatal arrows form,
Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.
Wouldst thou receive them, other thoughts there are, 1000
On angel-wing, defcending from above,
Which thefe, with art divine, would counter-work,
And form celeftial armour for thy peace.
In this is feen imagination's guilt;
But who can count her follies? She betrays thee, 1005
To think in grandeur there is fomething great.
For works of curious art, and antient fame,
Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd;
And foreign climes muft cater for thy taste.
Hence, what difafter!-Though the price was paid, 1010
That perfecuting prieft, the Turk of Rome,
Whofe foot (ye gods!) though cloven, must be kiss'd,
Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian fhore;
(Such is the fate of honeft Proteftants!)
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 fcorn;
Pompous expences, and parades august,
And courts, that infalubrious foil to peace.
True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye;
True happiness refides in things unseen.
No fmiles of fortune ever bleft 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 conteft, what deferves the name.
Give pleasure's name to nought, but what has pass'd 'Th' authentic feal of reafon (which, like Yorke, 1030 Demurrs on what it paffes), and defies
The tooth of time; when paft, 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 overcaft; and fome
Throw all their beams that way, and gild the tomb.
Some joys endear eternity; fome give
Abhorr'd annihilation dreadful charms.
Are rival joys contending for thy choice?
Confult thy whole exiftence, and be safe ;
That oracle will put all doubt to flight.
Short is the leffon, though my lecture long,
Be good-and let heaven answer for the reft.
Yet, with a figh 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 obfcure his fublunary day,
But never conquer: ev'n the best must own,
Patience, and refignation, are the pillars
Of human peace on earth. The pillars, These :
But thofe of Seth not more remote from Thee,
Till this heroic leflon thou haft learnt;
To frown at pleafure, and to fmile in pain.
Fir'd at the profpect of unclouded blifs,
Heaven in reverfion, like the fun, as yet
Beneath th' horizon, chears us in this world;
It fheds, on fouls fufceptible of light,
The glorious dawn of our eternal day.
"This (fays Lorenzo) is a fair harangue : "But can harangues blow back strong nature's stream; "Or ftem the tide heaven pushes through our veins, "Which sweeps away man's impotent refolves,
And lays his labour level with the world?"
Themfelves men make their comment on mankind;
And think nought is, but what they find at home:
Thus, weakness to chimæra turns the truth.
Nothing romantic has the Mufe prescrib'd.
* Above, Lorenzo faw the man of earth,
The mortal man; and wretched was the fight.
To balance that, to comfort, and exalt,
Now fee the man immortal: him, I mean,
Who lives as fuch; whofe heart, full-bent on heaven,
Leans all that way, his bias to the stars.
The world's dark fhades, in contraft fet, fhall raise 1075
His luftre more; though bright, without a foil:
Obferve his aweful portrait, and admire ;
Nor ftop 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 fhips in feas, while in, above the world.
With aspect mild, and elevated eye,
Behold him feated on a mount ferene,
Above the fogs of fenfe, and passion's ftorm;
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 fons, the fceptred, and the slave,
A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he fees,
Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike !
His full reverfe in all! what higher praise?
|