The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell Oxford edition: Edited, with notes by J. Logie Robertson |
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| I. | PART I |
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 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell |  |
I. PART I
While Nature's gifts appear a jarring strife
And evil balances the good in life,
While varied scenes in man's estate disclose
Delusive pleasure mixed with surer woes,
Bewildered reason in the dubious maze
Of human lot a feeble wanderer strays,
Sees destined ills on virtue vent their force,
Dash all her bliss, and wonders whence the source.
And evil balances the good in life,
While varied scenes in man's estate disclose
Delusive pleasure mixed with surer woes,
Bewildered reason in the dubious maze
Of human lot a feeble wanderer strays,
Sees destined ills on virtue vent their force,
Dash all her bliss, and wonders whence the source.
Sure, Heaven is good; no farther proof we need—
In nature's page the doubtless text we read.
Lo! at thy feet earth's verdant carpet spread;
Heaven's azure vault o'ercanopies thy head;
For thee the varied seasons grace the plain,
The vernal floweret and the golden grain;
For thee all-wise Beneficence on high
Bade day's bright monarch lighten in the sky,
And night's pale chariot o'er the vault of blue
With silver wheels its silent path pursue.
In nature's page the doubtless text we read.
Lo! at thy feet earth's verdant carpet spread;
Heaven's azure vault o'ercanopies thy head;
For thee the varied seasons grace the plain,
The vernal floweret and the golden grain;
For thee all-wise Beneficence on high
Bade day's bright monarch lighten in the sky,
And night's pale chariot o'er the vault of blue
With silver wheels its silent path pursue.
362
Yes, Heaven is good, the source of ample bliss:
In spite of ills, creation teaches this.
The simple, yet important, truth to spy
We need no Plato's soul, no sage's eye;
A native faith each distant clime pervades,
And sentiment the voice of reason aids.
The shuddering tenant of the Arctic Pole
Adores revolving suns that round him roll;
No sceptic bosom doubts the hand of heaven;
And, though misplaced, still adoration's given.
Search distant climates at the thirsty line—
There still devotion thanks a power divine;
Still, though no Science treads on Libyan plains,
The inborn gratitude to God remains;
And shall the Soul, by Science taught to view
Truth more refined, call inborn faith untrue?
No; should misfortune cloud thy latest days
Still view this truth through life's perplexing maze;
While Nature teaches—let not doubt intrude,
But own with gratitude that God is good.
In spite of ills, creation teaches this.
The simple, yet important, truth to spy
We need no Plato's soul, no sage's eye;
A native faith each distant clime pervades,
And sentiment the voice of reason aids.
The shuddering tenant of the Arctic Pole
Adores revolving suns that round him roll;
No sceptic bosom doubts the hand of heaven;
And, though misplaced, still adoration's given.
Search distant climates at the thirsty line—
There still devotion thanks a power divine;
Still, though no Science treads on Libyan plains,
The inborn gratitude to God remains;
And shall the Soul, by Science taught to view
Truth more refined, call inborn faith untrue?
No; should misfortune cloud thy latest days
Still view this truth through life's perplexing maze;
While Nature teaches—let not doubt intrude,
But own with gratitude that God is good.
Yet whence, methinks, repining mortal cries,
If Heaven be good, can human ill arise?
Man's feeble race what countless ills await!
Ills self-created, ills ordained by fate!
While yet warm youth the breast with passion fires
Hope whispers joy, and promised bliss inspires,—
In dazzling colours future life arrays,
And many a fond ideal scene displays.
The sanguine zealot promised good pursues,
Nor finds that wish but still the chase renews:
Still lured by hope he wheels the giddy round
And grasps a phantom never to be found.
Too soon the partial bliss of youth is flown,
Nor future bliss nor hope itself is known;
No more ideal prospects charm the breast,
Life stands in dread reality confessed—
A mingled scene of aggravated woes
Where pride and passion every curse disclose!
If Heaven be good, can human ill arise?
Man's feeble race what countless ills await!
Ills self-created, ills ordained by fate!
While yet warm youth the breast with passion fires
Hope whispers joy, and promised bliss inspires,—
In dazzling colours future life arrays,
And many a fond ideal scene displays.
The sanguine zealot promised good pursues,
Nor finds that wish but still the chase renews:
Still lured by hope he wheels the giddy round
And grasps a phantom never to be found.
Too soon the partial bliss of youth is flown,
Nor future bliss nor hope itself is known;
363
Life stands in dread reality confessed—
A mingled scene of aggravated woes
Where pride and passion every curse disclose!
Cease, erring man! nor arrogant presume
To blame thy lot or Heaven's unerring doom!
He who thy being gave, in skill divine
Saw what was best, and bade that best be thine.
But count thy wants, and all thine evils name—
Still He that bade them be is free from blame.
Tell all the imperfections of thy state—
The wrongs of man to man—the wrongs of fate:
Still reason's voice shall justify them all,
And bid complaint to resignation fall.
To blame thy lot or Heaven's unerring doom!
He who thy being gave, in skill divine
Saw what was best, and bade that best be thine.
But count thy wants, and all thine evils name—
Still He that bade them be is free from blame.
Tell all the imperfections of thy state—
The wrongs of man to man—the wrongs of fate:
Still reason's voice shall justify them all,
And bid complaint to resignation fall.
If Heaven be blamed that imperfection's thine,
As just to blame that man is not divine.
Of all the tribes that fill this earthly scheme
Thy sphere is highest, and thy gifts supreme.
Of mental gifts, intelligence is given;
Conscience is thine, to point the will of Heaven;
The spur of action, passions are assigned;
And fancy—parent of the soul refined.
'Tis true thy reason's progress is but slow,
And passion, if misguided, tends to woe;
'Tis true thy gifts are finite in extent—
What then? can nought that's finite give content?
Leave then, proud man, this scene of earthly chance;
Aspire to spheres supreme, and be a god at once!
As just to blame that man is not divine.
Of all the tribes that fill this earthly scheme
Thy sphere is highest, and thy gifts supreme.
Of mental gifts, intelligence is given;
Conscience is thine, to point the will of Heaven;
The spur of action, passions are assigned;
And fancy—parent of the soul refined.
'Tis true thy reason's progress is but slow,
And passion, if misguided, tends to woe;
'Tis true thy gifts are finite in extent—
What then? can nought that's finite give content?
Leave then, proud man, this scene of earthly chance;
Aspire to spheres supreme, and be a god at once!
No! you reply; superior powers I claim,
Though not perfection or a sphere supreme;
In reason more exalted let me shine;
The lion's strength, the fox's art be mine,
The bull's firm chest, the steed's superior grace,
The stag's transcendent swiftness in the chase.
Say, why were these denied if Heaven be kind
And full content to human lot assigned?
Though not perfection or a sphere supreme;
In reason more exalted let me shine;
The lion's strength, the fox's art be mine,
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The stag's transcendent swiftness in the chase.
Say, why were these denied if Heaven be kind
And full content to human lot assigned?
The reason's simple: in the breast of man
To soar still upward dwells the eternal plan,—
A wish innate, and kindly placed by Heaven,
That man may rise through means already given.
Aspiring thus to mend the ills of fate,
To find new bliss and cure the human state,
In varied souls its varied shapes appear:
Here fans desire of wealth; of honour there;
Here urges Newton nature to explore,
And promises delight by knowing more;
And there in Caesar lightens up the flame
To mount the pinnacle of human fame.
In spite of fate it fires the active mind,
Keeps man alive, and serves the use assigned;
Without it none would urge a favourite bent,
And man were useless but for discontent!
To soar still upward dwells the eternal plan,—
A wish innate, and kindly placed by Heaven,
That man may rise through means already given.
Aspiring thus to mend the ills of fate,
To find new bliss and cure the human state,
In varied souls its varied shapes appear:
Here fans desire of wealth; of honour there;
Here urges Newton nature to explore,
And promises delight by knowing more;
And there in Caesar lightens up the flame
To mount the pinnacle of human fame.
In spite of fate it fires the active mind,
Keeps man alive, and serves the use assigned;
Without it none would urge a favourite bent,
And man were useless but for discontent!
Seek not perfection, then, of higher kind,
Since man is perfect in the state assigned;
Nor, perfect as probation can allow,
Accuse thy lot although imperfect now.
Since man is perfect in the state assigned;
Nor, perfect as probation can allow,
Accuse thy lot although imperfect now.
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell | |