Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

No State of Life's from Troubles free,
Grief mixes with our vital Breath:
As soon as we begin to be,
From the first moment of our Birth,
We have some tast of Misery:
With Sighs and Tears our Fate we mourn,
As if our Infant Reason did presage
Th' approaching Ills of our maturer Age,
And wish'd a quick Return.
When Souls are first to their close Rooms confin'd,
Nothing of their Celestial Make is seen,
Obscuring Earth does interpose between:
Like Tapers hid in Urns they shine.
The Life of Sense and Growth we only see,
Which Beasts enjoy as well as we:
But th' active Mind
Which bears the Image of the Pow'r Divine,
Cannot exert its Energy:
The streiten'd Intellect immur'd does lie,
Shut up within a narrow place,
Till Nature does enlarge the Space,
And by degrees the Organs fit,
For those great Operations which are wrought by it.

2.

Thus for some Years we live by Sense,
Happy in nothing but in Innocence:
But when our feebler Age is past,
And we to sprightly Youth arrive,
The Race of Life we run so fast,
As if we thought our Strength would always last:
Hurry'd by Passion, and by Fancy led,
We all the various Paths of Folly tread:
Reason we slight, and her Commands despise,
In vain she calls, in vain advise,
And ev'ry gentle Method tries:
Against her kind Endeavours still we strive,
And run where ever Head-strong Passions drive:
Those Ills we court, which we as Plagues shou'd shun,
And are by ev'ry false Appearance won:
But wiser Thoughts when riper Years inspire,
We at the Follies of our Youth admire;
And wonder how such childish Things as these
Cou'd Minds endu'd with Reason please;
Yet while we proudly our past Actions blame,
We do as foolish Things, tho' not the same;
Our Follies differ only in the Dress and Name.

3.

Self-love so crouds the human Breast,
That there's no Room for any other Guest;
By it inspir'd we all Mankind despise,
And think our selves the only Good and Wise:
Fond Thought! a Thought that only can
Become the vainest Part of the Creation, Man:

That haughty Creature, who puff'd up with Pride,
And fill'd with airy Notions soars on high,
And thinks himself the Glory of the Sky,
Where for a while in Fancy's flatt'ring Light
Th' enkindl'd Vapour plays,
Much pleas'd with its imaginary Rays;
Till having wasted its small Stock of Flame,
The heavy Lump, the thing without a Name,
Falls headlong down from its exalted Height
Into Oblivion's everlasting Night.