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

Happy are they who when alone
Can with themselves converse;
Who to their Thoughts are so familiar grown,
That with Delight in some obscure Recess,
They cou'd with silent Joy think all their Hours away,
And still think on, till the confining Clay
Fall off, and nothing's left behind
Of drossy Earth, nothing to clog the Mind,
Or hinder its Ascent to those bright Forms above,
Those glorious Beings whose exalted Sense
Transcends the highest Flights of human Wit;
Who with Seraphick Ardor fir'd,
And with a Passion more intense
Than Mortal Beauty e'er inspir'd;

With all th' endearing Extasies of Love,
Will to their blest Society again
The long lost Wand'rers admit,
Where freed from all their former Pain,
And cleans'd from ev'ry Stain,
They bask with Pleasure in eternal Day,
And grow as pure, and as refin'd as they.

2.

But few, ah! few are for Retirement fit;
But few the Joys of Solitude can taste;
The most with Horror fly from it,
And rather chuse in Crouds their Time to waste;
In busie Crouds, which a Resemblance bear
To th' unshap'd Embryo of the World,
That formless Mass where all things were
Without Distinction rudely hurl'd:
Tumult and Noise the Empire there had gain'd,
Unrival'd there Disorder reign'd:
The thoughtless Atoms met by chance,
Without Design they mov'd, Confusion led the Dance:
Sometimes the earthly Particles aspir'd,
And upward forc'd their way,
While the spirituous Parts retir'd,
And near the Centre lay
Depress'd and sunk, till by the next Remove
They disengag'd, and got above,
But cou'd not long th' impelling Shock sustain,
By Turns they rise, by Turns they fell again.

3.

We in our selves a second Chaos find;
There is a Transcript of it in the human Mind:
Our restless Passions endless Wars maintain,
And with loud Clamors fill the Breast:
Love often there the Sov'reignty does gain,
As often is by Hatred dispossess'd:
Desire the Soul with anxious Thoughts does fill,
Insatiate boundless Thoughts instill:
Some distant Good we view,
Which we, by Hope push'd on, pursue,
Breathless, and faint, the toilsom Chase renew:
And when 'tis ours, tumultuous Joy does rise,
Ungovern'd Transport Sparkles in our Eyes;
And we all Extasie, all Fire,
The darling Prize admire,
And hug the Blessing till it does expire:
Then to despair our selves resign,
And sigh, and grieve, and still repine,
Curse Heav'n, our selves, our Friends, our Fate,
And new, more pungent, Woes create:
But if the Sportive Goddess lay
A bright Temptation in our way,
All is forgot, and full of Heat,
Our former Toils we soon repeat;
Again pursue the airy Game;
And fond of Grandeur, Fond of Fame,
Of Glory, Pow'r, and glitt'ring Clay,
We in laborious Nothings waste our short Remains of Day.

4.

When distant Ills we see,
The dismal Prospect us affrights,
The sad Futurity
Fear in our Minds excites:
And by a mean dishonourable Dread
Of Evils which may never be,
Our selves we fright, our Spirits waste,
And often our Misfortunes haste:
When they are present, then we rage,
Impatient, hot, and furious grow,
Nothing our Fury can asswage;
No Limits, no Restraints we know:
But by the Headlong Passion led,
Without the least Demur obey;
And like some mighty Torrent force our Way:
Some mighty Torrent which no Limit knows,
But with a rapid Course still onward goes,
Destroys the snowy Flocks, and lays Majestick Structures low:
But if a glimm'ring Hope arise,
If but a Gleam of Bliss appear,
Again we're easie, pleas'd, and gay:
Forgetful of what past before,
Above the Clouds we vainly soar:
Impending Dangers we despise,
And present Evils dread no more:
And while we proudly hover there,
Look down with Scorn upon the Phantom Fear.

5.

Thus they alternately do lose and win,
And all is Anarchy within:
Reason her native Right may claim,
And strive to re-ascend the Throne,
But few, alas! her Pow'r will own:
The most to Folly their Allegiance pay,
Pleas'd with her easie, and her childish Sway:
Their Passions rule, and they contentedly obey:
Slaves to themselves they without Murmurs prove,
And with the meanest, worst of Servitudes in Love,
By the strong Impulse of their Vices move:
Their Chains they hug, and Wisdom's Aid refuse,
And will not her for their Director chuse:
Her Paths they shun, her Yoke they will not bear,
And think her Precepts too severe:
Deaf to the Calls of Virtue and of Fame,
They madly wander thro' the Maze of Life,
Employ'd in Trifles, or engag'd in Strife:
Inslav'd by Interest, fond of glitt'ring Toys,
And much more pleas'd with Bubbles, than with solid Joys.