The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes |
 | IV. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. | [THE FIRST PART: OR,]
|
| II. |
| III. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| VIII. |
 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
I. [THE FIRST PART: OR,]
The Mourning Piece.
Life's a long tragedy: This globe the stage,
Well fix'd and well adorn'd with strong machines,
Gay fields, and skies, and seas: The actors many:
The plot immense: A flight of dæmons sit
On every sailing cloud with fatal purpose;
And shoot across the scenes ten thousand arrows
Perpetual and unseen, headed with pain,
With sorrow, infamy, disease and death.
The pointed plagues fly silent thro' the air,
Nor twangs the bow, yet sure and deep the wound.
Well fix'd and well adorn'd with strong machines,
Gay fields, and skies, and seas: The actors many:
The plot immense: A flight of dæmons sit
On every sailing cloud with fatal purpose;
And shoot across the scenes ten thousand arrows
Perpetual and unseen, headed with pain,
With sorrow, infamy, disease and death.
The pointed plagues fly silent thro' the air,
Nor twangs the bow, yet sure and deep the wound.
Dianthe acts her little part alone,
Nor wishes an associate. Lo she glides
Single thro' all the storm, and more secure;
Less are her dangers, and her breast receives
The fewest darts. ‘But, O my lov'd Marilla,
‘My sister, once my friend,’ Dianthe cries,
‘How much art thou expos'd! Thy growing soul
‘Doubled in wedlock, multiply'd in children,
‘Stands but the broader mark for all the mischiefs
‘That rove promiscuous o'er the mortal stage:
‘Children, those dear young limbs, those tenderest pieces
‘Of your own flesh, those little other selves,
‘How they dilate the heart to wide dimensions,
‘And soften every fibre to improve
‘The mother's sad capacity of pain!
‘I mourn Fidelio too; tho' heaven has chose
‘A favourite mate for him, of all her sex
‘The pride and flower: How blest the lovely pair,
‘Beyond expression, if well-mingled loves
‘And woes well-mingled could improve our bliss!
‘Amidst the rugged cares of life behold
‘The father and the husband; flatt'ring names,
‘That spread his title, and enlarge his share
‘Of common wretchedness. He fondly hopes
‘To multiply his joys, but every hour
‘Renews the disappointment and the smart.
‘There not a wound afflicts the meanest joint
‘Of his fair partner, or her infant train,
‘(Sweet babes!) but pierces to his inmost soul.
‘Strange is thy pow'r, O love! What num'rous veins,
‘And arteries, and arms, and hands, and eyes,
‘Are link'd and fasten'd to a lover's heart,
‘By strong but secret strings! With vain attempt
‘We put the Stoic on, in vain we try
‘To break the ties of nature and of blood;
‘Those hidden threads maintain the dear communion
‘Inviolably firm: Their thrilling motions
‘Reciprocal give endless sympathy
‘In all the bitters and the sweets of life.
‘Thrice happy man, if pleasure only knew
‘These avenues of love to reach our souls,
‘And pain had never found 'em!’
Nor wishes an associate. Lo she glides
Single thro' all the storm, and more secure;
Less are her dangers, and her breast receives
The fewest darts. ‘But, O my lov'd Marilla,
‘My sister, once my friend,’ Dianthe cries,
‘How much art thou expos'd! Thy growing soul
‘Doubled in wedlock, multiply'd in children,
‘Stands but the broader mark for all the mischiefs
‘That rove promiscuous o'er the mortal stage:
‘Children, those dear young limbs, those tenderest pieces
‘Of your own flesh, those little other selves,
‘How they dilate the heart to wide dimensions,
‘And soften every fibre to improve
‘The mother's sad capacity of pain!
‘I mourn Fidelio too; tho' heaven has chose
‘A favourite mate for him, of all her sex
‘The pride and flower: How blest the lovely pair,
‘Beyond expression, if well-mingled loves
‘And woes well-mingled could improve our bliss!
‘Amidst the rugged cares of life behold
‘The father and the husband; flatt'ring names,
‘That spread his title, and enlarge his share
‘Of common wretchedness. He fondly hopes
‘To multiply his joys, but every hour
‘Renews the disappointment and the smart.
‘There not a wound afflicts the meanest joint
‘Of his fair partner, or her infant train,
‘(Sweet babes!) but pierces to his inmost soul.
‘Strange is thy pow'r, O love! What num'rous veins,
‘And arteries, and arms, and hands, and eyes,
‘Are link'd and fasten'd to a lover's heart,
‘By strong but secret strings! With vain attempt
‘We put the Stoic on, in vain we try
‘To break the ties of nature and of blood;
‘Those hidden threads maintain the dear communion
‘Inviolably firm: Their thrilling motions
‘Reciprocal give endless sympathy
‘In all the bitters and the sweets of life.
‘Thrice happy man, if pleasure only knew
‘These avenues of love to reach our souls,
‘And pain had never found 'em!’
Thus sang the tuneful maid, fearful to try
The bold experiment. Oft Daphnis came,
And oft Narcissus, rivals of her heart,
Luring her eyes with trifles dipt in gold,
And the gay silken bondage. Firm she stood,
And bold repuls'd the bright temptation still,
Nor put the chains on; dangerous to try,
And hard to be dissolv'd. Yet rising tears
Sat on her eye-lids, while her numbers flow'd
Harmonious sorrow; and the pitying drops
Stole down her cheeks, to mourn the hapless state
Of mortal love. Love, thou best blessing sent
To soften life, and make our iron cares
Easy: But thy own cares of softer kind
Give sharper wounds: They lodge too near the heart,
Beat, like the pulse, perpetual, and create
A strange uneasy sense, a tempting pain.
The bold experiment. Oft Daphnis came,
And oft Narcissus, rivals of her heart,
Luring her eyes with trifles dipt in gold,
And the gay silken bondage. Firm she stood,
And bold repuls'd the bright temptation still,
Nor put the chains on; dangerous to try,
And hard to be dissolv'd. Yet rising tears
Sat on her eye-lids, while her numbers flow'd
Harmonious sorrow; and the pitying drops
483
Of mortal love. Love, thou best blessing sent
To soften life, and make our iron cares
Easy: But thy own cares of softer kind
Give sharper wounds: They lodge too near the heart,
Beat, like the pulse, perpetual, and create
A strange uneasy sense, a tempting pain.
Say, my companion Mitio, speak sincere,
(For thou art learned now) what anxious thoughts,
What kind perplexities tumultuous rise,
If but the absence of a day divide
Thee from thy fair beloved! Vainly smiles
The cheerful sun, and night with radiant eyes
Twinkles in vain: The region of thy soul
Is darkness, till thy better star appear.
Tell me, what toil, what torment to sustain
The rolling burden of the tedious hours?
The tedious hours are ages. Fancy roves
Restless in fond enquiry, nor believes
Charissa safe: Charissa, in whose life
Thy life consists, and in her comfort thine.
Fear and surmise put on a thousand forms
Of dear disquietude, and round thine ears
Whisper ten thousand dangers, endless woes,
Till thy frame shudders at her fancy'd death;
Then dies my Mitio, and his blood creeps cold
Thro' every vein. Speak, does the stranger-muse
Cast happy guesses at the unknown passion,
Or has she fabled all? Inform me, friend,
Are half thy joys sincere? Thy hopes fulfill'd,
Or frustrate? Here commit thy secret griefs
To faithful ears, and be they bury'd here
In friendship and oblivion; lest they spoil
Thy new-born pleasures with distasteful gall.
Nor let thine eye too greedily drink in
The frightful prospect, when untimely death
Shall make wild inroads on a parent's heart,
And his dear offspring to the cruel grave
Are dragg'd in sad succession; while his soul
Is torn away piece-meal: Thus dies the wretch
A various death, and frequent, ere he quit
The theatre, and make his exit final.
(For thou art learned now) what anxious thoughts,
What kind perplexities tumultuous rise,
If but the absence of a day divide
Thee from thy fair beloved! Vainly smiles
The cheerful sun, and night with radiant eyes
Twinkles in vain: The region of thy soul
Is darkness, till thy better star appear.
Tell me, what toil, what torment to sustain
The rolling burden of the tedious hours?
The tedious hours are ages. Fancy roves
Restless in fond enquiry, nor believes
Charissa safe: Charissa, in whose life
Thy life consists, and in her comfort thine.
Fear and surmise put on a thousand forms
Of dear disquietude, and round thine ears
Whisper ten thousand dangers, endless woes,
Till thy frame shudders at her fancy'd death;
Then dies my Mitio, and his blood creeps cold
Thro' every vein. Speak, does the stranger-muse
Cast happy guesses at the unknown passion,
Or has she fabled all? Inform me, friend,
Are half thy joys sincere? Thy hopes fulfill'd,
Or frustrate? Here commit thy secret griefs
To faithful ears, and be they bury'd here
In friendship and oblivion; lest they spoil
Thy new-born pleasures with distasteful gall.
Nor let thine eye too greedily drink in
The frightful prospect, when untimely death
Shall make wild inroads on a parent's heart,
And his dear offspring to the cruel grave
Are dragg'd in sad succession; while his soul
Is torn away piece-meal: Thus dies the wretch
A various death, and frequent, ere he quit
The theatre, and make his exit final.
But if his dearest half, his faithful mate
Survive, and in the sweetest saddest airs
Of love and grief, approach with trembling hand
To close his swimming eyes, what double pangs,
What racks, what twinges rend his heart-strings off
From the fair bosom of that fellow-dove
He leaves behind to mourn? What jealous cares
Hang on his parting soul, to think his love
Expos'd to wild oppression, and the herd
Of savage men? So parts the dying turtle
With sobbing accents, with such sad regret
Leaves his kind feather'd mate: The widow bird
Wanders in lonesome shades, forgets her food,
Forgets her life; or falls a speedier prey
To talon'd falcons, and the crooked beak
Of hawks athirst for blood—
Survive, and in the sweetest saddest airs
Of love and grief, approach with trembling hand
To close his swimming eyes, what double pangs,
What racks, what twinges rend his heart-strings off
From the fair bosom of that fellow-dove
He leaves behind to mourn? What jealous cares
Hang on his parting soul, to think his love
Expos'd to wild oppression, and the herd
Of savage men? So parts the dying turtle
With sobbing accents, with such sad regret
Leaves his kind feather'd mate: The widow bird
Wanders in lonesome shades, forgets her food,
Forgets her life; or falls a speedier prey
To talon'd falcons, and the crooked beak
Of hawks athirst for blood—
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |