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

Thy Charms, O sacred Indolence, I sing,
Droop, yawning Muse, and moult thy sleepy Wing.
Ye lolling Pow'rs, (if any Powers there be,
Who loll supine) to you I bend my Knee:
O'er my lean Labour, shed a vapoury Breath,
And clog my Numbers, with a Weight, like Death.

I feel th' arrested Wheels of Meaning stand:
With Poppy ting'd, see! see! yon waving Wand.
Morpheus, I own the Influence of thy Reign;
A drowsy Sloth creeps, cold, thro' every Vein.
Furr'd, like the Muses' Magistrate, I sit,
And nod, superiour, in a Dream of Wit.
Action expires, in Honour of my Lays,
And Mankind snores Encomiums to my Praise.

Hail, holy State of unalarm'd Repose!
Dear Source of honest, and substantial Prose!
Thou blest Assylum of Man's wearied Race!
Nature's dumb Picture, with her solemn Face!
How shall my Pen, untir'd, thy Praise pursue?
O Woe of Living to have ought to do!

'Till the Almighty Fiat waken'd Life,
And wondering Chaos rose in untry'd Strife;

'Till Atoms jostled Atoms, in the Deep,
Nature lay careless, in eternal Sleep.
No whisp'ring Hope, no murmuring Wish, possest
A Place, in all th' extended Realms of Rest.
The Seeds of Being, undisturb'd, remain'd,
And Indolence, thro' Space, unbounded, reign'd.
Thence, lordly Sloth, thy high Descent we trace!
The World's less ancient than thy reverend Race!
Antiquity's whole Boast is on thy Side,
That great Foundation of the modern Pride!
Thou wert grown old before the Birth of Man,
And reign'dst before Formation's self began.

From Thee Creation took its new-born Way,
When Infant Nature smil'd on opening Day.
Now, winking, weary of th' oppressive Light,
It longs to be re-hush'd in lulling Night:

For each bold Starter from thy pow'rful Reign,
Returns, at Length, thy humble Slave again.

Oh! happy He, who, conscious of thy Sweets,
Safe to thy circling Arms, betimes, retreats.
Rais'd on thy downy Carr, he shuns all Strife,
And lolls along the Thorny Roads of Life.
Indulgent Dreams his slumbering Senses please,
And his numb'd Spirits shrink to central Ease.
Nor Passion's Conflicts his soft Peace infest,
Nor Danger rowzes his unlistening Rest.
Stretch'd in supine Content, afloat, he lies,
And drives down Time's slow Stream, with unfix'd Eyes
Lethargic Influence bars th' Approach of Pain,
And Storms blow round him, and grow hoarse, in vain

Forgetfulness plays, balmy, round his Head,
And Halcyon Fogs hang, lambent, o'er his Bed.

O Sov'reign Sloth! to whom we Quiet owe,
Nature's kind Nurse! soft Couch for weary Woe!
Safe in thy Arms, th' unbusied Slumberer lies,
Lives without Pain, and, without Sighing, dies.
States rise or fall, his Lot is still the same,
For he's above Mischance, who has no Aim.

How curs'd the Man, who still is musing found?
His Mill-Horse Soul forms one eternal Round?
When wiser Beasts lie lost, in needful Rest,
He, Madman! wakes, to war on his own Breast.
Thoughts dash on Thoughts, as Waves on Waves increase,
And Storms, of his own raising, wreck his Peace.
Now, like swift Coursers, in the rapid Race,
His Spirits strain for Speed—now, with slow Pace,

The sinking Soul, tir'd out, scarce limps along,
Sullen, and sick, with such Extreams of Wrong.
What art thou, Life, if Care corrodes thy Span?
A gnawing Worm! a Bosom-Hell to Man!

If e'er distracting Business proves my Doom,
Thou, Indolence, to my Deliv'rance come.
Distil thy healing Balm, like soft'ning Oil,
And cure th' ignoble Malady of Toil.
Thou, best Physician! can'st the Sulphur find,
That dries this Itch of Action on the Mind.

Malice, and Lust, voracious Birds of Prey,
That out-soar Reason, and our Wishes sway;
Desires' wild Seas, on which the wise are tost,
By Pilot Indolence, are safely crost.
Hush'd in soft Rest, they quiet Captives lie,
And, wanting Nourishment, grow faint and die.

By Thee, O sacred Indolence, the Sons
Of honest Levi, loll, like lazy Drones:
While tatter'd Hirelings drudge, in saying Pray'r,
Thou tak'st sleek Doctors to thy downy Care.
Well dost thou help, to form the double Chin,
Dilate the Paunch, and raise the reverend Mien.
By Thee, with stoln Discourses they are pleas'd,
That we, with worse, may not be dully teez'd:
A Happiness! that Laymen ought to prize,
Who value Time, and wou'd be counted wise.

From Thee, innumerable Blessings flow!
What Coffee-man does not thy Virtues know?
Tobacconists and News-mongers revere
Thy lordly Influence, with religious Fear.
Chairs, Coaches, Games, the Glory of a Land,
Are all the Labours of thy lazy Hand.

Th' Excise, the Treasury, strengthen'd, by thy Aid,
Own thy great Use, and Energy, in Trade.
Who does not taste the Pleasures of thy Reign?
Princes, themselves, are Servants in thy Train.

Diogenes, thou venerable Shade?
Thou wert, by Indolence, immortal made.
Thee most I envy of all human Race!
Ev'n in a Tub, thou held'st thy native Grace!
Thy Soul out-soar'd the vulgar Flights of Life,
And look'd abroad, with Scorn, at Noise, and Strife.
To thy hoop'd Palace no bold Business press'd,
No Thought usurp'd the Kingdom of thy Breast.
Thou to high-fated Alexander's Face
Maintaind'st, that Ease was nobler far than Place.
Th' insulted World before him bow'd the Knee:
Thou sat'st unmov'd, more Conqueror than He.

Scarce, O ye Advocates, for Wit's wild Chase,
Can your long Heads be reconcil'd to Grace!
In drowsy Dulness, deep Devotion dwells,
But searchful Care contented Faith expels.
Did ever Indolence produce Despair,
Or, to rash Wishes, prompt th' impatient Heir?
When Murmurings, and Rebellions, shake a State,
Does Love of Rest, or Action, animate?
When did two Sleepers clash in murd'rous War,
Or Love of Ease draw Wranglers to the Bar?
O'er Sea and Land, the World's wide Space surround,
Poize ev'ry Loss, and probe each aking Wound,
Then say which most, or Business, or Repose,
Worries our Lives, and wakes us into Woes?
What first gave Talons to coercive Law?
Small Need to keep the Indolent in Awe!

Hatch'd we our South-Sea Egg, by Want of Thought?
Are Jobbers airy Arts, in Slumber taught?
What State was ever bubbled out of Sense,
By good, unfear'd, unmeaning, Indolence?
Weigh, and consider, now, which Cause is best,
And, yawning, yield—There's Happiness in Rest.

O how I pity those deluded Fools,
Who drudge their Days out in bewild'ring Schools!
Who, seeking Knowledge, with assiduous Strife,
Lose their long Toil, and make a Hell of Life!
Grasping at Shadows, they but beat the Air,
And cloud the Spirits they attempt to clear.
Jargon of Tongues, perplexive Terms of Art,
And mazy Maxims, but benight the Heart.
No End, no Pause, of painful Search they know,
But, still proceeding, aggrandize their Woe;

Their Nakedness of Soul with Fig-Leaves hide,
And wrap their conscious Shame in Veils of Pride.
Erring, they toil some shadowy Gleam to find,
And, wand'ring, feel their Way, sublimely blind.
Learning in This, in That Scale, Doubt be laid,
And mark how Pomp is, by plain Truth, outweigh'd.

Hereafter then, ye poring Students, cease,
Nor maze your Minds, nor break your Chain of Peace.
Make Truce with Leisure for awhile, and view
What empty Nothings your Desires pursue.
Remember Adam's fatal Itch, to know,
Was the first bitter Spring of human Woe.
Think how presumptuous 'tis for breathing Clay,
To tread Heav'n's winding Paths, and lose its Way:
Think what short Limits Understanding boasts,
And shun th' Enticements of her shoaly Coasts.

With Solomon, that prudent Sage! and Me,
From fruitless Labour set your Spirits free:
Bind up bold Thought, in Slumber's silky Chain,
Since all we act, and all we know, is vain.