 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
65
Philosophical Fortitude
Though Vice and Folly dread that final day
Which takes us from this dying world away,
Yet no weak fears of mingling with the dust
Alarm the Virtuous or disturb the Just;
Let systems fail, or systems be restored,
Still, active Virtue meets a due reward.—
Though Vice and Folly dread that debt to pay
Required by Nature on the funeral day,
Yet conscious goodness soars above the clod
And life, well spent, secures the path to God.
Which takes us from this dying world away,
Yet no weak fears of mingling with the dust
Alarm the Virtuous or disturb the Just;
Let systems fail, or systems be restored,
Still, active Virtue meets a due reward.—
Though Vice and Folly dread that debt to pay
Required by Nature on the funeral day,
Yet conscious goodness soars above the clod
And life, well spent, secures the path to God.
The Wise at Nature's Laws will ne'er repine,
Nor think to scan, or mend the grand design.
Ills from ourselves, and not from Nature flow,
And true Religion never leads to woe:
What Nature gives, receive—her laws obey,
If you must die to morrow, live to day:
'Tis ours to improve this life, not ours to know
From whence this meteor comes, or where shall go,
This mind, this spark, that animates our frame,
Directs, impels, and still remains the same.—
As o'er some fen, when heaven is wrapt in night,
An ignus fatuus waves its trembling light;
Now up, now down, the mimic taper plays,
As varying winds affect the trembling blaze;
Soon the light phantom spends its magic store,
Dies into darkness, and is seen no more:
Thus flows our life! but is that life secure?—
Heaven trusts no mortal's fortune in his power,
Nor serve those prayers, importunate, we send,
To alter fate or Providence to mend;
As well in Judgement as in mercy kind,
Heaven hath, for both, the fittest state designed,
The fools on life, the wise, on death depend,
Waiting, with sweet reverse, their toils to end;
Quit the vain scene, where few have found or know
The first grand purpose—why we live below.
Nor think to scan, or mend the grand design.
Ills from ourselves, and not from Nature flow,
And true Religion never leads to woe:
What Nature gives, receive—her laws obey,
If you must die to morrow, live to day:
'Tis ours to improve this life, not ours to know
From whence this meteor comes, or where shall go,
This mind, this spark, that animates our frame,
Directs, impels, and still remains the same.—
As o'er some fen, when heaven is wrapt in night,
An ignus fatuus waves its trembling light;
Now up, now down, the mimic taper plays,
As varying winds affect the trembling blaze;
Soon the light phantom spends its magic store,
Dies into darkness, and is seen no more:
Thus flows our life! but is that life secure?—
Heaven trusts no mortal's fortune in his power,
Nor serve those prayers, importunate, we send,
To alter fate or Providence to mend;
As well in Judgement as in mercy kind,
Heaven hath, for both, the fittest state designed,
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Waiting, with sweet reverse, their toils to end;
Quit the vain scene, where few have found or know
The first grand purpose—why we live below.
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |