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81
The Regulation of the Passions THE SOURCE OF HUMAN HAPPINESS.
A MORAL ESSAY.
Dunque ne l' Uso per cui fur concesse
L' impieghi il soggio Duce, e le governi:
Et a suo Senno or tepide, or ardenti,
Le faccia: et or le affretti, et or le allenti.
TASSO.
L' impieghi il soggio Duce, e le governi:
Et a suo Senno or tepide, or ardenti,
Le faccia: et or le affretti, et or le allenti.
TASSO.
Yes, yes, dear stoic! hide it as you can,
The sphere of pleasure is the sphere of man:
This warms our wishes, animates our toil,
And forms alike a Newton, or an Hoyle;
Gives all the soul to all the soul regards,
Whether she deal in planets, or in cards.
The sphere of pleasure is the sphere of man:
This warms our wishes, animates our toil,
And forms alike a Newton, or an Hoyle;
Gives all the soul to all the soul regards,
Whether she deal in planets, or in cards.
In every human breast there lives enshrin'd
Some atom pregnant with th' ethereal mind,
Some plastic pow'r, some intellectual ray,
Some genial sun-beam from the source of day;
Something that, warm and restless to aspire,
Works the young heart, and sets the soul on fire,
And bids us all our inborn pow'rs employ
To catch the phantom of ideal joy.
Were it not so, the soul, all dead and lost,
Like the tall cliff beneath th' impassive frost,
Form'd for no end, and impotent to please,
Wou'd lie inactive on the couch of ease;
And, heedless of proud fame's immortal lay,
Sleep all her dull divinity away
Some atom pregnant with th' ethereal mind,
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Some genial sun-beam from the source of day;
Something that, warm and restless to aspire,
Works the young heart, and sets the soul on fire,
And bids us all our inborn pow'rs employ
To catch the phantom of ideal joy.
Were it not so, the soul, all dead and lost,
Like the tall cliff beneath th' impassive frost,
Form'd for no end, and impotent to please,
Wou'd lie inactive on the couch of ease;
And, heedless of proud fame's immortal lay,
Sleep all her dull divinity away
And yet, let but a zephyr's breath begin
To stir the latent excellence within—
Wak'd in that moment's elemental strife,
Impassion'd genius feels the breath of life;
Th' expanding heart delights to leap and glow,
The pulse to kindle, and the tear to flow:
Strong and more strong the light celestial shines,
Each thought ennobles, and each sense refines,
Till all the soul, full op'ning to the flame,
Exalts to virtue what she felt for fame.
Hence, just as nature points the kindred fire,
One plies the pencil, one awakes the lyre;
This, with an Halley's luxury of soul,
Call's the wild needle back upon the pole,
Maps half the winds, and gives the sail to fly
In ev'ry ocean of the artic sky;
While he whose vast capacious mind explores
All nature's scenes, and nature's God adores,
Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides;
Expels, like Heberden, the young disease,
And softens anguish to the smile of ease.
To stir the latent excellence within—
Wak'd in that moment's elemental strife,
Impassion'd genius feels the breath of life;
Th' expanding heart delights to leap and glow,
The pulse to kindle, and the tear to flow:
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Each thought ennobles, and each sense refines,
Till all the soul, full op'ning to the flame,
Exalts to virtue what she felt for fame.
Hence, just as nature points the kindred fire,
One plies the pencil, one awakes the lyre;
This, with an Halley's luxury of soul,
Call's the wild needle back upon the pole,
Maps half the winds, and gives the sail to fly
In ev'ry ocean of the artic sky;
While he whose vast capacious mind explores
All nature's scenes, and nature's God adores,
Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides;
Expels, like Heberden, the young disease,
And softens anguish to the smile of ease.
The passions then all human virtue give,
Fill up the soul, and lend her strength to live.
To them we owe fair truth's unspotted page,
The gen'rous patriot, and the moral sage;
The hand that forms the geometric line,
The eye that pierces thro' th' unbowell'd mine,
The tongue that thunders eloquence along,
And the fine ear that melts it into song.
Fill up the soul, and lend her strength to live.
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The gen'rous patriot, and the moral sage;
The hand that forms the geometric line,
The eye that pierces thro' th' unbowell'd mine,
The tongue that thunders eloquence along,
And the fine ear that melts it into song.
And yet these passions which, on nature's plan,
Call out the hero while they form the man,
Warp'd from the sacred line that nature gave,
As meanly ruin as they nobly save.
Th' ethereal soul that heav'n itself inspires
With all its virtues, and with all its fires,
Led by these syrens to some wild extreme,
Sets in a vapour when it ought to beam;
Like a Dutch sun that in th' autumnal sky
Looks thro' a fog, and rises but to die.
But he whose active, unencumbered mind
Leaves this low earth, and all its mists behind,
Fond in a pure unclouded sky to glow,
Like the bright orb that rises on the Po,
O'er half the globe with steady splendor shines,
And ripens virtues as it ripens mines.
Call out the hero while they form the man,
Warp'd from the sacred line that nature gave,
As meanly ruin as they nobly save.
Th' ethereal soul that heav'n itself inspires
With all its virtues, and with all its fires,
Led by these syrens to some wild extreme,
Sets in a vapour when it ought to beam;
Like a Dutch sun that in th' autumnal sky
Looks thro' a fog, and rises but to die.
But he whose active, unencumbered mind
Leaves this low earth, and all its mists behind,
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Like the bright orb that rises on the Po,
O'er half the globe with steady splendor shines,
And ripens virtues as it ripens mines.
Whoever thinks, must see that man was made
To face the storm, not languish in the shade:
Action's his sphere, and, for that sphere design'd,
Eternal pleasures open on his mind.
For this, fair hope leads on th' impassion'd soul
Thro' life's wild labyrinths to her distant goal:
Paints in each dream, to fan the genial flame,
The pomp of riches, and the pride of fame;
Or fondly gives reflection's cooler eye
A glance, an image of a future sky.
To face the storm, not languish in the shade:
Action's his sphere, and, for that sphere design'd,
Eternal pleasures open on his mind.
For this, fair hope leads on th' impassion'd soul
Thro' life's wild labyrinths to her distant goal:
Paints in each dream, to fan the genial flame,
The pomp of riches, and the pride of fame;
Or fondly gives reflection's cooler eye
A glance, an image of a future sky.
Yet tho' kind heav'n points out th' unerring road,
That leads thro' nature up to bliss and God;
Spite of that God, and all his voice divine,
Speaks in the heart, or teaches from the shrine,
Man, seebly vain, and impotently wise,
Disdains the manna sent him from the skies;
Tasteless of all that virtue gives to please,
For thought too active, and too mad for ease,
From wish to wish in life's mad vortex tost,
For ever struggling, and for ever lost;
He scorns religion tho' her seraphs call,
And lives in rapture, or not lives at all.
That leads thro' nature up to bliss and God;
Spite of that God, and all his voice divine,
Speaks in the heart, or teaches from the shrine,
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Disdains the manna sent him from the skies;
Tasteless of all that virtue gives to please,
For thought too active, and too mad for ease,
From wish to wish in life's mad vortex tost,
For ever struggling, and for ever lost;
He scorns religion tho' her seraphs call,
And lives in rapture, or not lives at all.
And now, let loose to all our hopes and fears,
As pride inspirits, or ambition tears,
From ev'ry tie, from ev'ry duty freed,
Without a balance, and without a creed,
Dead ev'ry sense, each particle divine,
And all the man embruted in the swine;
These drench in luxury's ambrosial bowl,
Reason's last spark, and drain off all the soul.
Those for vain wealth fly on from pole to pole,
Where winds can waft them, and where seas can roll.
While others, wearied with the farce of pow'r,
Or mad with riot in the midnight hour,
With Spain's proud monarch to a cell retire,
Or Nero like, set half the globe on fire.
As pride inspirits, or ambition tears,
From ev'ry tie, from ev'ry duty freed,
Without a balance, and without a creed,
Dead ev'ry sense, each particle divine,
And all the man embruted in the swine;
These drench in luxury's ambrosial bowl,
Reason's last spark, and drain off all the soul.
Those for vain wealth fly on from pole to pole,
Where winds can waft them, and where seas can roll.
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Or mad with riot in the midnight hour,
With Spain's proud monarch to a cell retire,
Or Nero like, set half the globe on fire.
Stretch'd on high tow'ring Dover's sandy bed,
Without a coffin, and without a head;
A dirty sail-cloth o'er his body thrown,
By marks of misery almost unknown,
Without a friend to pity, or to save,
Without a dirge to consecrate the grave,
Great Suffolk lies—he who for years had shone,
England's sixth Henry! nearest to thy throne.
What boots it now, that list'ning senates hung
All ear, all rapture on his angel-tongue?
Ah! what avails th' enormous blaze between
His dawn of glory, and his closing scene!
When haughty France his heav'n-born pow'rs ador'd,
And Anjou's princess sheath'd Britannia's sword!
Ask ye what bold conspiracy opprest
A chief so honour'd, and a chief so blest
Why, lust of power that wreck'd his rising fame
On court's vain shallows, and the gulph of shame
A Glo'ster's murder, and a nation's wrongs,
Call'd loud for vengeance with ten thousand tongues;
And hasten'd death, on Albion's chalky strand,
To end the exile by a pirate's hand.
Without a coffin, and without a head;
A dirty sail-cloth o'er his body thrown,
By marks of misery almost unknown,
Without a friend to pity, or to save,
Without a dirge to consecrate the grave,
Great Suffolk lies—he who for years had shone,
England's sixth Henry! nearest to thy throne.
What boots it now, that list'ning senates hung
All ear, all rapture on his angel-tongue?
Ah! what avails th' enormous blaze between
His dawn of glory, and his closing scene!
When haughty France his heav'n-born pow'rs ador'd,
And Anjou's princess sheath'd Britannia's sword!
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A chief so honour'd, and a chief so blest
Why, lust of power that wreck'd his rising fame
On court's vain shallows, and the gulph of shame
A Glo'ster's murder, and a nation's wrongs,
Call'd loud for vengeance with ten thousand tongues;
And hasten'd death, on Albion's chalky strand,
To end the exile by a pirate's hand.
Pleasure, my friend! on this side folly lies;
It may be vig'rous, but it must be wise:
And when our organs once that end attain,
Each step beyond it is a step to pain.
For ask the man whose appetites pursue
Each loose Roxana of the stew,
Who cannot eat till luxury refine
His taste, and teach him how to dine;
Who cannot drink till Spain's rich vintage flow,
Mix'd with the coolness of December's snow:
Ask him, if all those ectasies that move
The pulse of rapture, and the rage of love,
When wine, wit, woman, all their pow'rs employ,
And ev'ry sense is lost in ev'ry joy,
E'er fill'd his heart, and beam'd upon his breast
Content's full sunshine, with the calm of rest?
No—virtue only gives fair peace to shine,
And health, O sacred temperance! is thine.
Hence the poor peasant, whose laborious spade,
Rids the rough crag of half its heath and shade,
Feels in the quiet of his genial nights
A bliss more genuine than the club at White's:
And has in full exchange for fame and wealth
Herculean vigour, and eternal health.
It may be vig'rous, but it must be wise:
And when our organs once that end attain,
Each step beyond it is a step to pain.
For ask the man whose appetites pursue
Each loose Roxana of the stew,
Who cannot eat till luxury refine
His taste, and teach him how to dine;
Who cannot drink till Spain's rich vintage flow,
Mix'd with the coolness of December's snow:
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The pulse of rapture, and the rage of love,
When wine, wit, woman, all their pow'rs employ,
And ev'ry sense is lost in ev'ry joy,
E'er fill'd his heart, and beam'd upon his breast
Content's full sunshine, with the calm of rest?
No—virtue only gives fair peace to shine,
And health, O sacred temperance! is thine.
Hence the poor peasant, whose laborious spade,
Rids the rough crag of half its heath and shade,
Feels in the quiet of his genial nights
A bliss more genuine than the club at White's:
And has in full exchange for fame and wealth
Herculean vigour, and eternal health.
Of blooming genius, judgement, wit, possess'd,
By poets envied, and by peers caress'd;
By royal mercy sav'd from legal doom,
With royal favour crown'd for years to come,
Or hadst thou, Savage! known thy lot to prize,
And sacred held fair friendship's gen'rous ties;
Hadst thou, sincere to wisdom, virtue, truth,
Curb'd the wild sallies of impetuous youth;
Had but thy life been equal to thy lays,
In vain had envy strove to blast thy bays,
In vain thy mother's unrelenting pride
Had strove to push thee helpless from her side;
Fair competence had lent her genial dow'r,
And smiling peace adorn'd thy evening-hour:
True pleasure would have led thee to her shrine,
And every friend to merit had been thine.
Bless'd with the choicest boon that heav'n can give,
Thou then hadst learnt with dignity to live,
The scorn of wealth, the threats of want to brave,
Nor sought from prison a refuge in the grave.
By poets envied, and by peers caress'd;
By royal mercy sav'd from legal doom,
With royal favour crown'd for years to come,
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And sacred held fair friendship's gen'rous ties;
Hadst thou, sincere to wisdom, virtue, truth,
Curb'd the wild sallies of impetuous youth;
Had but thy life been equal to thy lays,
In vain had envy strove to blast thy bays,
In vain thy mother's unrelenting pride
Had strove to push thee helpless from her side;
Fair competence had lent her genial dow'r,
And smiling peace adorn'd thy evening-hour:
True pleasure would have led thee to her shrine,
And every friend to merit had been thine.
Bless'd with the choicest boon that heav'n can give,
Thou then hadst learnt with dignity to live,
The scorn of wealth, the threats of want to brave,
Nor sought from prison a refuge in the grave.
Th' immortal Rembrant all his pictures made
Soft as their union into light and shade:
Whene'er his colours wore too bright an air,
A kindred shadow took off all the glare;
Whene'er that shadow, carelessly embrown'd,
Stole on the tints, and breath'd a gloom around,
Th' attentive artist threw a warmer dye,
Or call'd a glory from a pictur'd sky;
Till both th' opposing powers mix'd in one,
Cool as the night, and brilliant as the sun.
Soft as their union into light and shade:
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A kindred shadow took off all the glare;
Whene'er that shadow, carelessly embrown'd,
Stole on the tints, and breath'd a gloom around,
Th' attentive artist threw a warmer dye,
Or call'd a glory from a pictur'd sky;
Till both th' opposing powers mix'd in one,
Cool as the night, and brilliant as the sun.
Passions, like colours, have their strength and ease,
Those too insipid, and too gaudy these:
Some on the heart, like Spagnoletti's, throw
Fictitious horrors, and a weight of woe;
Some, like Albano's, catch from ev'ry ray
Too strong a sunshine, and too rich a day;
Others, with Carlo's Magdalens, require
A quicker spirit, and a touch of fire,
Or want, perhaps, tho' of celestial race,
Corregio's softness, and a Guido's grace.
Those too insipid, and too gaudy these:
Some on the heart, like Spagnoletti's, throw
Fictitious horrors, and a weight of woe;
Some, like Albano's, catch from ev'ry ray
Too strong a sunshine, and too rich a day;
Others, with Carlo's Magdalens, require
A quicker spirit, and a touch of fire,
Or want, perhaps, tho' of celestial race,
Corregio's softness, and a Guido's grace.
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Wou'dst thou then reach what Rembrant's genius knew,
And live the model that his pencil drew,
Form all thy life with all his warmth divine,
Great as his plan, and faultless as his line;
Let all thy passions, like his colours, play,
Strong without harshness, without glaring gay:
Contrast them, curb them, spread them, or confine,
Ennoble these, and those forbid to shine;
With cooler shades ambition's fire allay,
And mildly melt the pomp of pride away;
Her rainbow-robe from vanity remove,
And soften malice with the smile of love;
Bid o'er revenge the charities prevail,
Nor let a grace be seen without a vail:
So shalt thou live as heav'n itself design'd,
Each pulse congenial with th' informing mind,
Each action station'd in its proper place,
Each virtue blooming with its native grace,
Each passion vig'rous to its just degree,
And the fair whole a perfect symmetry.
And live the model that his pencil drew,
Form all thy life with all his warmth divine,
Great as his plan, and faultless as his line;
Let all thy passions, like his colours, play,
Strong without harshness, without glaring gay:
Contrast them, curb them, spread them, or confine,
Ennoble these, and those forbid to shine;
With cooler shades ambition's fire allay,
And mildly melt the pomp of pride away;
Her rainbow-robe from vanity remove,
And soften malice with the smile of love;
Bid o'er revenge the charities prevail,
Nor let a grace be seen without a vail:
So shalt thou live as heav'n itself design'd,
Each pulse congenial with th' informing mind,
Each action station'd in its proper place,
Each virtue blooming with its native grace,
Each passion vig'rous to its just degree,
And the fair whole a perfect symmetry.
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