 | Poems |  |
Life unhappy, because we use it improperly.
A Moral Essay.
I own it, Belmour! say whate'er we can,
The lot of sorrow seems the lot of man;
Affliction feeds with all her keenest rage
On youth's fair blossoms, and the fruits of age:
And wraps alike beneath her harpy wings
The cells of peasants, and the courts of kings.
The lot of sorrow seems the lot of man;
Affliction feeds with all her keenest rage
On youth's fair blossoms, and the fruits of age:
And wraps alike beneath her harpy wings
The cells of peasants, and the courts of kings.
120
Yet sure unjustly we ascribe to fate
Those ills, those mischiefs, we ourselves create,
Vainly lament that all the joys we know
Are more than number'd by the pangs of woe;
And yet those joys in mean profusion waste,
Without reflexion, and without a taste;
Careless of all that virtue gives to please,
For thought too active, and too mad for ease,
We give each appetite too loose a rein,
Push ev'ry pleasure to the verge of pain,
Impetuous follow where the passions call,
And live in rapture, or not live at all.
Those ills, those mischiefs, we ourselves create,
Vainly lament that all the joys we know
Are more than number'd by the pangs of woe;
And yet those joys in mean profusion waste,
Without reflexion, and without a taste;
Careless of all that virtue gives to please,
For thought too active, and too mad for ease,
We give each appetite too loose a rein,
Push ev'ry pleasure to the verge of pain,
Impetuous follow where the passions call,
And live in rapture, or not live at all.
Hence half the plagues that fill with pain and strife,
Each softer moment of domestic life,
The palsied hand, the visionary brain,
Th' infected fluid, and the torpid vein,
The ruin'd appetite that loathing slights
The richest oglio of the cook at White's,
The aching impotence of loose desire,
A nerveless body with a soul on fire,
Th' eternal blush that lights the cheek of shame
For wasted riches, and unheeded fame,
Unhallow'd reveries, low thoughted cares,
The wish that riots, and the pang that tears,
Each awful tear that weeps the night away,
Each heartfelt sigh of each reflecting day,
All that around the low'ring eye of spleen
Throws the pale phantom, and terrific scene,
Or, direr still, calls from th' abyss below
Despair's dread genius to the couch of woe,
Where, lost to health, and hope's all cheering ray,
As the dead eye-ball to the orb of day,
Pale riot bleeds for all his mad expence
In each rack'd organ, or acuter sense;
Where sad remorse beholds in every shade
The murder'd friend, or violated maid;
And, stung to madness in his inmost soul,
Grasps the keen dagger, or empoison'd bowl.
Each softer moment of domestic life,
The palsied hand, the visionary brain,
Th' infected fluid, and the torpid vein,
The ruin'd appetite that loathing slights
The richest oglio of the cook at White's,
121
A nerveless body with a soul on fire,
Th' eternal blush that lights the cheek of shame
For wasted riches, and unheeded fame,
Unhallow'd reveries, low thoughted cares,
The wish that riots, and the pang that tears,
Each awful tear that weeps the night away,
Each heartfelt sigh of each reflecting day,
All that around the low'ring eye of spleen
Throws the pale phantom, and terrific scene,
Or, direr still, calls from th' abyss below
Despair's dread genius to the couch of woe,
Where, lost to health, and hope's all cheering ray,
As the dead eye-ball to the orb of day,
Pale riot bleeds for all his mad expence
In each rack'd organ, or acuter sense;
Where sad remorse beholds in every shade
The murder'd friend, or violated maid;
And, stung to madness in his inmost soul,
Grasps the keen dagger, or empoison'd bowl.
122
Impious it were to think th' eternal mind
Is but the scourge and tyrant of mankind.
Sure he who gives us sunshine, dew, and show'r,
The vine ambrosial, and the blooming flow'r,
Whose own bright image lives on man imprest
Meant that that being shou'd be wise and blest,
And taught each instinct in his heart enshrin'd
To feel for bliss, to search it, and to find.
Is but the scourge and tyrant of mankind.
Sure he who gives us sunshine, dew, and show'r,
The vine ambrosial, and the blooming flow'r,
Whose own bright image lives on man imprest
Meant that that being shou'd be wise and blest,
And taught each instinct in his heart enshrin'd
To feel for bliss, to search it, and to find.
But where's this bliss, you ask, this heav'n-born fire
We all pretend to, and we all admire?
Breathes it in Ceylon's aromatic isle?
Flows it along the waters of the Nile?
Lives it in India's animated mold,
In rocks of crystal, or in veins of gold?
Not there alone, but, boundless, unconfin'd,
Spreads thro all life, and flows to all mankind;
Waits on the winds that blow, the waves that roll,
And warms alike th' Equator and the Pole.
For as kind nature thro' the globe inspires
Her parent warmths, and elemental fires,
Forms the bright gem in earth's unfathom'd caves,
Bids the rich coral blush beneath the waves,
And with the same prolific virtue glows
In the rough bramble, as the damask rose:
So, in the union of her moral plan,
The ray of bliss shines on from man to man,
Whether in purples, or in skins array'd,
He wields the scepter, or he plies the spade,
Slaves on the Ganges, triumphs on the Rhone,
Hides in a cell, or beams upon a throne.
We all pretend to, and we all admire?
Breathes it in Ceylon's aromatic isle?
Flows it along the waters of the Nile?
Lives it in India's animated mold,
In rocks of crystal, or in veins of gold?
Not there alone, but, boundless, unconfin'd,
Spreads thro all life, and flows to all mankind;
Waits on the winds that blow, the waves that roll,
And warms alike th' Equator and the Pole.
123
Her parent warmths, and elemental fires,
Forms the bright gem in earth's unfathom'd caves,
Bids the rich coral blush beneath the waves,
And with the same prolific virtue glows
In the rough bramble, as the damask rose:
So, in the union of her moral plan,
The ray of bliss shines on from man to man,
Whether in purples, or in skins array'd,
He wields the scepter, or he plies the spade,
Slaves on the Ganges, triumphs on the Rhone,
Hides in a cell, or beams upon a throne.
In vain the man whose soul ambition fires,
Whom birth ennobles, and whom wealth inspires,
Insists that happiness for courts was made,
And laughs at every genius of the shade.
As much mistakes the sage who fain wou'd prove
Fair pleasure lives but in his grot and grove.
Each scene of life, or open, or confin'd,
Alike congenial to its kindred mind,
Alike ordain'd by heav'n to charm or please,
The man of spirit, and the man of ease;
Just as our taste is better or is worse,
Becomes a blessing, or becomes a curse.
When lust and envy share the soul by turns,
When fear unnerves her, or mad vengeance burns,
When luxury brutes her in the wanton bow'r,
And guilt's black phantoms haunt her midnight hour,
Not all the wealth each warmer sun provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides,
Not all the pomps that round proud greatness shine,
When suppliant nations bow before her shrine,
Can ease the heart, or ray upon the breast
Content's full sunshine, and the calm of rest.
No—all the bliss that nature feels, or knows,
Of heartfelt rapture, or of cool repose,
Howe'er improv'd by wisdom, and by art,
Lives in ourselves, and beams but from the heart,
Quite independent of those alien things,
Applauding senates, and the smiles of kings,
Of empty purses, or of wealthy bags,
A robe of ermines, or a coat in rags.
Whom birth ennobles, and whom wealth inspires,
Insists that happiness for courts was made,
And laughs at every genius of the shade.
As much mistakes the sage who fain wou'd prove
Fair pleasure lives but in his grot and grove.
124
Alike congenial to its kindred mind,
Alike ordain'd by heav'n to charm or please,
The man of spirit, and the man of ease;
Just as our taste is better or is worse,
Becomes a blessing, or becomes a curse.
When lust and envy share the soul by turns,
When fear unnerves her, or mad vengeance burns,
When luxury brutes her in the wanton bow'r,
And guilt's black phantoms haunt her midnight hour,
Not all the wealth each warmer sun provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides,
Not all the pomps that round proud greatness shine,
When suppliant nations bow before her shrine,
Can ease the heart, or ray upon the breast
Content's full sunshine, and the calm of rest.
No—all the bliss that nature feels, or knows,
Of heartfelt rapture, or of cool repose,
Howe'er improv'd by wisdom, and by art,
Lives in ourselves, and beams but from the heart,
125
Applauding senates, and the smiles of kings,
Of empty purses, or of wealthy bags,
A robe of ermines, or a coat in rags.
Conclude we then that heav'ns supreme decree
Gives ease and joy to monarchs and to me;
Yet, such the fate of all that man obtains,
Our pleasures must be purchas'd by our pains,
And cost us every hour some small expence,
A little labour, and a little sense.
That heav'n-born bliss, that soul-illumin'd joy,
Which madmen squander, and which fools destroy,
To half the nations of the globe unknown,
Reflecting wisdom makes it all her own;
Coolly explores, in every scene and sphere,
What nature wants, what life inherits there,
What lenient arts can teach the soul to know
A purer rapture, and a softer woe,
What melt her idle vanities away,
And make to-morrow happier than to-day.
Without this cheap, this œconomic art,
This cool philosophy of head and heart;
A peer's proud bosom, rack'd by pangs and cares,
Feels not the splendor of the star he wears:
With it the wretch whom want has forc'd to dwell
In the last corner of her cheerless cell,
In spite of hunger, labour, cold, disease,
Lies, laughs, and slumbers on the couch of ease.
Gives ease and joy to monarchs and to me;
Yet, such the fate of all that man obtains,
Our pleasures must be purchas'd by our pains,
And cost us every hour some small expence,
A little labour, and a little sense.
That heav'n-born bliss, that soul-illumin'd joy,
Which madmen squander, and which fools destroy,
To half the nations of the globe unknown,
Reflecting wisdom makes it all her own;
Coolly explores, in every scene and sphere,
What nature wants, what life inherits there,
What lenient arts can teach the soul to know
A purer rapture, and a softer woe,
126
And make to-morrow happier than to-day.
Without this cheap, this œconomic art,
This cool philosophy of head and heart;
A peer's proud bosom, rack'd by pangs and cares,
Feels not the splendor of the star he wears:
With it the wretch whom want has forc'd to dwell
In the last corner of her cheerless cell,
In spite of hunger, labour, cold, disease,
Lies, laughs, and slumbers on the couch of ease.
A coxcomb once in Handel's parlour found
A Grecian lyre, and try'd to make it sound;
O'er the fine stops his awkward fist he flings,
And rudely presses on th' elastic strings:
Awaken'd discord shrieks, and scolds, and raves,
Wild as the dissonance of winds and waves,
Loud as a Wapping mob at midnight bawls,
Harsh as ten chariots rolling round St. Paul's,
And hoarser far than all th' ecstatic race
Whose drunken orgies stunn'd the wilds of Thrace.
A Grecian lyre, and try'd to make it sound;
O'er the fine stops his awkward fist he flings,
And rudely presses on th' elastic strings:
Awaken'd discord shrieks, and scolds, and raves,
Wild as the dissonance of winds and waves,
Loud as a Wapping mob at midnight bawls,
Harsh as ten chariots rolling round St. Paul's,
127
Whose drunken orgies stunn'd the wilds of Thrace.
Friend! quoth the sage, that fine machine contains
Exacter numbers, and diviner strains,
Strains such as once could build the Theban wall,
And stop the mountain torrent in its fall:
But yet, to wake them, rouze them, and inspire,
Asks a fine finger, and a touch of fire,
A feeling soul whose all expressive pow'rs
Can copy nature as she sinks or soars;
And, just alike to passion, time, and place,
Refine correctness into ease and grace.
He said—and, flying o'er each quiv'ring wire,
Spread his light hand, and swept it on the lyre.
Quick to his touch the lyre began to glow,
The sound to kindle, and the air to flow,
Deep as the murmurs of the falling floods,
Sweet as the warbles of the vocal woods:
The list'ning passions hear, and sink, and rise,
As the rich harmony or swells, or dies;
The pulse of avarice forgets to move,
A purer rapture fills the breast of love;
Devotion lifts to heav'n a holier eye,
And bleeding pity heaves a softer sigh.
Exacter numbers, and diviner strains,
Strains such as once could build the Theban wall,
And stop the mountain torrent in its fall:
But yet, to wake them, rouze them, and inspire,
Asks a fine finger, and a touch of fire,
A feeling soul whose all expressive pow'rs
Can copy nature as she sinks or soars;
And, just alike to passion, time, and place,
Refine correctness into ease and grace.
He said—and, flying o'er each quiv'ring wire,
Spread his light hand, and swept it on the lyre.
Quick to his touch the lyre began to glow,
The sound to kindle, and the air to flow,
Deep as the murmurs of the falling floods,
Sweet as the warbles of the vocal woods:
128
As the rich harmony or swells, or dies;
The pulse of avarice forgets to move,
A purer rapture fills the breast of love;
Devotion lifts to heav'n a holier eye,
And bleeding pity heaves a softer sigh.
Life has its ease, amusement, joy, and fire,
Hid in itself, as music in the lyre;
And, like the lyre, will all its pow'rs impart
When touch'd and manag'd by the hand of art:
But half mankind, like Handel's fool, destroy,
Thro' rage and ignorance, the strain of joy,
Irregularly will their passions roll
Thro' nature's finest instrument, the soul:
While men of sense, with Handel's happier skill,
Correct the taste, and harmonize the will,
Teach their affections like his notes to flow,
Not rais'd too high, nor ever sunk too low;
Till every virtue, measur'd and refin'd,
As fits the concert of the master-mind,
Melts in its kindred sounds, and pours along
Th' according music of the moral song.
Hid in itself, as music in the lyre;
And, like the lyre, will all its pow'rs impart
When touch'd and manag'd by the hand of art:
But half mankind, like Handel's fool, destroy,
Thro' rage and ignorance, the strain of joy,
Irregularly will their passions roll
Thro' nature's finest instrument, the soul:
While men of sense, with Handel's happier skill,
Correct the taste, and harmonize the will,
Teach their affections like his notes to flow,
Not rais'd too high, nor ever sunk too low;
129
As fits the concert of the master-mind,
Melts in its kindred sounds, and pours along
Th' according music of the moral song.
| Poems | |