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THE Vanity of Human Enjoyments.
AN ETHIC EPISTLE.
To the Right Hon. George Lyttleton, Esq;
One of the Lords of His Majesty's Treasury, 1749.
I grant it, Lyttleton! that ease, or joy,
Forms ev'ry wish that glows beneath the sky;
That when, 'mid nature's elemental strife,
Th' Almighty spoke the Chaos into life,
He meant that man of ev'ry good possest,
Shou'd, like his Seraphs, live but to be blest.
Forms ev'ry wish that glows beneath the sky;
That when, 'mid nature's elemental strife,
Th' Almighty spoke the Chaos into life,
He meant that man of ev'ry good possest,
Shou'd, like his Seraphs, live but to be blest.
Yet, spite of heav'n, and heav'n's supreme decree;
We fondly wander, truth! from bliss, and thee;
Tasteless of all that virtue gives to please,
For thought too active, and too mad for ease;
Of feeling exquisite, alive all o'er,
With ev'ry passion wing'd at ev'ry pore,
To each soft breeze, or vig'rous blast resign'd,
That sweeps the ocean of the human mind,
We slip our anchors, spread the impatient sail,
Ply all our oars, and drive before the gale.
We fondly wander, truth! from bliss, and thee;
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For thought too active, and too mad for ease;
Of feeling exquisite, alive all o'er,
With ev'ry passion wing'd at ev'ry pore,
To each soft breeze, or vig'rous blast resign'd,
That sweeps the ocean of the human mind,
We slip our anchors, spread the impatient sail,
Ply all our oars, and drive before the gale.
Hence, as opinion wakes our hopes or fears,
As pride inspirits, or as anger tears,
These on the wings of moonstruck madness fly
To catch the meteors of ambition's sky;
Those, in pale wisdom's humbler garb array'd,
Court the soft genius of the myrtle shade;
While others, as the plastic atoms pour
More brilliant visions on each killing hour,
From scepter'd life, and all its pomps retire,
Or set, like Phaeton, the world on fire.
As pride inspirits, or as anger tears,
These on the wings of moonstruck madness fly
To catch the meteors of ambition's sky;
Those, in pale wisdom's humbler garb array'd,
Court the soft genius of the myrtle shade;
While others, as the plastic atoms pour
More brilliant visions on each killing hour,
From scepter'd life, and all its pomps retire,
Or set, like Phaeton, the world on fire.
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Oft the same man, in one revolving sun,
Is all he aims at, all he longs to shun,
Each gay delusion shares his breast by turns,
With av'rice chills him, or with grandeur burns:
To-day the gilded shrines of honour move,
To-morrow yields his ev'ry pulse to love;
Now mad for wisdom, now for wit, and sport,
This hour at Oxford, and the next at court:
Then, all for purity, he bids adieu
To each loose goddess of the midnight stew,
Enraptur'd hangs o'er Sherlock's labour'd page,
Drinks all his sense, and glows with all his rage,
Till some enormous crimes, unknown before,
From Rome imported, or the Caspian shore,
Nurs'd by thy hand, great Heidegger! attend,
And sink him to a mohock, or a fiend.
In one short space thus wanton, sober, grave,
A friend to virtue, yet to vice a slave,
From wish to wish in life's mad vortex tost,
For ever struggling, yet for ever lost,
The fickle wand'rer lives in ev'ry scene,
A Clark, a Charters, or an Aretine.
Is all he aims at, all he longs to shun,
Each gay delusion shares his breast by turns,
With av'rice chills him, or with grandeur burns:
To-day the gilded shrines of honour move,
To-morrow yields his ev'ry pulse to love;
Now mad for wisdom, now for wit, and sport,
This hour at Oxford, and the next at court:
Then, all for purity, he bids adieu
To each loose goddess of the midnight stew,
Enraptur'd hangs o'er Sherlock's labour'd page,
Drinks all his sense, and glows with all his rage,
Till some enormous crimes, unknown before,
From Rome imported, or the Caspian shore,
Nurs'd by thy hand, great Heidegger! attend,
And sink him to a mohock, or a fiend.
In one short space thus wanton, sober, grave,
A friend to virtue, yet to vice a slave,
From wish to wish in life's mad vortex tost,
For ever struggling, yet for ever lost,
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A Clark, a Charters, or an Aretine.
There are, 'tis true, Plebeian souls array'd
In one thick crust of apathy, and shade,
Whose dull sensoriums feel not once an age
A spirit brighten, or a passion rage.
As the swift arrow skims the viewless wind,
No path indented, and no mark behind,
So these, without or infamy, or praise,
Tread the dull circle of a length of days,
To some poor sepulchre in silence glide,
And scarcely tell us that they liv'd, or died.
In one thick crust of apathy, and shade,
Whose dull sensoriums feel not once an age
A spirit brighten, or a passion rage.
As the swift arrow skims the viewless wind,
No path indented, and no mark behind,
So these, without or infamy, or praise,
Tread the dull circle of a length of days,
To some poor sepulchre in silence glide,
And scarcely tell us that they liv'd, or died.
Peace to all such—but he whose warm desires
Or genius kindles, or ambition fires,
Who, like a comet, sweeps th' aerial void
Of wit and fame, too fine to be enjoy'd:
For him the muse shall wake her ev'ry art,
Exhibit truth, and open all the heart,
Display th' unnumber'd ills that hourly wait
The cells of wisdom, or the rooms of state:
Then, as o'er life's unfolding scenes we fly,
Bid all his wishes pant but for the sky.
Or genius kindles, or ambition fires,
Who, like a comet, sweeps th' aerial void
Of wit and fame, too fine to be enjoy'd:
For him the muse shall wake her ev'ry art,
Exhibit truth, and open all the heart,
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The cells of wisdom, or the rooms of state:
Then, as o'er life's unfolding scenes we fly,
Bid all his wishes pant but for the sky.
Heroic glory in the martial scene,
From Rome's first Cæsar to the great Eugene,
Has long engross'd the poet's heav'n-born flame,
And pour'd her triumphs thro' the trump of fame:
She mounts the neighing steed, th' imperial car,
Grasps the pale spear, and rushes to the war;
Beneath her steps earth's trembling orb recedes,
A Poitiers thunders, and a Cressy bleeds;
The battle raves—around her sabre flow
Terrific pleasures, and a pomp of woe,
Pomps ever lost in peace, and but ador'd
When half a nation smokes upon her sword.
From Rome's first Cæsar to the great Eugene,
Has long engross'd the poet's heav'n-born flame,
And pour'd her triumphs thro' the trump of fame:
She mounts the neighing steed, th' imperial car,
Grasps the pale spear, and rushes to the war;
Beneath her steps earth's trembling orb recedes,
A Poitiers thunders, and a Cressy bleeds;
The battle raves—around her sabre flow
Terrific pleasures, and a pomp of woe,
Pomps ever lost in peace, and but ador'd
When half a nation smokes upon her sword.
Fly then, ye Genii! from the tumult fly,
To all that opens in a rural sky:
There, as the vale, the grove, the zephyrs pour
Each purer rapture on the guiltless hour,
From ev'ry shrub content's soft foliage glean;
And rise the Platos of the vernal scene.
To all that opens in a rural sky:
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Each purer rapture on the guiltless hour,
From ev'ry shrub content's soft foliage glean;
And rise the Platos of the vernal scene.
And is it so? does science then possess
Alone the godlike privilege to bless?
Will fame her wreaths to moral wisdom yield,
And give the pen to blaze above the shield?
Say, does fair bliss delight in Maudlin's grove,
In Stanhope's villa, or in Young's alcove?
Deigns she on Secker's modest page to shine?
Or beams the goddess, Lyttleton! on thine?
Alone the godlike privilege to bless?
Will fame her wreaths to moral wisdom yield,
And give the pen to blaze above the shield?
Say, does fair bliss delight in Maudlin's grove,
In Stanhope's villa, or in Young's alcove?
Deigns she on Secker's modest page to shine?
Or beams the goddess, Lyttleton! on thine?
Ask at yon tomb, where Cudworth's mighty name
Weeps o'er the ruins of his wit, and fame;
Cudworth, whose spirit flew, with sails unfurl'd,
Thro' each vast empire of th' ideal world,
Pierc'd thro' the mystic shades o'er nature thrown,
And made the soul's immensity his own.
Yet tho' his system wit and science fir'd;
Tho' Wilmot trembled, and tho' Hobbs expir'd,
Mistaken zeal, mad bigotry conspire,
All Turner's dullness, and all Oxford's fire,
All envy's poisons, all a nation's rage,
And all hell's imps to blast th' unfinish'd page.
Weeps o'er the ruins of his wit, and fame;
Cudworth, whose spirit flew, with sails unfurl'd,
Thro' each vast empire of th' ideal world,
Pierc'd thro' the mystic shades o'er nature thrown,
And made the soul's immensity his own.
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Tho' Wilmot trembled, and tho' Hobbs expir'd,
Mistaken zeal, mad bigotry conspire,
All Turner's dullness, and all Oxford's fire,
All envy's poisons, all a nation's rage,
And all hell's imps to blast th' unfinish'd page.
Much injur'd shade! to truth, to virtue dear,—
Be calm, ye witlings! and, ye zealots! hear:
And, while this bright intelligence pervades
Th' ideal world, and rises o'er the shades,
His mines of wisdom, if you can, explore,
Then shut the volume, and be vain no more.
Be calm, ye witlings! and, ye zealots! hear:
And, while this bright intelligence pervades
Th' ideal world, and rises o'er the shades,
His mines of wisdom, if you can, explore,
Then shut the volume, and be vain no more.
Genius, and Taste, alas! too often prove
The worst of mischiefs to the wretch they love;
Born but to vex, to torture, to destroy,
Too wild for use, too exquisite for joy:
By some mysterious curse ordain'd to know
Each wit a rival, and each fool a foe.
For it's a crime too great to be forgiv'n,
A giant sin that bars the gate of heav'n,
If these meridian suns but dare to shine
In the same orb with Cibber's muse and mine.
The worst of mischiefs to the wretch they love;
Born but to vex, to torture, to destroy,
Too wild for use, too exquisite for joy:
By some mysterious curse ordain'd to know
Each wit a rival, and each fool a foe.
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A giant sin that bars the gate of heav'n,
If these meridian suns but dare to shine
In the same orb with Cibber's muse and mine.
Yet, spite of envy, science might be great,
Could science but allow her sons to eat:
Could he, whose name along the stream of time
Expanded flies, and lives in ev'ry clime,
Exalt his spirits with some nobler fare
Than the thin breezes of St. James's air.
Could science but allow her sons to eat:
Could he, whose name along the stream of time
Expanded flies, and lives in ev'ry clime,
Exalt his spirits with some nobler fare
Than the thin breezes of St. James's air.
Immortal Halley! thy unwearied soul
On wisdom's pinion flew from pole to pole,
Th' uncertain compass to its task restor'd,
Each ocean fathom'd, and each wind explor'd.
Commanded trade with ev'ry breeze to fly,
And gave to Britain half the zemblian sky.
On wisdom's pinion flew from pole to pole,
Th' uncertain compass to its task restor'd,
Each ocean fathom'd, and each wind explor'd.
Commanded trade with ev'ry breeze to fly,
And gave to Britain half the zemblian sky.
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And see, he comes, distinguish'd, lov'd, carest,
Mark'd by each eye, and hugg'd to ev'ry breast;
His godlike labours wit and science fire,
All factions court him, and all seets admire:
While Britain, with a gratitude unknown
To ev'ry age but Nero's and our own,
A gratitude that will for ever shame
The Spartan glory, and th' Athenian name—
Tell it, ye winds! that all the world may hear—
Blest his old age with—ninety pounds a year.
Are these our triumphs? these the sums we give
To ripen genius, and to bid it live?
Can Britain, in her fits of madness pour
One half her Indies on a Roman whore,
And still permit the weeping muse to tell
How poor neglected Desaguliers fell?
How he, who taught two gracious kings to view
All Boyle ennobled, and all Bacon knew,
Died in a cell, without a friend to save,
Without a guinea, and without a grave?
Mark'd by each eye, and hugg'd to ev'ry breast;
His godlike labours wit and science fire,
All factions court him, and all seets admire:
While Britain, with a gratitude unknown
To ev'ry age but Nero's and our own,
A gratitude that will for ever shame
The Spartan glory, and th' Athenian name—
Tell it, ye winds! that all the world may hear—
Blest his old age with—ninety pounds a year.
Are these our triumphs? these the sums we give
To ripen genius, and to bid it live?
Can Britain, in her fits of madness pour
One half her Indies on a Roman whore,
And still permit the weeping muse to tell
How poor neglected Desaguliers fell?
How he, who taught two gracious kings to view
All Boyle ennobled, and all Bacon knew,
Died in a cell, without a friend to save,
Without a guinea, and without a grave?
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Posterity, perhaps, may pay the debt
That senates cancel, and that courts forget:
Yet, ah! what boots it when our bards expire
That earth's last ages hang upon the lyre?
Can Middleton the dust of Tully raise?
Does Pompey listen in his urn to praise?
Tell me if Philip's son enjoy to-day
Th' applauding Pæn, or the loud huzza,
That shook pale Asia thro' her ev'ry shore
When Porus fell, and freedom was no more?
Yet tho' content's fantastic image flies
From the bright mirrors of the learn'd and wise,
Perhaps the fair, too partial to the great,
Lives but amid'st the luxuries of state:
Fond to instruct ambition how to please,
She joins the pomps of majesty with ease,
Forsakes the cottage to adorn the court,
Alike at Rome, Vienna, or the Porte.
That senates cancel, and that courts forget:
Yet, ah! what boots it when our bards expire
That earth's last ages hang upon the lyre?
Can Middleton the dust of Tully raise?
Does Pompey listen in his urn to praise?
Tell me if Philip's son enjoy to-day
Th' applauding Pæn, or the loud huzza,
That shook pale Asia thro' her ev'ry shore
When Porus fell, and freedom was no more?
Yet tho' content's fantastic image flies
From the bright mirrors of the learn'd and wise,
Perhaps the fair, too partial to the great,
Lives but amid'st the luxuries of state:
Fond to instruct ambition how to please,
She joins the pomps of majesty with ease,
Forsakes the cottage to adorn the court,
Alike at Rome, Vienna, or the Porte.
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Tell me, O Visier! if th' imperial robe
That gives a slave to nod o'er half the globe,
Say, if yon cresent, by each Turk ador'd,
The plume's proud sables, and the hallow'd sword,
Expand the heart, the gleams of bliss refine,
And make the virtues of the bosom thine?
That gives a slave to nod o'er half the globe,
Say, if yon cresent, by each Turk ador'd,
The plume's proud sables, and the hallow'd sword,
Expand the heart, the gleams of bliss refine,
And make the virtues of the bosom thine?
Ill-fated wretch! to ev'ry storm a slave
That caprice wings, or madness bids to rave;
Forever jealous of a woman's pow'r,
Forever trembling at the midnight hour,
Thro' life's wild eddies toss'd by hope and fear,
Rais'd by a smile, and murder'd by a tear!
At length, each wish destroy'd, each vision fled,
The black seraglio steals upon his bed:
And he, whose glories mingled with the skies,
Adores the bowstring, licks the dust, and dies.
That caprice wings, or madness bids to rave;
Forever jealous of a woman's pow'r,
Forever trembling at the midnight hour,
Thro' life's wild eddies toss'd by hope and fear,
Rais'd by a smile, and murder'd by a tear!
At length, each wish destroy'd, each vision fled,
The black seraglio steals upon his bed:
And he, whose glories mingled with the skies,
Adores the bowstring, licks the dust, and dies.
O! could a king in heav'n's bright pomps appear,
And make an angel as he makes a peer,
Could he command the heart to beam as far,
As the soft radiance of the ducal star;
Forbid one sad anxiety to glow,
One pang to torture, and one tear to flow:
Fly then, on all the whirlwind's rapid wing,
To steal a title, or to bribe a string;
In the full blaze of glory be display'd,
And leave affliction to the vale and shade.
Yet, ere you go, ere proud ambition call,
Each yielding wish to Marli, or Whitehall,
O pause—lest virtue ev'ry guard resign,
And the sad fate of Ripperda be thine.
And make an angel as he makes a peer,
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As the soft radiance of the ducal star;
Forbid one sad anxiety to glow,
One pang to torture, and one tear to flow:
Fly then, on all the whirlwind's rapid wing,
To steal a title, or to bribe a string;
In the full blaze of glory be display'd,
And leave affliction to the vale and shade.
Yet, ere you go, ere proud ambition call,
Each yielding wish to Marli, or Whitehall,
O pause—lest virtue ev'ry guard resign,
And the sad fate of Ripperda be thine.
This glorious wretch, indulg'd at once to move
A nation's wonder, and a monarch's love,
Blest with each charm politer courts admire,
The grace to soften, and the soul to fire,
Forsook his native bogs with proud disdain,
And, tho' a Dutchman, rose the pride of Spain.
This hour the pageant waves th' imperial rod,
All Philip's empire trembling at his nod;
The next disgrac'd he flies to Britain's isle,
And courts the sunshine of a Walpole's smile:
Unheard, despis'd, to southern climes he steers,
And shines again at Sallé, and Algiers,
Bids pale Morocco all his schemes adore,
And pours her thunder on th' Hesperian shore;
All nature's ties, all virtue's creeds belied,
Each church abandon'd, and each God denied,
Without a friend, a sepulchre to shield
His carcass from the vultures of the field,
He dies, of all ambition's sons the worst,
By Afric hated, and by Europe curst.
A nation's wonder, and a monarch's love,
Blest with each charm politer courts admire,
The grace to soften, and the soul to fire,
Forsook his native bogs with proud disdain,
And, tho' a Dutchman, rose the pride of Spain.
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All Philip's empire trembling at his nod;
The next disgrac'd he flies to Britain's isle,
And courts the sunshine of a Walpole's smile:
Unheard, despis'd, to southern climes he steers,
And shines again at Sallé, and Algiers,
Bids pale Morocco all his schemes adore,
And pours her thunder on th' Hesperian shore;
All nature's ties, all virtue's creeds belied,
Each church abandon'd, and each God denied,
Without a friend, a sepulchre to shield
His carcass from the vultures of the field,
He dies, of all ambition's sons the worst,
By Afric hated, and by Europe curst.
“He earns his fate who will for phantoms toil,”
Exclaims the goddess of the mirthful smile,
From wild ambition, with her every care,
The scenes of grandeur, and the pomps of war,
From all a court's proud pageantry admires,
All science wishes, and all glory fires,
Fly to my arms, from fame, from anguish free,
And taste a luxury of bliss with me.
For me the genial spring, the vernal show'r,
Wake the bright verdure, and th' unfolding flow'r;
Arabia's sweets in all my moments fly,
The zephyr's plumage, and the wing of joy,
Each richer viand that the air provides,
That earth unbosoms, or that ocean hides,
All that can nature's finer organs move,
The pow'rs of music, and the folds of love,
To my keen senses are indulgent giv'n,
In one wild extasy of life and heav'n.
Exclaims the goddess of the mirthful smile,
From wild ambition, with her every care,
The scenes of grandeur, and the pomps of war,
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All science wishes, and all glory fires,
Fly to my arms, from fame, from anguish free,
And taste a luxury of bliss with me.
For me the genial spring, the vernal show'r,
Wake the bright verdure, and th' unfolding flow'r;
Arabia's sweets in all my moments fly,
The zephyr's plumage, and the wing of joy,
Each richer viand that the air provides,
That earth unbosoms, or that ocean hides,
All that can nature's finer organs move,
The pow'rs of music, and the folds of love,
To my keen senses are indulgent giv'n,
In one wild extasy of life and heav'n.
Yet, yet, dear youth! the fair enchantress shun,
To yield a moment is to be undone:
All Etna's poisons mingle with her breath.
The seeds of sickness, and the gales of death,
She aims to ruin, lives but to beguile,
And all hell's horrors brood beneath her smile.
To yield a moment is to be undone:
All Etna's poisons mingle with her breath.
The seeds of sickness, and the gales of death,
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And all hell's horrors brood beneath her smile.
'Tis thus, my Lyttleton! that men pursue
Each varied mode of pleasure but the true,
To ev'ry vice, each luxury a prey,
That murders bliss, and hurries life away:
Their headstrong passions after phantoms run,
And still mistake a meteor for a sun.
Each varied mode of pleasure but the true,
To ev'ry vice, each luxury a prey,
That murders bliss, and hurries life away:
Their headstrong passions after phantoms run,
And still mistake a meteor for a sun.
Yet hear, ye wand'rers! hear, while we impart
A light that sheds fair peace on ev'ry heart;
Which, Aristides! beam'd on thy exile,
And made a Regulus 'mid tortures smile.
A light that sheds fair peace on ev'ry heart;
Which, Aristides! beam'd on thy exile,
And made a Regulus 'mid tortures smile.
Virtue, immortal virtue! born to please,
The child of heaven, and the source of ease,
Bids ev'ry bliss on human life attend,
To ev'ry rank a kind, a faithful friend;
Inspirits nature 'midst the scenes of toil,
Smooths languor's cheek, and bids fell want recoil,
Shines from the mitre with unsullied rays,
Glares on the crest, and gives the star to blaze,
Supports distinction, spreads ambition's wings,
Forms saints of queens, and demigods of kings;
O'er grief, oppression, envy, scorn prevails,
And makes a cottage greater than Versailles.
The child of heaven, and the source of ease,
Bids ev'ry bliss on human life attend,
To ev'ry rank a kind, a faithful friend;
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Smooths languor's cheek, and bids fell want recoil,
Shines from the mitre with unsullied rays,
Glares on the crest, and gives the star to blaze,
Supports distinction, spreads ambition's wings,
Forms saints of queens, and demigods of kings;
O'er grief, oppression, envy, scorn prevails,
And makes a cottage greater than Versailles.
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