The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes |
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To the Discontented and Unquiet.
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 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
To the Discontented and Unquiet.
Imitated partly from Casimire, book iv. ode 15.
Varia, there's nothing here that's free
From wearisome anxiety:
And the whole round of mortal joys
With short possession tires and cloys:
'Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Just from the window to the bed,
We rise to see and to be seen,
Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to sleep again.
But fancy, that uneasy guest,
Still holds a lodging in our breast;
She finds or frames vexations still.
Herself the greatest plague we feel,
We take strange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Assume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th'imaginary weight.
With our dear selves we live at strife,
While the most constant scenes of life
From peevish humours are not free;
Still we affect variety:
Rather than pass an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling sun,
And vex that he should ever run
The same old track; and still, and still
Rise red behind yon eastern hill,
And chides the moon that darts her light
Thro' the same casement every night.
From wearisome anxiety:
And the whole round of mortal joys
With short possession tires and cloys:
'Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Just from the window to the bed,
We rise to see and to be seen,
Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to sleep again.
But fancy, that uneasy guest,
Still holds a lodging in our breast;
She finds or frames vexations still.
Herself the greatest plague we feel,
We take strange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Assume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th'imaginary weight.
With our dear selves we live at strife,
While the most constant scenes of life
480
Still we affect variety:
Rather than pass an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling sun,
And vex that he should ever run
The same old track; and still, and still
Rise red behind yon eastern hill,
And chides the moon that darts her light
Thro' the same casement every night.
We shift our chambers, and our homes,
To dwell where trouble never comes:
Silvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the woods; a hermit-saint!
She loaths her patches, pins and paint,
Dear diamonds from her neck are torn:
But Humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She's hurry'd still,
'Twixt her wild passions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where'er she roves,
By purling streams, and silent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.
To dwell where trouble never comes:
Silvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the woods; a hermit-saint!
She loaths her patches, pins and paint,
Dear diamonds from her neck are torn:
But Humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She's hurry'd still,
'Twixt her wild passions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where'er she roves,
By purling streams, and silent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.
Then our own native land we hate,
Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;
In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Silvia, mount the whirling sky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain; if this diseased mind
Clings fast, and still sits close behind.
Faithful disease, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's side,
Over the desert or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying sails.
Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;
In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Silvia, mount the whirling sky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain; if this diseased mind
Clings fast, and still sits close behind.
Faithful disease, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's side,
Over the desert or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying sails.
Happy the soul that virtue shows
To fix the place of her repose,
Needless to move; for she can dwell
In her old grandsire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But sweetly hides herself at home,
And easy on a native throne
Of humble turf sits gently down.
To fix the place of her repose,
Needless to move; for she can dwell
In her old grandsire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But sweetly hides herself at home,
And easy on a native throne
Of humble turf sits gently down.
Yet should tumultuous storms arise,
And mingle earth and seas, and skies,
Should the waves swell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still she's at peace; for well she knows
To launch the stream that duty shows,
And makes her home where'er she goes.
Bear her, ye seas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from east to west
On the soft air; she cannot find
A couch so easy as her mind,
Nor breathe a climate half so kind.
And mingle earth and seas, and skies,
Should the waves swell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still she's at peace; for well she knows
To launch the stream that duty shows,
And makes her home where'er she goes.
Bear her, ye seas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from east to west
On the soft air; she cannot find
A couch so easy as her mind,
Nor breathe a climate half so kind.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |