 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
65
HUMAN LIFE.
SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY AN EPICURE. IN IMITATION OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE WISDOM OF SOLOMON. TO THE LORD HUNSDON.
A PINDARIC ODE.
Then will penurious Heaven no more allow?
No more on its own darling Man bestow?
Is it for this he lord of all appears,
And his great Maker's image bears?
To toil beneath a wretched state,
Oppress'd with miseries and fate;
Beneath his painful burthen groan,
And in this beaten road of life drudge on!
Amidst our labours, we possess
No kind allays of happiness:
No softening joys can call our own,
To make this bitter drug go down;
Whilst Death an easy conquest gains,
And the insatiate Grave in endless triumph reigns.
With throes and pangs into the world we come,
The curse and burthen of the womb:
Nor wretched to ourselves alone,
Our mothers' labours introduce our own.
In cries and tears our infancy we waste,
Those sad prophetic tears, that flow
By instinct of our future woe:
And ev'n our dawn of life with sorrows overcast.
Thus we toil out a restless age,
Each his laborious part must have,
Down from the monarch to the slave,
Act o'er this farce of life, then drop beneath the stage.
No more on its own darling Man bestow?
Is it for this he lord of all appears,
And his great Maker's image bears?
To toil beneath a wretched state,
Oppress'd with miseries and fate;
Beneath his painful burthen groan,
And in this beaten road of life drudge on!
Amidst our labours, we possess
No kind allays of happiness:
No softening joys can call our own,
To make this bitter drug go down;
Whilst Death an easy conquest gains,
And the insatiate Grave in endless triumph reigns.
With throes and pangs into the world we come,
The curse and burthen of the womb:
Nor wretched to ourselves alone,
Our mothers' labours introduce our own.
In cries and tears our infancy we waste,
Those sad prophetic tears, that flow
By instinct of our future woe:
And ev'n our dawn of life with sorrows overcast.
Thus we toil out a restless age,
Each his laborious part must have,
Down from the monarch to the slave,
Act o'er this farce of life, then drop beneath the stage.
From our first drawing vital breath,
From our first starting from the womb,
Until we reach the destin'd tomb,
We all are posting on to the dark goal of death.
Life, like a cloud that fleets before the wind,
No mark, no kind impression, leaves behind,
'Tis scattered like the winds that blow,
Boisterous as them, full as inconstant too,
That know not whence they come, nor where they go.
Here we're detain'd a while, and then
Become originals again:
Time shall a man to his first self restore,
And make him entire nothing, all he was before.
No part of us, no remnant, shall survive!
And yet we impudently say, we live!
No! we but ebb into ourselves again,
And only come to be, as we had never been.
From our first starting from the womb,
Until we reach the destin'd tomb,
We all are posting on to the dark goal of death.
Life, like a cloud that fleets before the wind,
No mark, no kind impression, leaves behind,
'Tis scattered like the winds that blow,
Boisterous as them, full as inconstant too,
That know not whence they come, nor where they go.
Here we're detain'd a while, and then
Become originals again:
Time shall a man to his first self restore,
And make him entire nothing, all he was before.
No part of us, no remnant, shall survive!
And yet we impudently say, we live!
No! we but ebb into ourselves again,
And only come to be, as we had never been.
Say, learned Sage, thou that art mighty wise!
Unriddle me these mysteries;
What is the soul, the vital heat,
That our mean frame does animate?
What is our breath, the breath of man,
That buoys his nature up, and does ev'n life sustain?
Is it not air, an empty fume,
A fire that does itself consume;
A warmth that in a heart is bred,
A lambent flame with heat and motion fed?
Extinguish that, the whole is gone,
This boasted scene of life is done:
Away the phantom takes its flight,
Damn'd to a loathsome grave, and an eternal night.
The soul th' immortal part we boast,
In one consuming minute's lost;
To its first source it must repair,
Scatter with winds, and flow with common air.
Whilst the fall'n body, by a swift decay,
Resolves into its native clay:
For dust and ashes are its second birth,
And that incorporates too with its great parent, Earth.
Unriddle me these mysteries;
What is the soul, the vital heat,
That our mean frame does animate?
What is our breath, the breath of man,
That buoys his nature up, and does ev'n life sustain?
Is it not air, an empty fume,
A fire that does itself consume;
A warmth that in a heart is bred,
A lambent flame with heat and motion fed?
Extinguish that, the whole is gone,
This boasted scene of life is done:
Away the phantom takes its flight,
Damn'd to a loathsome grave, and an eternal night.
The soul th' immortal part we boast,
In one consuming minute's lost;
To its first source it must repair,
Scatter with winds, and flow with common air.
Whilst the fall'n body, by a swift decay,
Resolves into its native clay:
For dust and ashes are its second birth,
And that incorporates too with its great parent, Earth.
Nor shall our names our memories survive,
Alas, no part of man can live!
The empty blasts of fame shall die,
And even those nothings taste mortality.
In vain to future ages we transmit
Heroic acts, and monuments of wit:
In vain we dear-bought honours leave,
To make our ashes gay, and furnish out a grave.
Ah, treacherous Immortality!
For thee our stock of youth we waste,
And urge on life, that ebbs too fast,
To purchase thee with blood, the valiant fly;
And, to survive in fame, the great and glorious die.
Lavish of life, they squander this estate,
And for a poor reversion wait:
Bankrupts and misers to themselves they grow,
Embitter wretched life with toils and woe,
To hoard up endless fame, they know not where or how.
Alas, no part of man can live!
The empty blasts of fame shall die,
And even those nothings taste mortality.
In vain to future ages we transmit
Heroic acts, and monuments of wit:
In vain we dear-bought honours leave,
To make our ashes gay, and furnish out a grave.
Ah, treacherous Immortality!
For thee our stock of youth we waste,
And urge on life, that ebbs too fast,
To purchase thee with blood, the valiant fly;
And, to survive in fame, the great and glorious die.
Lavish of life, they squander this estate,
And for a poor reversion wait:
Bankrupts and misers to themselves they grow,
Embitter wretched life with toils and woe,
To hoard up endless fame, they know not where or how.
Ah, think, my friends, how swift the minutes haste!
The present day entirely is our own
Then sieze the blessing ere 'tis gone:
To-morrow, fatal sound! since this may be our last,
Why do we boast of years, and sum up days!
'Tis all imaginary space:
To-day, to-day, is our inheritance,
'Tis all penurious Fate will give
Posterity'll to-morrow live,
Our sons crowd on behind, our children drive us hence.
With garlands then your temples crown,
And lie on beds of roses down:
Beds of roses we'll prepare,
Roses that our emblems are;
A while they flourish on the bough,
And drink large draughts of heavenly dew:
Like us they smile, are young and gay,
And, like us too, are tenants for a day,
Since with Night's blasting breath they vanish swift away.
The present day entirely is our own
Then sieze the blessing ere 'tis gone:
To-morrow, fatal sound! since this may be our last,
Why do we boast of years, and sum up days!
'Tis all imaginary space:
To-day, to-day, is our inheritance,
'Tis all penurious Fate will give
Posterity'll to-morrow live,
Our sons crowd on behind, our children drive us hence.
With garlands then your temples crown,
And lie on beds of roses down:
Beds of roses we'll prepare,
Roses that our emblems are;
A while they flourish on the bough,
And drink large draughts of heavenly dew:
Like us they smile, are young and gay,
And, like us too, are tenants for a day,
Since with Night's blasting breath they vanish swift away.
Bring cheerful wine, and costly sweets prepare:
'Tis more than frenzy now to spare:
Let cares and business wait a while;
Old age affords a thinking interval:
Or, if they must a longer hearing have,
Bid them attend below, adjourn into the grave.
Then gay and sprightly wine produce,
Wines that wit and mirth infuse:
That feed, like oil, th' expiring flame,
Revive our drooping souls, and prop this tottering frame.
That, when the grave our bodies has engross'd,
When virtues shall forgotten lie,
With all their boasted piety,
Honours and titles, like ourselves, be lost;
Then our recorded vice shall flourish on,
And our immortal riots be for ever known.
This, this, is what we ought to do,
The great design, the grand affair below!
Since bounteous Nature's plac'd our steward here,
Then man his grandeur should maintain,
And in excess of pleasure reign,
Keep up his character, and lord of all appear.
'Tis more than frenzy now to spare:
Let cares and business wait a while;
Old age affords a thinking interval:
Or, if they must a longer hearing have,
Bid them attend below, adjourn into the grave.
Then gay and sprightly wine produce,
Wines that wit and mirth infuse:
That feed, like oil, th' expiring flame,
Revive our drooping souls, and prop this tottering frame.
That, when the grave our bodies has engross'd,
When virtues shall forgotten lie,
With all their boasted piety,
Honours and titles, like ourselves, be lost;
Then our recorded vice shall flourish on,
And our immortal riots be for ever known.
This, this, is what we ought to do,
The great design, the grand affair below!
Since bounteous Nature's plac'd our steward here,
Then man his grandeur should maintain,
And in excess of pleasure reign,
Keep up his character, and lord of all appear.
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |