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19
ON EXCESS.
—“Les Hommes le plupart sont étrangement faits;
Dans la juste nature on ne les voit jamais:
La Raison a pour eux des bornes trop petites;
En chaque caracètre ils passent ses limites;
Et la plus noble chose, ils la gâtent souvent
Pour la vouloir outrer et pousser trop avant.”—
Moliere.
While so various our faculties, passions, and views,
How comes it, so few can true happiness find?
'Tis because Man, what-e'er be the course he pursues,
Still aims to be more, than what Nature designed.
'Tis because with contempt Moderation we see;
To be wise, happy, great, or good none ever tries;
But with ceaseless exertion each labours to be
Too great, or too happy, too good, or too wise.
How comes it, so few can true happiness find?
'Tis because Man, what-e'er be the course he pursues,
Still aims to be more, than what Nature designed.
'Tis because with contempt Moderation we see;
To be wise, happy, great, or good none ever tries;
But with ceaseless exertion each labours to be
Too great, or too happy, too good, or too wise.
20
To be Man and no more Man should limit his care,
And hold the mid station 'twixt Angel and Brute,
Active Virtue composing his every-day's wear,
And harmless Enjoyment his holiday's suit.
But while Moderation despising, we strive
In pleasure or virtue perfection to gain,
From excess to excess on life's ocean we drive,
And the harbour of happiness seldom attain.
And hold the mid station 'twixt Angel and Brute,
Active Virtue composing his every-day's wear,
And harmless Enjoyment his holiday's suit.
But while Moderation despising, we strive
In pleasure or virtue perfection to gain,
From excess to excess on life's ocean we drive,
And the harbour of happiness seldom attain.
Some, holding that Man but exists to enjoy,
Bid their days winged with rapture voluptuously fly;
Others, finding that libertine pleasures soon cloy,
Reject the delights, which their senses supply.
Like Maniacs the First wildly riot along,
Forlorn to the Last seems their earthly abode:
Both fly to extremes, find too late they were wrong,
And have mist the true blessings, which chequer life's road.
Bid their days winged with rapture voluptuously fly;
Others, finding that libertine pleasures soon cloy,
Reject the delights, which their senses supply.
Like Maniacs the First wildly riot along,
Forlorn to the Last seems their earthly abode:
Both fly to extremes, find too late they were wrong,
And have mist the true blessings, which chequer life's road.
21
The Hermit, with Man and with Nature at strife,
Shunning pleasure, and careless who sink or who swim,
Leads alone and inactive a dull selfish life,
Neither useful to others, nor pleasing to him:
Nor e'er by such cold flinty hearts can be proved
That sunshine, which chears his benevolent breast,
Who by loving his neighbours has made himself loved,
And by blessing another, can make himself blest.
Shunning pleasure, and careless who sink or who swim,
Leads alone and inactive a dull selfish life,
Neither useful to others, nor pleasing to him:
Nor e'er by such cold flinty hearts can be proved
That sunshine, which chears his benevolent breast,
Who by loving his neighbours has made himself loved,
And by blessing another, can make himself blest.
The Rake, from all conscience and prejudice freed,
God and Man in pursuit of enjoyment defies:
Though Prudence may warn him, though Virtue may plead,
Invited by Pleasure, still onward he flies.
But ne'er tastes the Libertine's lip that sweet stream,
Unsullied which flows in life's chrystalline bowl,
When Love joins with Nature, with Passion Esteem,
And the senses in ecstasy yield to the soul.
God and Man in pursuit of enjoyment defies:
Though Prudence may warn him, though Virtue may plead,
Invited by Pleasure, still onward he flies.
But ne'er tastes the Libertine's lip that sweet stream,
Unsullied which flows in life's chrystalline bowl,
When Love joins with Nature, with Passion Esteem,
And the senses in ecstasy yield to the soul.
22
Despised be the Hermit, detested the Rake;
The Last is a Villain, the First is a Fool:
Not theirs be the lives which for models I take,
Not theirs be the maxims my conduct to rule.
I'll aim not at virtues for Man too sublime,
I'll pervert not my pleasures by vicious excess;
But while Bacchus and Love aid the progress of Time,
May Honour and Sense their encroachments repress.
The Last is a Villain, the First is a Fool:
Not theirs be the lives which for models I take,
Not theirs be the maxims my conduct to rule.
I'll aim not at virtues for Man too sublime,
I'll pervert not my pleasures by vicious excess;
But while Bacchus and Love aid the progress of Time,
May Honour and Sense their encroachments repress.
When Remorse with my kisses her poison would blend,
May Beauty's soft bosom ne'er throb against mine;
When the grape proves my Tyrant, no longer my Friend,
Oh Lips! may I ne'er again bathe you in wine!
But when at the tears of a stranger I melt,
Or my spirits are sunk by the pressure of care,
May Love give me thanks, that for others I felt,
And Wine give me strength my own burthen to bear.
May Beauty's soft bosom ne'er throb against mine;
When the grape proves my Tyrant, no longer my Friend,
Oh Lips! may I ne'er again bathe you in wine!
But when at the tears of a stranger I melt,
Or my spirits are sunk by the pressure of care,
May Love give me thanks, that for others I felt,
And Wine give me strength my own burthen to bear.
23
Let Honour the pleasures I covet approve,
Or never by me let those pleasures be tried;
Let the kiss I solicit be granted by Love,
Or still to my lip may that kiss be denied:
And when for my sorrows a solace to find,
I bid in my goblet champagne bubble high,
May each globe on its surface recall to my mind
A tear drawn by Kindness from Gratitude's eye!
Or never by me let those pleasures be tried;
Let the kiss I solicit be granted by Love,
Or still to my lip may that kiss be denied:
And when for my sorrows a solace to find,
I bid in my goblet champagne bubble high,
May each globe on its surface recall to my mind
A tear drawn by Kindness from Gratitude's eye!
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