University of Virginia Library

COMMONPLACES.

I.

II.

We know the good, and yet we seize it not;
See the true path, and yet pursue it not;
Discern the brightness of the glancing star,
Whose salutary lustre would deliver
Our storm-tossed vessel from the waves of sorrow,
Yet trust not to its extricating guidance.
So wrangle still our wishes with our practice;
Conscience and honour, virtuous love of fame,
All upward tendings of the emulous heart,
Drive like a gusty wind against the tide,
The swelling tide of base and low affections,
Of all that lures us from the sunbright way
Of noble deeds; and so the stream of life
Is ruffled only into billows on the surface,
Its deeper course unchanged—so jar and tumult
And sad commotion of the inward breast
Perplex its foamy course. More happy they
Whose eyes content have never looked beyond
The common aimings of the multitude,
Attracted never by the voice of Fame
The clear exalted light of fair Renown!
They pass ignobly happy—with the crowd
They pass away unheard of—in obscure
Oblivious calm, they live their sluggish death,
Nor claim distinction aught, desiring none.

III.

“How little do we know the joys we have
Until we lose them,”—then with what regret
Discern their value never felt before!
The tenant of the chamber, through whose gloom
Pale Sickness waves her pleasure-frighting wand,
Bidding attendance of her ghastly crew
Of pains corporeal, sappers of the mind—
Paints to himself the blessings sweet of Health,
Of rosy bounding health—compares his heart
Languid and sinking—faint with long disuse
Of cheering breeze, fresh air, and gladsome sun,
With his, the unchecked wanderer's, to whom
Health lends enlivening buoyancy to choose
And taste the joys around. Yet strange to say
Though taught by hard experience how good
A thing is mere exemption from the ill,
So soon her lessons are forgot, we find
The good regained no longer good than whilst
The ill its absence made could set it off.
Once more 'tis ours and we perceive it not—
Its beauty all has vanished—and again
We toil for other blessings, fancy-fired,
But to neglect and think them little worth
When we have gained them.—Thus we live
Still toiling on to nothings—each fulfilment
The worst of disappointments; as in wilds
Of burning Afric—sullen, herbless wastes—
With cleaving tongue, and weary, fainting step,
The traveller strains to reach the false mirage
That mocks his thirst with pictured lake, and finds
A smooth expanse of still deceptive sand
Which baffles him at once to deep despair.
Oh when will fancy-flouted man consent
To study to enjoy the good he has,
Not pant for blessings which he views afar—
To know Possession's worth—though partial, sure;
And Hope's deceit—though boundless, insecure,