What can enn.o.ble sots, or slaves, or cowards?

Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

Look next on greatness; say where greatness lies?

"Where, but among the heroes and the wise?"

Heroes are much the same, the points agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede; The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find Or make, an enemy of all mankind?

Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose.

No less alike the politic and wise; All sly slow things, with circ.u.mspective eyes; Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak.

But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat; 'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great: Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.

Who n.o.ble ends by n.o.ble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

What's fame? a fancied life in others' breath, A thing beyond us, even before our death.

Just what you hear, you have, and what's unknown The same (my Lord) if Tully's, or your own.

All that we feel of it begins and ends In the small circle of our foes or friends; To all beside as much an empty shade An Eugene living, as a Caesar dead; Alike or when, or where, they shone, or shine, Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod; An honest man's the n.o.blest work of G.o.d.

Fame but from death a villain's name can save, As justice tears his body from the grave; When what the oblivion better were resigned, Is hung on high, to poison half mankind.

All fame is foreign, but of true desert; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart: One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels, Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.

In parts superior what advantage lies?

Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?

'Tis but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own; Condemned in business or in arts to drudge, Without a second or without a judge; Truths would you teach or save a sinking land, All fear, none aid you, and few understand.

Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Bring, then, these blessings to a strict account; Make fair deductions; see to what they mount; How much of other each is sure to cost; How each for other oft is wholly lost; How inconsistent greater goods with these; How sometimes life is risked, and always ease; Think, and if still the things thy envy call, Say, would'st thou be the man to whom they fall?

To sigh for ribands if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy: Is yellow dirt the pa.s.sion of thy life?

Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife; If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind: Or ravished with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell; d.a.m.ned to everlasting fame!

If all, united, thy ambition call, From ancient story learn to scorn them all.

There, in the rich, the honoured, famed, and great, See the false scale of happiness complete!

In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, How happy! those to ruin, these betray.

Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows, From dirt and seaweed as proud Venice rose; In each how guilt and greatness equal ran, And all that raised the hero, sunk the man: Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold, But stained with blood, or ill exchanged for gold; Then see them broke with toils or sunk with ease, Or infamous for plundered provinces.

Oh, wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame; What greater bliss attends their close of life?

Some greedy minion, or imperious wife.

The trophied arches, storeyed halls invade And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.

Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray, Compute the morn and evening to the day; The whole amount of that enormous fame, A tale, that blends their glory with their shame; Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know) "Virtue alone is happiness below."

The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill; Where only merit constant pay receives, Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives; The joy unequalled, if its end it gain, And if it lose, attended with no pain; Without satiety, though e'er so blessed, And but more relished as the more distressed: The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears, Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears: Good, from each object, from each place acquired For ever exercised, yet never tired; Never elated, while one man's oppressed; Never dejected while another's blessed; And where no wants, no wishes can remain, Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.

See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow!

Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know: Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, The bad must miss; the good, untaught, will find; Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's G.o.d; Pursues that chain which links the immense design, Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine; Sees, that no being any bliss can know, But touches some above, and some below; Learns, from this union of the rising whole, The first, last purpose of the human soul; And knows, where faith, law, morals, all began, All end, in love of G.o.d, and love of man.

For Him alone, hope leads from goal to goal, And opens still, and opens on his soul!

Till lengthened on to faith, and unconfined, It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind He sees, why Nature plants in man alone Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown: (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind Are given in vain, but what they seek they find) Wise is her present; she connects in this His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss; At once his own bright prospect to be blest, And strongest motive to a.s.sist the rest.

Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine, Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine.

Is this too little for the boundless heart?

Extend it, let thy enemies have part: Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense, In one close system of benevolence: Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, And height of bliss but height of charity.

G.o.d loves from whole to parts: but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole.

Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake!

The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; His country next; and next all human race; Wide and more wide, the o'erflowings of the mind Take every creature in, of every kind; Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, And Heaven beholds its image in his breast.

Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along; Oh, master of the poet, and the song!

And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends, To man's low pa.s.sions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise; Formed by thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please.

Oh! while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?

When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend?

That urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; From wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; Showed erring pride, whatever is, is right; That reason, pa.s.sion, answer one great aim; That true self-love and social are the same; That virtue only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

DEO OPT. MAX.

Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou Great First Cause, least understood, Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And binding Nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than h.e.l.l to shun, That, more than Heaven pursue.

What blessings Thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away; For G.o.d is paid when man receives, To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think Thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round:

Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw, And deal d.a.m.nation round the land, On each I judge Thy foe.

If I am right, Thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught Thy wisdom has denied, Or aught Thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so, Since quickened by Thy breath; Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go, Through this day's life or death.

This day, be bread and peace my lot: All else beneath the sun, Thou know'st if best bestowed or not; And let Thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all s.p.a.ce, Whose altar earth, sea, skies, One chorus let all being raise, All Nature's incense rise!

MORAL ESSAYS, IN FOUR EPISTLES TO SEVERAL PERSONS.

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se Impediat verbis la.s.sas onerantibus aures: Et sermone opus est modo tristi, saepe jocoso, Defendente vicem modo Rhetoris atque Poetae, Interdum urbani, parcentis viribus, atque Extenuantis eas consult.-Hor. (Sat. i. x. 9-14.)

EPISTLE I. TO SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, LORD COBHAM.

ARGUMENT.

Of the Knowledge and Characters of Men.

I. That it is not sufficient for this knowledge to consider Man in the Abstract: Books will not serve the purpose, nor yet our own Experience singly, v.1. General maxims, unless they be formed upon both, will be but notional, v.10. Some Peculiarity in every man, characteristic to himself, yet varying from himself, v.15. Difficulties arising from our own Pa.s.sions, Fancies, Faculties, etc., v.31. The shortness of Life, to observe in, and the uncertainty of the Principles of action in men, to observe by, v.37, etc. Our own Principle of action often hid from ourselves, v.41. Some few Characters plain, but in general confounded, dissembled, or inconsistent, v.51. The same man utterly different in different places and seasons, v.71. Unimaginable weaknesses in the greatest, v.70, etc. Nothing constant and certain but G.o.d and Nature, v.95. No judging of the Motives from the actions; the same actions proceeding from contrary Motives, and the same Motives influencing contrary actions v.100. II. Yet to form Characters, we can only take the strongest actions of a man's life, and try to make them agree: The utter uncertainty of this, from Nature itself, and from Policy, v.120. Characters given according to the rank of men of the world, v.135. And some reason for it, v.140. Education alters the Nature, or at least Character of many, v.149. Actions, Pa.s.sions, Opinions, Manners, Humours, or Principles all subject to change. No judging by Nature, from v.158 to 178. III. It only remains to find (if we can) his Ruling Pa.s.sion: That will certainly influence all the rest, and can reconcile the seeming or real inconsistency of all his actions, v.175. Instanced in the extraordinary character of Clodio, v.179. A caution against mistaking second qualities for first, which will destroy all possibility of the knowledge of mankind, v.210. Examples of the strength of the Ruling Pa.s.sion, and its continuation to the last breath, v.222, etc.

Yes, you despise the man to books confined, Who from his study rails at human kind; Though what he learns he speaks, and may advance Some general maxims, or be right by chance.

The c.o.xcomb bird, so talkative and grave, That from his cage cries c**d, w**e, and knave, Though many a pa.s.senger he rightly call, You hold him no philosopher at all.

And yet the fate of all extremes is such, Men may be read as well as books, too much.

To observations which ourselves we make, We grow more partial for the observer's sake; To written wisdom, as another's, less: Maxims are drawn from notions, those from guess.

There's some peculiar in each leaf and grain, Some unmarked fibre, or some varying vein: Shall only man be taken in the gross?

Grant but as many sorts of mind as moss.

That each from other differs, first confess; Next, that he varies from himself no less: Add Nature's, custom's reason's pa.s.sion's strife, And all opinion's colours cast on life.

Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows finds, Quick whirls, and shifting eddies, of our minds?

On human actions reason though you can, It may be reason, but it is not man: His principle of action once explore, That instant 'tis his principle no more.

Like following life through creatures you dissect, You lose it in the moment you detect.

Yet more; the difference is as great between The optics seeing, as the object seen.

All manners take a tincture from our own; Or come discoloured through our pa.s.sions shown.