Others a short memorial leave behind, Like a flag floating,[44] when the bark's engulf'd; It floats a moment, and is seen no more: 200 One Caesar lives; a thousand are forgot.

How few, beneath auspicious planets born (Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect!), With swelling sails make good the promised port, With all their wishes freighted! Yet even these, Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain; Free from misfortune, not from nature free, They still are men; and when is man secure?

As fatal time, as storm! the rush of years Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes 210 In ruin end: and, now, their proud success But plants new terrors on the victor's brow: What pain to quit the world, just made their own, Their nest so deeply down'd, and built so high!

Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

Woe then apart (if woe apart can be From mortal man), and fortune at our nod, The gay, rich, great, triumphant, and august!

What are they?--The most happy (strange to say!) Convince me most of human misery; 220 What are they? Smiling wretches of to-morrow! 221 More wretched, then, than e'er their slave can be; Their treacherous blessings, at the day of need, Like other faithless friends, unmask, and sting: Then, what provoking indigence in wealth!

What aggravated impotence in power!

High t.i.tles, then, what insult of their pain!

If that sole anchor, equal to the waves, Immortal Hope! defies not the rude storm, Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage, 230 And makes a welcome harbour of the tomb.

Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires?

"But here (thou say'st) the miseries of life Are huddled in a group. A more distinct Survey, perhaps, might bring thee better news."

Look on life's stages: they speak plainer still; The plainer they, the deeper wilt thou sigh.

Look on thy lovely boy; in him behold The best that can befall the best on earth; The boy has virtue by his mother's side: 240 Yes, on Florello look: a father's heart Is tender, though the man's is made of stone; The truth, through such a medium seen, may make Impression deep, and fondness prove thy friend.

Florello lately cast on this rude coast A helpless infant; now a heedless child; To poor Clarissa's throes, thy care succeeds; Care full of love, and yet severe as hate!

O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns!

Needful austerities his will restrain; 250 As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm.

As yet, his reason cannot go alone; But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on.

His little heart is often terrified; The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale; 255 Its pearly dewdrop trembles in his eye; His harmless eye! and drowns an angel there.

Ah! what avails his innocence? The task Enjoin'd must discipline his early powers; He learns to sigh, ere he is known to sin; Guiltless, and sad! a wretch before the fall!

How cruel this! more cruel to forbear. 262 Our nature such, with necessary pains, We purchase prospects of precarious peace: Though not a father, this might steal a sigh.

Suppose him disciplined aright (if not, 'Twill sink our poor account to poorer still); Ripe from the tutor, proud of liberty, He leaps enclosure, bounds into the world!

The world is taken, after ten years' toil, 270 Like ancient Troy; and all its joys his own.

Alas! the world's a tutor more severe; Its lessons hard, and ill deserve his pains; Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught, Or books (fair Virtue's advocates!) inspired.

For who receives him into public life?

Men of the world, the terrae-filial breed, Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere (Which glitter'd long, at distance, in his sight), And, in their hospitable arms, enclose: 280 Men, who think nought so strong of the romance, So rank knight-errant, as a real friend: Men, that act up to Reason's golden rule, All weakness of affection quite subdued: Men, that would blush at being thought sincere, And feign, for glory, the few faults they want; That love a lie, where truth would pay as well; As if to them, Vice shone her own reward.

Lorenzo! canst thou bear a shocking sight? 289 Such, for Florello's sake, 'twill now appear: See, the steel'd files of season'd veterans, Train'd to the world, in burnish'd falsehood bright; Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace; All soft sensation, in the throng, rubb'd off; All their keen purpose, in politeness, sheath'd; His friends eternal--during interest; His foes implacable--when worth their while; At war with every welfare, but their own; As wise as Lucifer; and half as good; And by whom none, but Lucifer, can gain-- 300 Naked, through these (so common fate ordains), Naked of heart, his cruel course he runs, Stung out of all, most amiable in life, Prompt truth, and open thought, and smiles unfeign'd; Affection, as his species, wide diffused; n.o.ble presumptions to mankind's renown; Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love.

These claims to joy (if mortals joy might claim) Will cost him many a sigh; till time, and pains, From the slow mistress of this school, Experience, 310 And her a.s.sistant, pausing, pale, Distrust, Purchase a dear-bought clue to lead his youth Through serpentine obliquities of life, And the dark labyrinth of human hearts.

And happy! if the clue shall come so cheap: For, while we learn to fence with public guilt, Full oft we feel its foul contagion too, If less than heavenly virtue is our guard.

Thus, a strange kind of cursed necessity Brings down the sterling temper of his soul, 320 By base alloy, to bear the current stamp, Below call'd wisdom; sinks him into safety; And brands him into credit with the world; 323 Where specious t.i.tles dignify disgrace, And nature's injuries are arts of life; Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes; And heavenly talents make infernal hearts; That unsurmountable extreme of guilt!

Poor Machiavel! who labour'd hard his plan, Forgot, that genius need not go to school; Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise, His plan had practised, long before 'twas writ. 332 The world's all t.i.tle-page; there's no contents; The world's all face; the man who shows his heart, Is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd.

A man I knew, who lived upon a smile; And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair; While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.

Lorenzo! what I tell thee, take not ill!

Living, he fawn'd on every fool alive; 340 And, dying, cursed the friend on whom he lived.

To such proficients thou art half a saint.

In foreign realms (for thou hast travell'd far) How curious to contemplate two state-rooks, Studious their nests to feather in a trice, With all the necromantics of their art, Playing the game of faces on each other, Making court sweetmeats of their latent gall, In foolish hope, to steal each other's trust; Both cheating, both exulting, both deceived; 350 And, sometimes, both (let earth rejoice) undone!

Their parts we doubt not; but be that their shame; Shall men of talents, fit to rule mankind, Stoop to mean wiles, that would disgrace a fool; And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve?

For who can thank the man, he cannot see?

Why so much cover? It defeats itself. 357 Ye, that know all things! know ye not, men's hearts Are therefore known, because they are conceal'd?

For why conceal'd?--The cause they need not tell.

I give him joy, that's awkward at a lie; Whose feeble nature Truth keeps still in awe; His incapacity is his renown. 363 'Tis great, 'tis manly, to disdain disguise; It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength.

Thou say'st, 'tis needful: is it therefore right?

Howe'er, I grant it some small sign of grace, To strain at an excuse: And would'st thou then Escape that cruel need? Thou may'st, with ease; Think no post needful that demands a knave. 370 When late our civil helm was shifting hands, So Pulteney thought: think better, if you can.

But this, how rare! the public path of life Is dirty;--yet, allow that dirt its due, It makes the n.o.ble mind more n.o.ble still: The world's no neuter; it will wound, or save; Or virtue quench, or indignation fire.

You say, the world, well known, will make a man: The world, well known, will give our hearts to Heaven, Or make us demons, long before we die. 380 To show how fair the world, thy mistress, shines, Take either part, sure ills attend the choice; Sure, though not equal, detriment ensues.

Not Virtue's self is deified on earth; Virtue has her relapses, conflicts, foes; Foes, that ne'er fail to make her feel their hate.

Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.

True friends to virtue, last, and least, complain; But if they sigh, can others hope to smile?

If Wisdom has her miseries to mourn, 390 How can poor Folly lead a happy life? 391 And if both suffer, what has earth to boast, Where he most happy, who the least laments?

Where much, much patience, the most envied state, And some forgiveness, needs, the best of friends?

For friend, or happy life, who looks not higher, Of neither shall he find the shadow here.

The world's sworn advocate, without a fee, Lorenzo smartly, with a smile, replies: "Thus far thy song is right; and all must own, 400 Virtue has her peculiar set of pains.-- And joys peculiar who to Vice denies?

If vice it is, with nature to comply: If Pride, and Sense, are so predominant, To check, not overcome, them, makes a saint.

Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaim Pleasure, and glory, the chief good of man?"

Can Pride, and Sensuality, rejoice?

From purity of thought, all pleasure springs; And, from an humble spirit, all our peace. 410 Ambition, pleasure! let us talk of these: Of these, the Porch, and Academy, talk'd; Of these, each following age had much to say: Yet, unexhausted, still, the needful theme.

Who talks of these, to mankind all at once He talks; for where the saint from either free?

Are these thy refuge?--No: these rush upon thee; Thy vitals seize, and, vulture-like, devour; I'll try, if I can pluck thee from thy rock, Prometheus! from this barren ball of earth; 420 If Reason can unchain thee, thou art free.

And, first, thy Caucasus, Ambition, calls; Mountain of torments! eminence of woes!

Of courted woes! and courted through mistake!

'Tis not ambition charms thee; 'tis a cheat 425 Will make thee start, as H---- at his moor.

Dost grasp at greatness? First, know what it is: Think'st thou thy greatness in distinction lies?

Not in the feather, wave it e'er so high, By Fortune stuck, to mark us from the throng, Is glory lodged: 'tis lodged in the reverse; In that which joins, in that which equals, all, 432 The monarch and his slave;--"A deathless soul, Unbounded prospect, and immortal kin, A Father G.o.d, and brothers in the skies;"

Elder, indeed, in time; but less remote In excellence, perhaps, than thought by man; Why greater what can fall, than what can rise?

If still delirious, now, Lorenzo! go; And with thy full-blown brothers of the world, 440 Throw scorn around thee; cast it on thy slaves; Thy slaves, and equals: how scorn cast on them Rebounds on thee! If man is mean, as man, Art thou a G.o.d? If Fortune makes him so, Beware the consequence: a maxim that, Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind, Where, in the drapery, the man is lost; Externals fluttering, and the soul forgot.

Thy greatest glory, when disposed to boast, Boast that aloud, in which thy servants share. 450 We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy: Judge we, in their caparisons, of men?

It nought avails thee, where, but what, thou art; All the distinctions of this little life Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man, When, through death's straits, earth's subtle serpents creep, Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown.

As crooked Satan the forbidden tree, 458 They leave their party-colour'd robe behind, All that now glitters, while they rear aloft Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below.

Of fortune's fucus[45] strip them, yet alive; Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still, Away with all, but moral, in their minds; And let what then remains, impose their name, p.r.o.nounce them weak, or worthy; great, or mean.

How mean that snuff[46] of glory Fortune lights, And Death puts out! Dost thou demand a test, A test, at once, infallible, and short, Of real greatness? That man greatly lives, 470 Whate'er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies; High-flush'd with hope, where heroes shall despair.

If this a true criterion, many courts, Ill.u.s.trious, might afford but few grandees.

Th' Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys Nought greater, than an honest, humble heart; An humble heart, His residence! p.r.o.nounced His second seat; and rival to the skies.

The private path, the secret acts of men, If n.o.ble, far the n.o.blest of our lives! 480 How far above Lorenzo's glory sits Th' ill.u.s.trious master of a name unknown; Whose worth unrivall'd, and unwitness'd, loves Life's sacred shades, where G.o.ds converse with men; And Peace, beyond the world's conceptions, smiles!

As thou (now dark), before we part, shalt see.

But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns.

Lorenzo's sick, but when Lorenzo's seen; And, when he shrugs at public business, lies.

Denied the public eye, the public voice, 490 As if he lived on others' breath, he dies.

Fain would he make the world his pedestal; 492 Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he.

Knows he, that mankind praise against their will, And mix as much detraction as they can?

Knows he, that faithless Fame her whisper has, As well as trumpet? that his vanity Is so much tickled from not hearing all?

Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise, Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines, 500 Taking his country by five hundred ears, Senates at once admire him, and despise, With modest laughter lining loud applause, Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame?

His fame, which (like the mighty Caesar), crown'd With laurels, in full senate, greatly falls, By seeming friends, that honour, and destroy.

We rise in glory, as we sink in pride: Where boasting ends, there dignity begins: And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake, 510 The blind Lorenzo's proud--of being proud; And dreams himself ascending in his fall.

An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain: All vice wants h.e.l.lebore; but of all vice, Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl; Because, unlike all other vice, it flies, In fact, the point, in fancy most pursued.

Who court applause, oblige the world in this; They gratify man's pa.s.sion to refuse.

Superior honour, when a.s.sumed, is lost; 520 Even good men turn banditti, and rejoice, Like Kouli-Kan, in plunder of the proud.

Though somewhat disconcerted, steady still To the world's cause, with half a face of joy, Lorenzo cries--"Be, then, Ambition cast; Ambition's dearer far stands unimpeach'd, 526 Gay Pleasure! proud Ambition is her slave; For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill; For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes; And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile: Who can resist her charms?--or, should? Lorenzo!

What mortal shall resist, where angels yield?

Pleasure's the mistress of ethereal powers; 533 For her contend the rival G.o.ds above; Pleasure's the mistress of the world below; And well it was for man, that Pleasure charms: How would all stagnate, but for Pleasure's ray!

How would the frozen stream of action cease!

What is the pulse of this so busy world?

The love of pleasure: that, through every vein, 540 Throws motion, warmth; and shuts out death from life.

Though various are the tempers of mankind, Pleasure's gay family hold all in chains: Some most affect the black; and some, the fair; Some honest pleasure court; and some, obscene.

Pleasures obscene are various, as the throng Of pa.s.sions, that can err in human hearts; Mistake their objects, or transgress their bounds.

Think you there's but one wh.o.r.edom? Wh.o.r.edom, all, But when our reason licenses delight. 550 Dost doubt, Lorenzo? thou shalt doubt no more.

Thy father chides thy gallantries; yet hugs An ugly, common harlot, in the dark; A rank adulterer with others' gold!

And that hag, Vengeance, in a corner, charms.

Hatred her brothel has, as well as Love, Where horrid epicures debauch in blood.

Whate'er the motive, pleasure is the mark: For her, the black a.s.sa.s.sin draws his sword; For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp, 560 To which no single sacrifice may fall; For her, the saint abstains; the miser starves; The Stoic proud, for Pleasure, pleasure scorn'd; For her, Affliction's daughters grief indulge, And find, or hope, a luxury in tears; For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy; And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death.

Thus universal her despotic power!

And as her empire wide, her praise is just.