If one must suffer, which should least be spared?

The pains of mind surpa.s.s the pains of sense: Ask, then, the gout, what torment is in guilt.

The joys of sense to mental joys are mean: 860 Sense on the present only feeds; the soul On past, and future, forages for joy.

'Tis hers, by retrospect, through time to range; And forward time's great sequel to survey.

Could human courts take vengeance on the mind, 865 Axes might rust, and racks and gibbets fall: Guard, then, thy mind, and leave the rest to fate.

Lorenzo! wilt thou never be a man?

The man is dead, who for the body lives, Lured, by the beating of his pulse, to list With every l.u.s.t, that wars against his peace; And sets him quite at variance with himself. 872 Thyself, first, know; then love: a self there is Of Virtue fond, that kindles at her charms.

A self there is, as fond of every vice, While every virtue wounds it to the heart: Humility degrades it, Justice robs, Bless'd Bounty beggars it, fair Truth betrays, And G.o.dlike Magnanimity destroys.

This self, when rival to the former, scorn; 880 When not in compet.i.tion, kindly treat, Defend it, feed it:--but when Virtue bids, Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames.

And why? 'Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed; Comply, or own self-love extinct, or blind.

For what is vice? self-love in a mistake: A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear.

And virtue, what? 'tis self-love in her wits, Quite skilful in the market of delight.

Self-love's good sense is love of that dread Power, 890 From whom herself, and all she can enjoy.

Other self-love is but disguised self-hate; More mortal than the malice of our foes; A self-hate, now, scarce felt; then felt full sore, When being, cursed; extinction, loud implored; And every thing preferr'd to what we are.

Yet this self-love Lorenzo makes his choice; And, in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy.

How is his want of happiness betray'd, 899 By disaffection to the present hour!

Imagination wanders far afield: The future pleases: why? the present pains.-- "But that's a secret." Yes, which all men know; And know from thee, discover'd unawares.

Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause; What is it?--'tis the cradle of the soul, From Instinct sent, to rock her in disease, Which her physician, Reason, will not cure.

A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while 910 It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.

Such are Lorenzo's wretched remedies!

The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.

Superior wisdom is superior bliss.

And what sure mark distinguishes the wise?

Consistent wisdom ever wills the same; Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing.

Sick of herself, is Folly's character, As Wisdom's is, a modest self-applause.

A change of evils is thy good supreme; 920 Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest.

Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still.

The first sure symptom of a mind in health, Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.

False pleasure from abroad her joys imports; Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true.

The true is fix'd, and solid as a rock; Slippery the false, and tossing, as the wave.

This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain; That, like the fabled, self-enamour'd boy,[48] 930 Home-contemplation her supreme delight; She dreads an interruption from without, 932 Smit with her own condition; and the more Intense she gazes, still it charms the more.

No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth There breathes not a more happy than himself: Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all; And love o'erflowing makes an angel here.

Such angels, all, ent.i.tled to repose On Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns, 940 Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven!

To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!

With inward eyes, and silent as the grave, They stand, collecting every beam of thought, Till their hearts kindle with divine delight: For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old In Israel's dream, come from, and go to, heaven.

Hence are they studious of sequester'd scenes; While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee.

Were all men happy, revellings would cease, 950 That opiate for inquietude within.

Lorenzo! never man was truly blest, But it composed, and gave him such a cast, As folly might mistake for want of joy.

A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud; A modest aspect, and a smile at heart.

O for a joy from thy Philander's spring!

A spring perennial, rising in the breast, And permanent, as pure! no turbid stream Of rapturous exultation, swelling high; 960 Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while, Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.

What does the man, who transient joy prefers?

What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?

Vain are all sudden sallies of delight; Convulsions of a weak, distemper'd joy. 966 Joy's a fix'd state; a tenure, not a start.

Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss: That is the gem: sell all, and purchase that.

Why go a-begging to contingencies, Not gain'd with ease, nor safely loved, if gain'd?

At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause; Suspect it; what thou canst insure, enjoy; 973 And nought but what thou givest thyself, is sure.

Reason perpetuates joy that Reason gives, And makes it as immortal as herself: To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.

Worth, conscious worth! should absolutely reign; And other joys ask leave for their approach; Nor, unexamined, ever leave obtain. 980 Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys Wage war, and perish in intestine broils; Not the least promise of internal peace!

No bosom-comfort, or unborrow'd bliss!

Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound, 'Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure; If gain'd, dear-bought; and better miss'd than gain'd.

Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured.

Fancy, and Sense, from an infected sh.o.r.e, Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize. 990 Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!

By fond indulgence but inflamed the more!), Fancy still cruises, when poor Sense is tired.

Imagination is the Paphian shop, Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame, Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess, And hot as h.e.l.l (which kindled the black fires), With wanton art, those fatal arrows form, Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.

Would'st thou receive them, other thoughts there are, On angel-wing, descending from above, 1001 Which these, with art divine, would counterwork, And form celestial armour for thy peace.

In this is seen Imagination's guilt; But who can count her follies? She betrays thee, To think in grandeur there is something great.

For works of curious art, and ancient fame, Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd; And foreign climes must cater for thy taste.

Hence, what disaster!--Though the price was paid, 1010 That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome, Whose foot (ye G.o.ds!) though cloven, must be kiss'd, Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian sh.o.r.e; (Such is the fate of honest Protestants!) And poor Magnificence is starved to death.

Hence just resentment, indignation, ire!-- Be pacified: if outward things are great, 'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn; Pompous expenses, and parades august, And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace. 1020 True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye; True happiness resides in things unseen.

No smiles of Fortune ever bless'd the bad, Nor can her frowns rob Innocence of joys; That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor: So tell his Holiness, and be revenged.

Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good; Our only contest, what deserves the name.

Give Pleasure's name to nought, but what has pa.s.s'd Th' authentic seal of Reason (which like Yorke,[49] 1030 Demurs on what it pa.s.ses), and defies The tooth of time; when past, a pleasure still; Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age, 1033 And doubly to be prized, as it promotes Our future, while it forms our present, joy.

Some joys the future overcast; and some Throw all their beams that way, and gild the tomb.

Some joys endear eternity; some give Abhorr'd annihilation dreadful charms.

Are rival joys contending for thy choice? 1040 Consult thy whole existence, and be safe; That oracle will put all doubt to flight.

Short is the lesson, though my lecture long; Be good--and let Heaven answer for the rest.

Yet, with a sigh o'er all mankind, I grant In this our day of proof, our land of hope, The good man has his clouds that intervene; Clouds, that obscure his sublunary day, But never conquer: even the best must own, Patience, and resignation, are the pillars 1050 Of human peace on earth. The pillars, these: But those of Seth not more remote from thee, Till this heroic lesson thou hast learn'd; To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

Fired at the prospect of unclouded bliss, Heaven in reversion, like the sun, as yet Beneath th' horizon, cheers us in this world; It sheds, on souls susceptible of light, The glorious dawn of our eternal day.

"This (says Lorenzo) is a fair harangue: 1060 But can harangues blow back strong nature's stream; Or stem the tide Heaven pushes through our veins, Which sweeps away man's impotent resolves, And lays his labour level with the world?"

Themselves men make their comment on mankind; And think nought is, but what they find at home: Thus, weakness to chimera turns the truth. 1067 Nothing romantic has the Muse prescribed.

Above,[50] Lorenzo saw the man of earth, The mortal man; and wretched was the sight.

To balance that, to comfort, and exalt, Now see the man immortal: him, I mean, Who lives as such; whose heart, full bent on heaven, Leans all that way, his bias to the stars.

The world's dark shades, in contrast set, shall raise His l.u.s.tre more; though bright, without a foil: Observe his awful portrait, and admire; Nor stop at wonder; imitate, and live.

Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw, What nothing less than angel can exceed! 1080 A man on earth devoted to the skies; Like ships in sea, while in, above the world.

With aspect mild, and elevated eye, Behold him seated on a mount serene, Above the fogs of sense, and pa.s.sion's storm; All the black cares, and tumults, of this life, Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace.

Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave, A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he sees, 1090 Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike!

His full reverse in all! What higher praise?

What stronger demonstration of the right?

The present all their care; the future, his.

When public welfare calls, or private want, They give to fame; his bounty he conceals.

Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt.

Mankind's esteem they court; and he, his own.

Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities; His, the composed possession of the true. 1100 Alike throughout is his consistent peace, All of one colour, and an even thread; While party-colour'd shreds of happiness, With hideous gaps between, patch up for them A madman's robe; each puff of Fortune blows The tatters by, and shows their nakedness.

He sees with other eyes than theirs: where they Behold a sun, he spies a Deity; What makes them only smile, makes him adore.

Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees; 1110 An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain.

They things terrestrial worship, as divine: His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust, That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound.

t.i.tles and honours (if they prove his fate) He lays aside to find his dignity; No dignity they find in aught besides.

They triumph in externals (which conceal Man's real glory), proud of an eclipse. 1120 Himself too much he prizes to be proud, And nothing thinks so great in man, as man.

Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect Another's welfare, or his right invade; Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey.

They kindle at the shadow of a wrong: Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven, Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe; Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace.

A cover'd heart their character defends; 1130 A cover'd heart denies him half his praise.

With nakedness his innocence agrees; While their broad foliage testifies their fall: Their no joys end, where his full feast begins; 1134 His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.

To triumph in existence, his alone; And his alone, triumphantly to think His true existence is not yet begun.

His glorious course was, yesterday, complete; Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet.

But nothing charms Lorenzo, like the firm, Undaunted breast--and whose is that high praise? 1142 They yield to pleasure, though they danger brave, And show no fort.i.tude, but in the field; If there they show it, 'tis for glory shown; Nor will that cordial always man their hearts.

A cordial his sustains, that cannot fail; By pleasure unsubdued, unbroke by pain, He shares in that Omnipotence he trusts.

All-bearing, all-attempting, till he falls; 1150 And when he falls, writes VICI on his shield.

From magnanimity, all fear above; From n.o.bler recompence, above applause; Which owes to man's short outlook all its charms.

Backward to credit what he never felt, Lorenzo cries,--"Where shines this miracle?