From what root rises this immortal man?"

A root that grows not in Lorenzo's ground; The root dissect, nor wonder at the flower.

He follows nature (not like thee) and shows us 1160 An uninverted system of a man.

His appet.i.te wears Reason's golden chain, And finds, in due restraint, its luxury.

His pa.s.sion, like an eagle well reclaim'd, Is taught to fly at nought, but infinite.

Patient his hope, unanxious is his care, His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief The G.o.ds ordain) a stranger to despair. 1168 And why?--because affection, more than meet, His wisdom leaves not disengaged from heaven.

Those secondary goods that smile on earth, He, loving in proportion, loves in peace.

They most the world enjoy, who least admire.

His understanding 'scapes the common cloud Of fumes, arising from a boiling breast.

His head is clear, because his heart is cool, By worldly compet.i.tions uninflamed.

The moderate movements of his soul admit Distinct ideas, and matured debate, An eye impartial, and an even scale; 1180 Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice.

Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise; On its own dunghill, wiser than the world.

What, then, the world? It must be doubly weak; Strange truth! as soon would they believe their creed.

Yet thus it is; nor otherwise can be; So far from aught romantic, what I sing.

Bliss has no being, virtue has no strength, But from the prospect of immortal life.

Who think earth all, or (what weighs just the same) 1190 Who care no farther, must prize what it yields; Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.

Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire; He can't a foe, though most malignant, hate, Because that hate would prove his greater foe.

'Tis hard for them (yet who so loudly boast Good-will to men?) to love their dearest friend; For may not he invade their good supreme, Where the least jealousy turns love to gall?

All shines to them, that for a season shines. 1200 Each act, each thought, he questions, "What its weight, Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?"-- 1202 And what it there appears, he deems it now.

Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul.

The G.o.dlike man has nothing to conceal.

His virtue, const.i.tutionally deep, Has habit's firmness, and affection's flame; Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire; And Death, which others slays, makes him a G.o.d.

And now, Lorenzo! bigot of this world! 1210 Wont to disdain poor bigots caught by Heaven!

Stand by thy scorn, and be reduced to nought: For what art thou?--Thou boaster! while thy glare, Thy gaudy grandeur, and mere worldly worth, Like a broad mist, at distance, strikes us most; And, like a mist, is nothing when at hand; His merit, like a mountain, on approach, Swells more, and rises nearer to the skies, By promise now, and, by possession, soon, (Too soon, too much, it cannot be) his own. 1220 From this thy just annihilation rise, Lorenzo! rise to something, by reply.

The world, thy client, listens, and expects; And longs to crown thee with immortal praise.

Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine; And Wit talks most, when least she has to say, And Reason interrupts not her career.

She'll say--that mists above the mountains rise; And, with a thousand pleasantries, amuse; She'll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust, 1230 And fly conviction, in the dust she raised.

Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste!

'Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense; But, as its subst.i.tute, a dire disease.

Pernicious talent! flatter'd by the world, By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare. 1236 Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds; Pa.s.sion can give it; sometimes wine inspires The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.

Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs, Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.

For thy renown, 'twere well was this the worst; Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more, 1243 See Dulness, blundering on vivacities, Shakes her sage head at the calamity, Which has exposed, and let her down to thee.

But Wisdom, awful Wisdom! which inspects, Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers, Seizes the right, and holds it to the last; How rare! In senates, synods, sought in vain; 1250 Or if there found, 'tis sacred to the few; While a lewd prost.i.tute to mult.i.tudes, Frequent, as fatal, Wit: in civil life, Wit makes an enterpriser; Sense, a man.

Wit hates authority; commotion loves, And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.

In states, 'tis dangerous; in religion, death: Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe?

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. 1260 Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Wit, widow'd of good sense, is worse than nought; It hoists more sail to run against a rock.

Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool; Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit.

How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun, Where syrens sit, to sing thee to thy fate!

A joy, in which our reason bears no part, 1270 Is but a sorrow, tickling, ere it stings.

Let not the cooings of the world allure thee; Which of her lovers ever found her true?

Happy! of this bad world who little know?-- And yet, we much must know her, to be safe; To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse; A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy, Our thoughtless agitation's idle child, 1280 That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires, Leaving the soul more vapid than before.

An animal ovation! such as holds No commerce with our reason, but subsists On juices, through the well-toned tubes, well strain'd; A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright; And when it jars--thy syrens sing no more, Thy dance is done; the demi-G.o.d is thrown (Short apotheosis!) beneath the man, In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair. 1290 Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread, And startle at destruction? If thou art, Accept a buckler, take it to the field; (A field of battle is this mortal life!) When danger threatens, lay it on thy heart; A single sentence, proof against the world: "Soul, body, fortune!--every good pertains To one of these; but prize not all alike; The goods of fortune to thy body's health, Body to soul, and soul submit to G.o.d." 1300 Would'st thou build lasting happiness? do this; Th' inverted pyramid can never stand.

Is this truth doubtful? It outshines the sun; Nay, the sun shines not, but to show us this, 1304 The single lesson of mankind on earth.

And yet--yet, what? No news! Mankind is mad; Such mighty numbers list against the right, (And what can't numbers, when bewitch'd, achieve!) They talk themselves to something like belief, That all earth's joys are theirs: as Athens' fool Grinn'd from the port, on every sail his own.

They grin; but wherefore? and how long the laugh?

Half ignorance, their mirth; and half, a lie; 1313 To cheat the world, and cheat themselves, they smile.

Hard either task! The most abandon'd own, That others, if abandon'd, are undone: Then, for themselves, the moment Reason wakes (And Providence denies it long repose), O how laborious is their gaiety!

They scarce can swallow their ebullient spleen, 1320 Scarce muster patience to support the farce, And pump sad laughter till the curtain falls.

Scarce, did I say? Some cannot sit it out; Oft their own daring hands the curtain draw, And show us what their joy, by their despair.

The clotted hair! gored breast! blaspheming eye!

Its impious fury still alive in death!

Shut, shut the shocking scene.--But Heaven denies A cover to such guilt; and so should man.

Look round, Lorenzo! see the reeking blade, 1330 Th' envenom'd phial, and the fatal ball; The strangling cord, and suffocating stream; The loathsome rottenness, and foul decays From raging riot (slower suicides!) And pride in these, more execrable still!

How horrid all to thought!--but horrors, these, That vouch the truth; and aid my feeble song.

From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be blest: 1338 Bliss is too great, to lodge within an hour: When an immortal being aims at bliss, Duration is essential to the name.

O for a joy from reason! joy from that, Which makes man Man; and, exercised aright, Will make him more: a bounteous joy! that gives And promises; that weaves, with art divine, The richest prospect into present peace: A joy ambitious! joy in common held With thrones ethereal, and their greater far; A joy high privileged from chance, time, death!

A joy, which death shall double, judgment crown! 1350 Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each stage, Through bless'd eternity's long day; yet still, Not more remote from sorrow, than from Him, Whose lavish hand, whose love stupendous, pours So much of Deity on guilty dust.

There, O my Lucia! may I meet thee there, Where not thy presence can improve my bliss!

Affects not this the sages of the world?

Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?

Eternity, depending on an hour, 1360 Makes serious thought man's wisdom, joy, and praise, Nor need you blush (though sometimes your designs May shun the light) at your designs on heaven: Sole point! where over-bashful is your blame.

Are you not wise?--You know you are: yet hear One truth, amid your numerous schemes, mislaid, Or overlook'd, or thrown aside, if seen; "Our schemes to plan by this world, or the next, Is the sole difference between wise and fool."

All worthy men will weigh you in this scale; 1370 What wonder then, if they p.r.o.nounce you light? 1371 Is their esteem alone not worth your care?

Accept my simple scheme of common sense: Thus, save your fame, and make two worlds your own.

The world replies not;--but the world persists; And puts the cause off to the longest day, Planning evasions for the day of doom.

So far, at that re-hearing, from redress, They then turn witnesses against themselves; Hear that, Lorenzo! nor be wise to-morrow. 1380 Haste, haste! a man, by nature, is in haste; For who shall answer for another hour?

'Tis highly prudent, to make one sure friend; And that thou canst not do, this side the skies.

Ye sons of earth! (nor willing to be more!) Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free, Thus, in an age so gay, the Muse plain truths (Truths, which, at church, you might have heard in prose) Has ventured into light; well pleased the verse Should be forgot, if you the truths retain; 1390 And crown her with your welfare, not your praise.

But praise she need not fear: I see my fate; And headlong leap, like Curtius, down the gulf.

Since many an ample volume, mighty tome, Must die; and die unwept; O thou minute Devoted page! go forth among thy foes; Go, n.o.bly proud of martyrdom for truth, And die a double death: mankind incensed, Denies thee long to live: nor shalt thou rest, When thou art dead; in Stygian shades arraign'd 1400 By Lucifer, as traitor to his throne; And bold blasphemer of his friend,--the World; The World, whose legions cost him slender pay, And volunteers around his banner swarm; 1404 Prudent, as Prussia,[51] in her zeal for Gaul.

"Are all, then, fools?" Lorenzo cries.--Yes, all, But such as hold this doctrine (new to thee); "The mother of true wisdom is the will;"

The n.o.blest intellect, a fool without it.

World-wisdom much has done, and more may do, 1410 In arts and sciences, in wars, and peace: But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee, And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.

This is the most indulgence can afford;-- "Thy wisdom all can do, but--make thee wise."

Nor think this censure is severe on thee; Satan, thy master, I dare call a dunce. 1417

THE CONSOLATION: CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, I. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEAVENS.

II. A NIGHT ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRINc.i.p.aL SECRETARIES OF STATE.

Fatis contraria fata rependens.--Virg.

NIGHT NINTH.

THE CONSOLATION.

As when a traveller, a long day past In painful search of what he cannot find, At night's approach, content with the next cot, There ruminates, a while, his labour lost; Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, Till the due season calls him to repose: Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of men, And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze, Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's career; 10 Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray, At length have housed me in an humble shed; Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought, And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest, I chase the moments with a serious song.

Song soothes our pains; and age has pains to soothe.