Praise no man e'er deferv'd, who fought no more.
As just thy fecond charge. I grant, the mufe
Has often blush'd at her degen'rate fons,
Retain'd by fenfe to plead her filthy caufe;
To raife the low, to magnify the mean,
And fubtilize the grofs into refin'd:
As if to magic numbers powerful charm
'Twas given, to make a civet of their fong
Cbfcene, and fweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our fwine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obfcure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure and of pride.
These share the man, and thefe diftract him too;
Draw different ways, and clash in theircommands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the ftars;
But pleafure, lark-like, nefts upon the ground.
Joys fhar'd by brute-creation, pride relents;
Pleasure embraces: man would both enjoy,
And both at once: a point how hard to gain!
But what can't wit, when ftung by strong defire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize.
Since joys of fenfe can't rife to reafon's tafte;
In fubtle fophiftry's laborious forge,

Wit hammers out a reafon new, that stoops
To fordid scenes, and meets them with applaufc.
Wit calls the graces the chafte zone to loofe;
Nor lefs than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thoufand phantoms, and a thousand fpells,
A thoufand opiates scatters, to delude,
To fafcinate, inebriate, lay afleep,
And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.
Thus that which shock'd the judgment, fhocks

no more;

That which gave pride offence, no more offends.
Pleafure and pride, by nature mortal focs,
At war eternal, which in man fhall reign,
By wit's addrefs, patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, curfed art! wipes off th' indebted blush
From nature's check, and bronzes ev'ry fhame.
Man fmiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And infamy stands candidate for praife.

All writ by man in favour of the foul,
Thefe fenfual ethics far in bulk tranfcend
The flow'rs of eloquence, profufely pour'd
O'er fpotted vice, fill half the letter'd world.
Can pow rs of genius exercise their
page,
And confec: ate enormities with fong?

There lies our theatre! there fits our judge.
Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene;
'Tis the kind hand of Providence ftretch'd out
'Twixt man and vanity; 'tis reafon's reign,
And virtue's too; thefe tutelary fhades
Are man's afylum from the tainted throng.
Night is the good man's friend, and guardian too;
It no lefs refcues virtue, than inspires.

Virtue, for ever frail, as fair, below,
Her tender nature fuffers in the crowd,
Nor touches on the world without a ftain:
The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the morn.
Something we thought, is blotted; we refolv'd,
Is fhaken; we renounc'd, returns again.
Each falutation may flide in a fin
Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.
Nor is it ftrange: light, motion, concourse, noise,
All fcatter us abroad; thought outward bound,
Neglectful of our home affairs, flies off
In fume and diffipation, quits her charge,
And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.

Prefent example gets within our guard,
And acts with double force, by few repell'd.
Ambition fires ambition; love of gain
Strikes like a peftilence, from breast to breast
Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapours breathe;
And inhumanity is caught from man,
From finiling man. A flight, a fingle glance,
And fhot at random, often has brought home
A fudden fever to the throbbing heart,
Of envy, rancour, or impure defire.
We fee, we hear, with peril; fafety dwells
Remote from multitude; the world's a school
Of wrong, and what proficients fwarm around?
We must or imitate or difapprove,
Muft lift as their accomplices or foes;

That ftains our innocence, this wounds our peace.
From nature's birth hence wisdom has been smit
With fweet recefs, and languifh'd for the fhade.
This facred fhade, and folitude, what is it?
'Tis the felt prefence of the Deity.
Few are the faults we flatter when alone:
Vice finks in her allurements, is ungilt,
And looks, like other objects, black by night.
By night an Atheist half-believes a God.

Night is fair virtue's immemorial friend;
The confcious moon, thro' ev'ry diftant age,
Has held a lamp to wisdom, and let fall
On contemplation's eye her purging ray.
The fam'd Athenian, he who woo'd from heaven
Philofophy the fair, to dwell with men,
And form their manners, not inflame their pride,
While o'er his head, as fearful to moleft

His labouring mind, the ftars in filence flide,
And feem all gazing on their future gueft,
See him foliciting his ardent suit
all the live-long night,
In private audience;
Rigid in thought, and motionlefs, he ftands;
Nor quits his theme, or pofture, till the fun
(Rude drunkard, rifing rofy from the main!)
Difturbs his nobler intellectual beam,
And gives him to the tumult of the world.
Hail, precious moments! ftol'n from the black wafte

of

Of murder'd time; aufpicious midnight, hail!
The world excluded, ev'ry paffion hush'd,
And open'd a calm intercourse with Heaven,
Here the foul fits in council; ponders past,
Predeftines future action; fees, not feels,
Tumultuous life, and reasons with the ftorm;
All her yes anfwers, and thinks down her charms.

215. Ingratitude. YOUNG.

HE that's ungrateful has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pafs for virtues in him.

§ 116. Reflections in a Church-Yard. YOUNG. THE man how bleft, who fick of gaudy scenes (Scenes apt to thrust between us and ourselves!) Is led by choice to take his fav'rite walk Beneath death's gloomy, filent, cypress shades, Unpierc'd by vanity's fantastic ray;

To read his monuments, to weigh his dust,
Vifit his vaults, and dwell among the tombs!
Lorenzo, read with me Narciffa's ftone
(Narciffa was thy fav'rite); let us read
Her moral ftone; few doctors preach fo well,
Few orators fo tenderly can touch

The feeling heart. What pathos in the date!
Apt words can ftrike: and yet in them we see
Faint images of what we here enjoy.
What caule have we to build on length of life?
Temptations feize when fear is laid asleep;
And ill foreboded is our strongest guard.

See from her tomb, as from a humble fhrine,
Truth, radiant goddefs! fallies on my foul,
And puts delufion's dusky train to flight;
Difpels the mifts our fultry paflions raile,
From objects low, terrestrial, and obscene,
And fhews the real eftimate of things,
Which no man, unafflicted, ever faw;
Pulls off the veil from virtue's rifing charms;
Detects temptation in a thousand lyes.
Truth bids me look on men as autumn leaves;
And all they bleed for, as the fummer's duft,
Driven by the whirlwind: lighted by her beams,
I widen my horizon, gain new pow'rs,
See things invifible, feel things remote;
Am prefent with futurities; think nought
To man fo foreign as the joys poffeft,
Nought fo much his as thofe beyond the grave.
No folly keeps its colour in her fight;
Pale worldly wifdom lofes all her charms;
In pompous promife, from her schemes profound.
If future fate the plans, tis all in leaves,
Like Sibyl, unfubftantial, fleeting blifs!
At the first blaft it vanishes in air.

[and

yet

What grave prescribes the best?—A friend's; From a friend's grave how foon we difengage! Even to the deareft, as his marble, cold. Why are friends ravifh'd from us? 'Tis to bind, By foft affection's ties, on human hearts The thought of death; which reafon, too fupine, Or mifemploy'd, fo rarely faftens there. Nor reafon, nor affection, no, nor both Combin'd, can break the witchcrafts of the world. Behold, th' inexorable hour at hand! Behold, th' inexorable hour forgot!

The phantom of an age 'twixt us and death,
Already at the door? He knocks; we hear,
And

Our untouch'd hearts? What miracle turns off
yet we will not hear. What mail defends
The pointed thought, which from a thousand
Is daily darted, and is daily fhunn'd? [quivers
We stand as in a battle, throngs on throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Tho' bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!
We fee time's furrows on another's brow,
And death entrench'd preparing his affault;
How few themfelves in that juft mirror fee,
Or fecing draw their inference as ftrong!
There death is certain, doubtful here: he must,
And foon: we may, within an age, expire.
Tho' grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are

green;

Like damag'd clocks, whose hand and bell diffent, Folly fings Six, while Nature points at Twelve.

What folly can be ranker? Like our fhadows, Our withes lengthen as our fun declines. No with fhould loiter then this fide the grave; Our hearts fhould leave the world before the knell Calls for our carcafes to mend the foil. Enough to live in tempeft, die in port; Age fhould fly concourfe, cover in retreat Defects of judgment, and the will fubdue; Walk thoughtful on the filent, folemn fhore Of that vaft ocean it muft fail fo foon; And

That thortly blows us into worlds unknown; put good works on board; and wait the wind

If unconfider'd too, a dreadful scene!

All thould be prophets to themselves; foresee Their future fate, their future fate foretafte: This art would waste the bitterness of death. The thought of death alone the fear deftroys; A difaffection to that precious thought Which fleeps beneath it, on a precipice, Is more than midnight darkness on the foul, Puff'd off by the first blast, and loft for ever.

When fortune thus has tofs'd her child in air,
Snatch'd from the covert of an humble ftate,
How often have I feen him dropt at once,
Our morning's envy, and our evening's figh!
As if her bounties were the fignal given,
The flow'ry wreath to mark the facrifice,
And call Death's arrows on the deftin'd prey.
High fortune feems in cruel league with fate.
Afk you for what To give his war on man
The deeper dread, and more illuftrious spoil;
Thus to keep daring mortals more in awe.
And burns Lorenzo ftill for the fublime
Of life to hang his airy neft on high,

On the flight timber of the topmoft bough,
Rock'd at each breeze, and menacing a fall?
Granting grim death at equal distance there,
Yet peace begins juft where ambition ends.
What makes man wretched Happiness denied?
Lorenzo, no! 'tis happinefs difdain'd.
She comes too meanly dreft to win our fimile;
And calls herfelf Content, a homely name!
Our flame is tranfport, and content cur fcorn.
Ambition turns, and fhuts the door against her,
And weds a toil, a tempeft, in her ftead;
A tempeft to warm tranfport near of kin.
Unknowing what our mortal ftate admits,
Life's modeft joys we ruin, while we raife;
And all our ecftafics are wounds to peace;
Peace, the full portion of mankind below.
And fince thy peace is dear, ambitious youth!
Of fortune fond, as thoughtlefs of thy fate!
As late I drew death's picture, to ftir up
Thy wholefome face; now drawn in contraft, fee
Gay fortune's, thy vain hopes to reprimand.
See high in air the fportive goddefs hangs,
Unlocks her casket, fpreads her glittering ware,
And calls the giddy winds to puff abroad
Her random bounties o'er the gaping throng.
All ruth rapacious, friends o'er trodden friends;
Sons o'er their fathers, fubjects o'er their kings,
Priefts o'er their gods, and lovers o'er the fair
(Still more ador'd) to fhatch the golden fhow`r.
Gold glitters moft where virtue fhines no more,
As ftars from abfent funs have leave to fhinc.
O what a precious pack of votaries,
Unkennell'd from the prifons and the ftews,
Pour in, all open in their idol's praife;
All ardent eye each wafture of her hand,
And, wide expanding their voracious jaws,
Morfel on morfel fwallow down unchew'd,
Untafted, thro' mad appetite for more;
Gorg'd to the throat, yet lean and rav'nous ftill.
Sagacious all, to trace the final eft game,
And bold to feize the greateft. If (bleft chance!)
Court-zephyrs weetly breathe, they launch,
they fly,

O'er juft, o'er facred, all forbidden ground,
Drunk with the burning fcent of place or pow'r,
Staunch to the foot of lucre, till they die.

$220. Lyfander and Afpafia. YOUNG. L was ward of danger, but too gay to fear. YSANDER, happy past the common lot, He woo'd the fair Afpafia: he was kind:

In youth, form,fortune, fame, they both were bluft
All who knew, envied; yet in envy lov'd.
Can fancy form more finifh'd happinets ?
Fix'd was the nuptial hour. Her stately dome
Rofe on the founding beach. The glittering fpires
Float in the wave, and break against the thore;
So break thofe glitt'ring fhadows, human joys.
The faithlefs morning Imil'd: he takes his leave,
To re-embrace, in ecftafies, at eve.

The rifing ftorm forbids. The news arrives:
Untold, fhe faw it in her fervant's eye.
She felt it feen (her heart was apt to feel);
And drown'd, without the furious ocean's aid,
In fuffocating forrows, thares his tomb.
Now, round the fumptuous bridal monument
The guilty billows innocently roar ;
And the rough failor patting, drops a tear.

$221. Genius connected with Ignominy.

YOUNG.

HEART meritwanting,mount we ne'er fo high,
Our height is but the gibbet of our name.
A celebrated wretch when I behold,
When I behold a genius bright and base,
Of tow'ring talents, and terreftrial aims;
Methinks I fee, as thrown from her high sphere,
The glorious fragments of a foul immortal,
With rubbish mix'd, and glittering in the duft.
Struck at the fplendid, melancholy fight,
At once compaffion foft and envy rife;
But wherefore envy? Talents angel-bright,
If wanting worth, are fhiaing inftruments,
In falfe ambition's hand, to finish faults
Illuftrious, and give infamy renown.

WHAT is ftation high
'Tis a proud mendicant; it boafts, and begs;
It begs an alms of homage from the throng,
And oft the throng denies its charity.
Monarchs and minifters are awful names;
Whoever wear them challenge our devoir.
Religion, public order, both exact
External homage, and a fupple knee,
To beings pompously fet up to ferve
The meaneit flave; all more is merit's due,
Her facred and inviolable right;
Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man.
Our hearts ne'er bow but to fuperior worth,
Nor ever fail of their allegiance there.
Fools indeed drop the man in their account,
And vote the mantle into majefty.
Let the finall favage boat his filver fur;
His royal robe unborrow'd and unbought,
His own, defcending fairly from his fires.
Shall man be proud to wear his livery,

And fouls in ermine fcorn a foul without?
Can place or leffen us or aggrandize?
Pygmies are pygmies still, tho' perch'd on Alps;
And pyramids are pyramids in vales.
Each man makes his own ftature, builds himself:
Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids :
Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.

$223. Ambition and Fame. YOUNG. AMBITION's boundless appetite out-fpeaks The verdict of its thame. When fouls take fine At high prefumptions of their own defert, One age is poor applaufe; the mighty fhout, The thunder by the living few begun, Late time muft echo, worlds unborn refound. We with our names eternally to live: [thought, Wild dream which n'er had haunted human Had not our natures been eternal too. Infine points out an int'reft in hereafter: But our blind reafon fees not where it lies; Or, fecing, gives the fubftance for the fhade. Fame is the fade of immortality, And in itself a fhadow. Scon as caught Condema'd, it shrinks to nothing in the grafp. Confult th' ambitious, 'tis anibition's cure. "And is this all " cried Cæfar at his height, Difgufted. This third proof ambition brings Of immortality. The first in fame, Obferve him near, your envy will abate; Sham'd at the difproportion vaft between The paffion and the purchafe, he will figh At füch fuccefs, and biufh at his renown. And why Becaufe far richer prize invites His heart; far more illuftrious glory calls: It calls in whifpers, yet the deafest hear.

§ 224. Human Praife. YOUNG. NOR abfolutely vain is human praife,

When human is fupported by divine.
I'll introduce Lorenzo to himfelf.

Pleafare and pride (bad mafters!) fhare our hearts:
As love of pleafure is ordain'd to guard
And feed our bodies, and extend our race;
The love of praise is planted to protect
And propagate the glories of the mind.
What is it but the love of praife infpires,
Matures, refines, embellithes, exalts,
Earth's happiness? From that the delicate,
The grand, the marvellous; of civil life,
Want-and convenience, under-workers, lay
The bafis, on which love of glory builds.
Nor is thy life, O virtue! lets in dubt
To praife, thy fecret ftimulating friend.
Were men not proud, what merit fhould we mifs!
Pride made the virtues of the pagan world.
Praife is the falt that feafons right the man,
And whets his appetite for moral good.
Thift of applaufe is virtue's fecond guard,
Reafon, her firft; but reafon wants an aid;
Our private reafon is a flatterer;

Thirit of applaufe calls public judgment in
To poife our own, to keep an even scale,
And give endanger'd virtue fairer play.

$225. Hope. You NG. HOPE, of all paffions, moft befriends us here; Paflions of prouder name befriend us lefs. Joy has her tears, and tranfport has her death:

Hope, like a cordial, innocent, tho' ftrong,
Man's heart at once infpirits and ferenes;
Tis all our prefent ftate can fafely bear,
Nor makes him pay his wifdom for his joys;
Health to the frame! and vigour to the mind!
A joy attemper'd! a chaftis'd delight!
Like the fair fummer ev'ning, mild and sweet!
'Tis man's full cup, his paradife below!

$226. Human Life compared to the Ocean. YOUNG.

CEAN! thou dreadful and tumultuous home Of dangers, at eternal war with man! Death's capital, where moft he domineers, With all his chofen terrors frowning round (Tho' lately feafted high at Albion's coft), Wide-op'ning, and loud-roaring ftill for more Too faithful mirror! how doft thou reflect The melancholy face of human life! The strong refemblance tempts me farther ftill; And haply Britain may be deeper ftruck By moral truth, in fuch a mirror seen, Which nature holds for ever at her eye. Self-flatter'd, unexperienc'd, high in hope, When young, with fanguine chcer, and streamers We cut our cable, launch into the world, And fondly dream each wind and ftar our friend; All in fome darling enterprize embark'd; But where is he can fathom its extent? Amid a multitude of artlefs hands, Ruin's fure perquifite! her lawful prize! Some fteer aright; but the black blait blows hard, And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof,

[gay,

Full against wind and tide, fome win their way;
And when ftrong effort has deferv'd the port,
And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won! 'tis loft!
Tho' ftrong their oar, ftill ftronger is their fate;
They ftrike, and while they triumph they expire.
In ftrefs of weather moft, fome fink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows clofe;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a fhort memorial leave behind,
Like a flag floating when the bark's ingulph'd;
It floats a moment, and is feen no more:
One Cæfar lives, a thousand are forgot.
How few beneath aufpicious planets born
(Darlings of Providence! fond fate's elect!)
With fwelling fails make good the promis'd port,
With all their withes freighted! Yet even thefe,
Freighted with all their wishes, foon complain;
Free from misfortune, not from nature free,
They ftill are men; and when is man fecure?
As fatal time as ftorm! the rufl of years
Beats down theirftrength; their numberlefs efcapes
In ruin end: and now their proud fuccefs
But plants new terrors on the victor's brow.

What pain to quit the world, juft made their own,
Their neft fo deeply down'd, and built fo high!
Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

§ 227.