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He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause He not the safe vicissitudes of life
Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he
In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied Grow too familiar: for by frequent use For polish'd luxury and useful arts ;
The strongest medicines lose their healing power, All hot and reeking from th' Olympic strife, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill. And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath
Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach 'Th'athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Parch'd Mauritania, or the sultry west, Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Or the wide flood that laves rich Indostan, Of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free Not much invites us to such arts as these. Th'evaporation through the softend skin 'Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, May bear proportion to the swelling blood. And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels So may they 'scape the fever's rapid Hames; Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North ; So feel untainted the hot breath of Hell. "Tis not for those to cultivate a skin
With us, the man of no complaint demands Too sost: or teach the recremental fume
The warm ablution just enough to clear
Still to be pure, ev'n did it not conduce
|(As much it does) to health, were greally worth Escape, and viewless melt into the winds. Your daily pains. "Tis this adorns the rich; While this eternal, this most copious waste The want of this is poverty's worst woe; Of blood, degenerates into vapid brine,
With this external virtue, age maintains Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life Are lothesome. This the venal graces know; With ease and pleasure move: but this restrain'd So doubtless do your wives: for married sires, Or more or less, so more or less you feel
As well as lovers, still pretend to taste; The functions labor: from this fatal source Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell) What woes descend is never to be sung.
To lose a husband's than a lover's heart. To take their numbers, were to count the sands But now the hours and seasons when to toil That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air ; From foreign themes recall my wandering song Or waves that, when the blustering Norih embroils Some labor fasting, or but slightly fed The Baltic, thunder on the German shore. To lull the grinding stomach's hungry rage. Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,
Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame, This grand expense, on which your fates depend, 'Tis wisely done : for while the thirsty veins, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart Impatient of lean penury, devour The genius of your clime: for from the blood The treasur'd oil, then is the happiest time Least fickle rise the recremental steams,
To shake the lazy balsam from its cells. And least obnoxious to the styptic air,
Now while the stomach from the full repast Which breathe through straiter and more callous Subsides, but ere returning hunger gnaws, pores.
Ye leaner habits, give an hour to toil;
But from the recent meal no labors please, The east; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky. of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers
The body, moulded by the clime, endures Claim all the wandering spirits to a work The equator heats or hyperborean frost :
Of strong and subtle toil, and great event: Except by habits foreign to its turn,
A work of time ; and you may rue the day Unwise you counteract its forming pow'r. You hurried, with untimely exercise, Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less A half-concocted chyle into the blood. By long acquaintance : study then your sky, The body overcharged with unctuous phlegm Form to its inanners your obsequious frame, Much toil demands: the lean elastic less. And learn to suffer what you cannot shun. While winter chills the blood and binds the veine, Against the rigors of a damp cold heav'n
No labors are too hard : by those you 'scape To fortify their bodies, some frequent
The slow diseases of the torpid year; The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, Endless to name; to one of which alone, I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steel'd To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts Is pleasure : Oh! from such inhuman pains That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism; May all be free who merit not the wheel! The nerves so temper'd never quit their tone, But from the burning Lion when the Sun No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts. Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the blood But all things have their bounds; and he who Too much already maddens in the veins, makes
And all the finer fluids through the skin By daily use the kindest regimen
Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Essential to his health, should never mix
Reclin'd, or saunt'ring in the lofty grove, With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.
No needless slight occasion should engage
To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon. O shame! O pity! nipt with pale quadrille, Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies ! To shady walks and active rural sports
By toil subdu'd, the warrior and the hind Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, Sleep fast and deep: their active functions soon May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace With generous streams the subtle tubes supply; Of humid skies; though 'tis no vulgar joy
And soon the tonic irritable nerves To trace the horrors of the solemn wood,
Feel the fresh impulse and awake the soul. Whi the soft evening saddens into night: The sons of indolence with long repose Though the sweet poet of the vernal groves Grow torpid ; and, with slowest Lethe drunk, Melts all the night in strains of am'rous woe. Feebly and ling'ringly relurn to life,
The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world Blunt every sense and powerless every limb. Expands her sable wings. Great Nature droops Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys) Through all her works. Now happy he whose toil On the band mattress or elastic couch Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth A pleasing lassitude: he not in vain
Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams.
And springy nerves, the blandishments of down: His powers the most voluptuously dissolve Nor envy while the buried Bacchanal In soft repose : on bim the balmy dews
Exhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams.
He without riot, in the balmy feast
Who rises, cool, serene, and full of soul.
But pliant nature more or less demands, And waken cheerful as the lively morn;
As custom forms her; and all sudden change Oppress not nature sinking down to rest
She hates of habit, even from bad to good. With feasts too late, too solid, or too full :
If faults in life, or new emergencies, But be the first concoction half-matur'd
From habits urge you by long time confirm’d, Ere you lo mighty indolence resign
Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage; Your passive faculties. He from the toils
Slow as the shadow o'er the dial moves, And troubles of the day to heavier toil
Slow as the stealing progress of the year. Retires, whom trembling from the lower that rocks Observe the circling year. How unperceiv'd Amid the clouds, or Calpe’s hideous height, Her seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees, The busy demons huri; or in the main
Stern Winter tam'd into a ruder Spring; O'erwhelm ; or bury struggling under ground. The ripen'd Spring a milder Summer's glows; Noi all a monarch's luxury the woes
The parting Summer sheds Pomona's store, Can counterpoise of that most wretched man, And aged Autumn brews the winter storm. Whose nights are shaken with the frantic tits Slow as they come, these changes come not void Of wild Orestes ; whose delirious brain,
Of mortal shocks: the cold and torrid reigns, Siung by the furies, works with poison'd thought; The two great periods of the important year, While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul; Are in their first approaches seldom sase ; And mangled consciousness bemoans itself Funereal Autumn all the sickly dread; For ever torn ; and chaos floating round.
And the black fates deform the lovely Spring. What dreams presage, what dangers these or those ile well advis'd who taught our wiser sires Porlend to sanity, though prudent seers
Early to borrow Muscovy's warm spoils, Reveal'd of old, and men of deathless fame, Ere the first frost has touch'd the tender blade; We would not to the superstitious mind
And late resign them, though the wanton Spring Suggest new throbs, new vanities of fear.
Should deck her charms with all her sister's rays. "Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night For while the effluence of the skin maintains To banish omens and all restless woes.
Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring In study some protract the silent hours, Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to death Which others consecrate to mirth and wine; With sallow quartans, no contagion breathes. And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night. I in prophetic numbers could unfold But surely this redeems not from the shades The omens of the year: what seasons teem One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail With what diseases ; what the humid South What season you to drowsy Morpheus give Prepares, and what the demon of the East: Of th' ever-varying circle of the day ;
But you perhaps refuse the tedious song. Or whether, through the tedious winter gloom, Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold, You lempi the midnight or the morning damps. Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you, The body, fresh and vigorous from repose, Skill'd to correct the vices of the sky, Defies the early fogs: but, by the toils
And taught already how to each extreme 3f wakeful day exhausted and unstrung,
To bend your life. But should the public bane Weakly resists the night's unwholesome breath. Infect you ; or some trespass of your own, The grand discharge, th' effusion of the skin, Or flaw of nature, hint mortality; Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies
Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides Creep on, and through the sick’ning functions steal. Along the spine, through all your torpid limbs; As, when the chilling east invades the Spring, When first the head throbs, or the stomach feels The delicate narcissus pines away
A sickly load, a weary pain the loins ; In hectic languor, and a slow disease
Be Celsus callid: the faces come rushing on;
While wilful you, and fatally secure,
The growing pest, whose infancy was weak
Of many thousands, few untainted 'scap'd ; And easy vanquish'd, with triumphant sway Of those infected, fewer 'scap'd alive : O'erpow'rs your life. For want of timely care, or those who liv'd, some felt a second blow; Millions have died of medicable wounds.
And whom the second spar'd, a third destroy'd. Ah! in what perils is vain life engag'd! Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shun What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroy The fierce contagion. O'er the mournfal land The hardiest frame! of indolence, of toil, Th' infected city pour'd her hurrying swarms : We die; of want, of superfluity :
Rous'd by the fiames that fir'd her seats around, The all-surrounding Heaven, the vital air, Th' infected country rush'd into the lown. Is big with death. And, though the putrid South Some, sad at home, and in the desert some, Be shut; though no convulsive agony
A bjur'd the fatal commerce of mankind : Shake, from the deep foundations of the world, In vain : where'er they fled, the lates pursu'd. Th'imprison'd plagues ; a secret venom oft Oihers, with hopes more specious, cross'd the main, Corrupts the air, the water, and the land. To seek protection in far-distant skies; What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen! But none they found. It seem'd the general air, How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe,
From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east, Wept o'er her slaughter'd sons and lonely streets ! Was then at enmity with English blood. Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies, For, but the race of England, all were safe Albion the poison of the gods has drank,
In foreign climes ; nor did this fury taste And felt the sting of monsters all her own. The foreign blood which England then contain'd. Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent
Where should they fly? The circumambient Hearen Their ancient rage, at Bosworth's purple field; Involv'd them still; and every breeze was bane. While, for which tyrant England should receive, Where find relief? The salutary art Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd,
Was mute; and, startled at the new disease, And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk In searsul whispers hopeless omens gave. With kindred blood by kindred hands profus'd : To Heaven with suppliant riles they sent their pray'rs; Another plague of more gigantic arm
Heav'n heard them not. Of every hope depriv'd; Arose, a monster, never known before,
Fatigued with vain resources; and subdu'd Reard from Cocytus its portentous head.
With woes resistless and enfeebling fear; This rapid fury not, like other pests,
Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow. Pursu'd a gradual course, but in a day
Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard, Rush'd as a storm o'er half the astonish'd isle,
Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death. And strew'd with sudden carcasses the land. Infectious horror ran from face to face,
First, through the shoulders, or whatever part And pale despair. 'Twas all the business then Was seiz'd the first, a fervid vapor sprung. To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. With rash combustion thence, the quivering spark In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they say, Shot to the heart, and kindled all within ;
The sick’ning, dying, and the dead contain'd. And soon the surface caught the spreading fires. Ye guardian gods, on whom the fates depend Through all the yielded pores, the melted blood
of tottering Albion! ye eternal fires Gush'd out in smoky sweats ; but nought assuag'd That lead through Heav'n the wandering year! ye The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev'd
powers The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil, That o'er th' encircling elements preside! Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,
May nothing worse than what this age has seen They toss'd from side to side. In vain the stream Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still. Has Albion bled. Here a distemper'd heaven The restless arteries with rapid blood
Has thinn'd her cities, from those lofty cliffs Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly That awe proud Gaul, to Thule's wintry reign; The breath was fetch'd, and with huge lab'rings While in the west, beyond the Atlantic foam, heav'd.
Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have died At last a heavy pain oppress'd the head,
The death of cowards and of common men: A wild delirium came; their weeping friends Sunk void of wounds, and fall'n without renown. Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs.
But from these views the weeping Muses turn,
The use of toil, and all external things,
What good, what evil, from ourselves proceeds:
The passive body. Ye poetic shades
Engag'd, I wander through mysterious ways.
That animates and moulds the grosser frame; To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,
'Tis the great art of life to manage well Meanwhile this heavenly particle pervades The restless mind. For ever on pursuit The mortal elements; in every nerve
of knowledge bent, it starves the grosser powers It thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain. Quite unemploy'd, against its own repose And, in its secret conclave, as it feels
It turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangs The body's woes and joys, this ruling power Than what the body knows imbitter life. Wields at its will the dull material world, Chiefly where solitude, sad nurse of care, And is the body's health or malady.
To sickly musing gives the pensive mind, By its own toil the gross corporeal frame There madness enters; and the dim-ey'd fiend, Fatigues, extenuates, or destroys itself.
Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes Nor less the labors of the mind corrode
ller own eternal wound. The Sun grows pale; The solid fabric: for by subtle parts
A mournful visionary light o'erspreads
Whate'er the wretched fears, creating fear
And all the horrors that the murderer feels But 'tis not thought, (for still the soul's em- With anxious flutterings wake the guiltless breast ploy'd)
Such phantoms pride in solitary scenes, "Tis paintul thinking that corrodes our clay. Or fear, or delicate self-love creates. All day the vacant eye without fatigue
From other cares absolv'd, the busý mind Sırays o'er ihe Heaven and Earth; but long intent Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon; On inicroscopic arts, its vigor fails.
It finds you miserable, or makes you so. Just so the mind, with various thought amus'd, For while yourself you anxiously explore, Nor aches itself, nor gives the body pain.
Timorous self-love, with sick’ning fancy's aid,
Presents the danger that you dread the most,
Hence some for love, and some for jealousy,
For grim religion some, and some for pride, And spoil the lab'ring functions of their share. Have lost their reason: some for fear of want, Hence the lean gloom that melancholy wears; Want all their lives ; and others every day The lover's paleness ; and the sallow hue For fear of dying suffer worse than death. of envy, jealousy ; the meagre stare
Ah! from your bosoms banish if you can Of sore revenge: the canker'd body hence Those fatal guests; and first the demon Fear, Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.
That trembles at impossible events; The strong-built pedant, who both night and day Lest aged Atlas should resign his load, Feeds on the coarsest fare the schools bestow, And Heaven's eternal battlements rush down. And crudely faulens at gross Burman's stall; Is there an evil worse than fear itself? O'erwhelm'd with phlegm lies in a dropsy drown'd, And what avails it that indulgent Heaven Or sinks in lethargy before his time.
From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come, With useful studies you, and arts that please, If we, ingenious torment ourselves, Employ your mind; amuse, but not fatigue. Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own? Peace to each drowsy metaphysic soge!
Enjoy the present: nor with needless cares, And ever may all heavy systems rest!
of what may spring from blind misfortune's womb, Yet some there are, even of elastic parts,
| Appal the surest hour that life bestows.
They first invade, the conscious body soon
These chronic passions, while from real woes
They rise, and yet without the body's fault To Rabelais' ravings, and from prose to song.
Infest the soul, admit one only cure ; While reading pleases, but no longer, read ; Diversion, hurry, and a restless life. And read aloud resounding Homer's strain, Vain are the consolations of the wise ; And wield the thunder of Demosthenes.
In vain your friends would reason down your pain. The chest so exercis'd improves its strength ;
ye, whose souls relentless love has tam'd And quick vibrations through the bowels drive To soft distress, or friends untimely fall’n ! The restless blood, which in unactive days Court not the luxury of tender thought; Would loiter else through unelastic tubes. Nor deem it impious to forget those pains Deemn it not trifling while I recommend
That hurt the living, nought avail the dead. What posture suits : to stand and sit by turns, Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves, As nature prompts, is best. But o'er your leaves Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune 90
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Your sad complaint. Go, seek the cheerful haunts How to live happiest; how avoid the pains,
The precepts here of a divine old man
His manly sense, and energy of mind.
Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe; Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.
He still remember'd that he once was young: Or more advent'rous, rush into the field
His easy presence check'd no decent joy. Where war grows hot; and, raging through the sky, Him even the dissolute admir'd ; for he The lofty trumpet swells the madd’ning soul: A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on, And in the hardy camp and toilsome march And laughing could instruct. Much had he read, Forget ail softer and less manly cares.
Much more had seen: he studied from the life, But most, too passive when the blood runs low, And in th' original perus'd mankind. Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life, And bravely by resisting conquer fate,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those Try Circe's arts; and in the tempting bowl Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means of poison'd nectar sweet oblivion swill.
To dissipate their days in quest of joy. Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom dissolves “Our aim is happiness ; 'tis yours, 'tis mine," In empty air, Elysium opens round;
He said ; " 'tis the pursuit of all that live: A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, Yet sew attain it, if 't was e'er attain'd. And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care; But they the widest wander from the mark, And wnat was difficult, and what was dire, Who through the Rowery path of sauntering joy Yields to your prowess and superior stars : Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue. Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.
For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings But soon your Heaven is gone; a heavier gloom To counterpoise itself, relentless fate Shuts o'er your head : and as the thund'ring Forbids that we through gay voluptuous wilds stream,
Should ever roam: and were the fates more kind, Swoln o'er its banks with sudden mountain rain, Our narrow luxuries would soon grow stale : Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook ;
Were these exhaustless, nature would grow sick, So, when the frantic raptures in your breast And, cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain Subside, you languish into mortal man;
That all is vanity, and life a dream. You sleep, and waking find yourself undone. Let nature rest : be busy for yourself, For, prodigal of life, in one rash night
And for your friend; be busy even in vain,
Rather than tease her sated appetites.
Grows keen, indulge ; but shun satiety.
“ 'Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
Virtue and sense are one ; and, trust me, still Who dar'd to violate the virgin wine.
A faithless heart betrays the head unsound. Or on the fugitive champaign you pour
Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool) A thousand curses, for to Heav'n it wrapt Is sense and spirit with humanity : Your soul, to plunge you deeper in despair. "Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds; Perhaps you rue even that diviner gist,
'Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just. The gay, serene, good-natur'd Burgundy,
Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare; Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine: But at his heart the most undaunted son And wish that Heaven from mortals had withheld of fortune dreads its name and awful charms. The grape, and all intoxicating bowls.
To noblest uses this determines wealth ; Besides, it wounds you sore to recollect This is the solid pomp of prosperous days; What follies in your loose unguarded hour The peace and shelter of adversity. Escap'd. For one irrevocable word,
And if you pant for glory, build your fame
Defies of envy and all-sapping time.
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,
That even above the smiles and frowns of fate A name still to be utter'd with a sigh.
Exalts great Nature's favorites; a wealth Your last ungrateful scene has quite effac'd That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd. All sense and memory of your former worth. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd;